The Best Things in Life Are Either Immoral, Illegal, or Fattening

Having a baby IS, by far, THE best thing in life.

With Eve's first birthday approaching within a matter of days, I woefully look to my waistline and think, "Damn, did I look good..." in all of those B.B. (Before Baby) pictures. At the time they were taken, I thought I was about 10-15 lb overweight (which I was), but these days, 10-15 lb overweight would be a dream.

I'm not complaining. I'm eating homemade macaroni and cheese as I type this. It's just the new reality of my life.

I remember when Eve turned 4 months old and I thought to myself, "When does the phrase 'I just had a baby' no longer hold water? What is the definition of 'just'?" Well I am pretty sure 'just' doesn't apply to a year ago.

I spent the majority of my professional life in the rag trade. I started out selling clothes in little shops and ended my career (to date) as a buyer for 2 retail stores. Body image has been my living.

My second job in the industry was at a little old ladies' dress shop. When customers would come in, I would try to tactfully figure out what size they needed, and more often than not, there would be a comment such as, "I USED to be your size", "Just wait until you have children (in a voice of impending doom)", or "Enjoy it now because after you have kids, it's all downhill". There was clearly an underlying disdaine regarding the whole subject. Ladies, I get it.

Some moms have figured out how to have it all. One local 30-something had her child and then went on to win some Miss Fitness Canada pageant thing. To her I say, kudos. But just so you know, my burger was so very delicious.

My weight has never been a huge issue for me. I was blessed with an above average metabolism and have pretty much taken advantage of it for my entire life. Now is the real test since it seems that between having a baby, being only 1 week away from my 35th birthday, and struggling to shop and prep healthy food on a daily basis, I'm gonna have to dig in. And not into this macaroni cheese.

I shall therefore slot this whole experience under the category of Fattening. For now.

Whisper Me This

Back in the day, when a "woman" was expecting a baby, things were a LOT different. I use the quotation marks because child-bearing age was 16, 17, 18 years old. Now I look at 16-year olds who are members of upstanding neighbourhood families and ask myself if they are capable of babysitting. It's nothing against the teens. Like every generation before me, I thought to myself, 'Times have changed', which proves that I have crossed the bridge to old.

Women are having babies once their careers are established, their houses purchased, their men earning, and their spines already compressing (I heard that after age 30 we start to get shorter). In exchange for the reservoir of youthful exuberance, we have been armed with information overload. We have access to so much information about pregnancy and childbirth that it is flat-out overwhelming to the first-time expectant mother. I made a conscious decision to limit the amount of reading and research that I conducted into this whole experience. Between the books about eating, feeding, exercising, labouring, weaning, teething,... ECH. I needed to save my sanity.

One fellow pregnant friend over-did it, by her own admission. Too much reading led to conflicting information which led to having to make her own decision in the end anyway. There is only one topic that I regret not resarching more extensively, which is nursing, but in the end it all worked out, which is what I figured would happen. I'm not knockin' the Baby Whisperer. I haven't read any of her books. But my friend did mention that the Baby Whisperer says to follow your own instincts. So I just didn't see the point in reading a book that told you to do what you think you should do. I mean, if this is indeed the moral of the story, I'm in the wrong business. I should be writing books.

And just in case you were wondering, the answer is yes. This IS bliss.

The Slumdog Effect

That which seemed so insignificant suddenly starts to matter once you learn you that you are about to become a mother.

While I was pregnant, it seemed like every book and movie that I encountered contained the worst-case-scenarios of childbirth and motherhood. I have decided that there should be a list of books and movies: "Don't Watch Or Read These If You Are Expecting a Baby". Please, readers, help me in this prospect and add to this list.

1) Pan's Labyrinth

2) Hancock

3) Breaking Dawn (Twilight Series)

4) Slumdog Millionaire

I had originally written a brief synopsis about why each movie and book is on this list, but it was just too macabre. Let me just say that when I watched Slumdog Millionaire, I was 7 months pregnant and would cry if I saw a commercial for a school lunch program. Can you imagine my reaction when, in the movie, a tiny helpless baby is crying in the arms of an impoverished 10-year-old girl? It was at that very moment that being a mother meant something different for the first time in my life.

I am looking forward to more of these revelations as my parental experience broadens. Stay tuned for the blog entry once I've realized that my own mother WAS right all of those times. Shudder.

My Biggest Regret

I saw pictures of some first-time grandparents looking into the face of their first grandchild. Wow. What a great family moment. Wait a minute-- those are MY parents.. and isn't that MY baby??

In the final months of my pregnancy, I wasn't preparing myself for the scenario of a C-section. I focussed on the "what-ifs" of a natural birth. All of the videos (eww) showed different scenarios of different versions of the whole experience. If ever mentioned, a Cesarean birth was at most, a footnote.

After Eve was born in the operating room, not the delivery room, the doctors presented her to us. We shared our first mother/father/daughter moment, and then she was to be taken up to a different room to be weighed. The proud new dad was given the baby and away he went while I lay in the operating room getting put back together.

Well, I'll cut to the chase. I missed out on seeing my parents meet their first grandchild. This sounds very selfish, but I wish that we could've been settled in our hospital room before the family was introduced to the baby. To any first-time expectant mothers out there (not mentioning any names, but I know at least 2 of you are reading this), maybe give this scenario a little thought. I sort of wish someone would have mentioned this little tid bit to me.

For any of you that personally know Eve's dad, you can only imagine how tickled he was to be the first to show off the new little creature. I can't take that away from him. But hey, this blog is about ME, dammit. Me.

I guess if this is my biggest regret, I'm doing ok.

"The Dog that Used to Be Your Baby Will Become Just a Dog."

I read this statement in a parenthood-related article and it has haunted me ever since.

I couldn't imagine how this would ever be true of my beloved Tia (short for Tijuana-- border collie, border town). For the last 11 years, she has been through my ups and my downs and my good times and bad. She has been through thick and thin with me. Now the only thick and thin from her that I seem to notice is the layer of dog hair in my house.

Now, as I balance the baby on one hip and mix formula, I say, "TIA. OUT OF THE KITCHEN" and that is the extent of our relationship. I fling her the odd meal every now and again when her dad is gone to work, but I must admit that she is close to being a neglected dog.

I'm not proud of it. It's just the reality.

When I was still nursing, I would be sitting on a chair feeding the baby, when the dogs (I had one, and he had one, so now we have two) needed to go outside, I would figure out a balancing-act-of-a-way to somehow let them out. I saw something similar at Cirque de Soleil once, but our version involved much less makeup and far less firm of physiques. I would sit back down to feed the baby and the dogs would be barking outside for me to let them in. Like I need to give the neighbours another reason to hate us.

I use harsh (albeit empty) threats in my arsenal of bitchings at the mister when I needed to vent. "HAVING TWO DOGS AND A BABY IS TOO MUCH WORK WHEN YOU AREN'T HERE!"

I do love our dogs but the amount of cleaning that needs to be done really becomes apparent once you have a baby. It takes time away from things that you would rather be doing, yet it cannot be ignored for obvious reasons. Once the baby started crawling around and putting everything in her mouth, it became an obsession of mine to keep a "dog hair-free" environment. This is but a pipe-dream, but I just can't let it die.

The older of the dogs, as I mentioned, will be 11. Once she is gone, that leaves the juvenile delinquent, who has just turned 4. I can already predict the issues that I will face in standing my ground. Something something wolf pack -- "He doesn't need a friend. He can be the only dog." "I don't care that Eve loves the dog and wants another dog." "We have waited so long for this day and now we have no dogs. It's staying that way."

Here's a gift idea for new parents who have a dog... Get them a gift certificate for the damn dog to get groomed. They may not see the value in the gesture, but I assure you that in a few months, they will appreciate your foresight.

Heavy Petting

I was writing an entry about how neglected that the dog is since the baby was born, and I realized that I should just stop writing and give her some attention. I have been brushing vast amounts of hair and twigs off her stinky border collie body.

New post soon. Sorry for the lapse in attending to this project!

Present Tense

The gifts. Oh, the gifts. By the time we left the hospital, we had so many beautiful flowers and stuffed animals and body lotions and homemade treats and wonderful gestures of heart-felt congratulations. I kept a notebook by my bedside and wrote down who came to visit and who brought us such lovely presents.

Eve was born in the early evening. Family congregated that night and came to meet the child. Word spread of her arrival, and the visits began the next morning. By dinner time, we had seen 40 visitors. The very best of friends and family stopped in, but when you have 2 large families and 10 best friends, it doesn't take long to reach the number 40. We shut the door and said "no thanks" to any more people. It was wonderful and it was exhausting.

I waited until the baby shower was over before I started sending out thank you cards. I bought a package of 50 cards and ran out. I bought a package of 20 and ran out again. There were over 70 thank you cards sitting on my portable dishwasher ("Honey, I'm pregnant. We're buying a dishwasher") that I needed to write in, stuff into envelopes with photos, and deliver. Proof of post-partum insanity is the fact that I felt the need to deliver each card in person.

Every day I looked at those thank you cards, I felt the pressure mounting. Did the people who dropped off gifts think that we weren't thankful? Words cannot express the tension that I felt in completing this task. These 70-some envelopes had become my nemesis. I would not let them get the best of me.

It took 6 weeks to deliver them all. We drove to people's doorsteps. We tucked them into screen doors. We stopped in for visits when people were home. I felt it was the least we could do to show our appreciation for all of the generosity.

If I ever receive another card from the mother of a newborn, I will now understand the scope of this gesture and appreciate it even more. After some discussion with other new moms, I learned that I was not alone in this thank-you-card quicksand. As usual, when you share your challenges with friends, you will find that you are never alone.

The intention of gift-givers is not to stress out the new mom. This is a post I will re-read if and when I have another baby. I will try to keep things simpler. I am, and always have been, my own worst enemy.

Can I Hold Your Baby?

One of my best friends had her baby boy 2 months before our kid was born. I watched her go through all of the stages that I was about to encounter. When their beautiful son was born, it was surreal.

She was walking down the hallway of the hospital with her most precious cargo, and there was a very old, very unhealthy-looking lady laying on a gurney. The lady looked up, and in a scratchy, I've-smoked-for-my-entire-life voice, said, "Can I hold your baby?" My friend told me that she wanted to ask 'why are you in here?' but instead, said, "You can look at him..." so she held the baby out of arm's reach and shared the joy of a newborn with someone who might not have otherwise had that chance again in her life.

When Eve was just 16 days old, one of my very best friends got married. We were bombarded with friends and acquaintances wanting to see and to hold the baby. I happily complied, since the kid slept through anything and everything at that point in her new little life. I have heard of baby showers where, much to the dismay of the shower-goers, the new mom wouldn't pass her baby around. Apparently this pisses women off. I never understood what the big deal was about holding a new baby, until about 6 months later.

My baby Eve was already in 12 month clothing and eating solid food, and when I picked up a friend's newborn baby, I had a rush of indescribable emotion surge through my entire being. My mind and my body and my heart were all transported back to the time when my baby was so tiny and new and helpless. Holding someone else's newborn baby is like stepping into a time machine. The rest of the world disappears around you and you forget about diapers and sleepless nights. All you can see is the miracle of life and the privilege it is to be part of the universe.

A Word of Advice to the Fathers-to-be

Please refrain from singing the A&W song when your very pregnant wife walks through the room. It's frowned upon.

*based on a true story

There Should Be a Bat Signal Shaped Like a Baby

One of the best things about being a mom is understanding other moms.

When the baby was 3 weeks old, Eve's dad went away for the weekend on a fishing trip. A friend called me to see how things were going. I could feel my bottom lip start to quiver and I was horrified when I began to cry on the phone. The words I spoke did not match the fact that I was sobbing uncontrollably. "Things are fine. We are fine. I'm just tired. I need to get to the drug store but I just don't think I can do it."

About 20 minutes later there was a knock on my door. Two friends brought me the stuff from the drug store along with some flavoured water, some fruit salad, and a 7-layer dip. They took the baby so I could have something to eat, and hung out for a while until they were confident that I was in a better place. I was so grateful for the support. They were sent to me at exactly the right moment. Vulnerability is not high on my list of favourite things. That's one great thing about having friends who know me so well-- If they see me emoting, they know it's an emergency.

I was amazed that they knew to bring me something to eat. One of the girls had a 5-month old baby at home. Of course she knew. She knew better than I did, because she had already been through it. She was a mom of a newborn and she was able to put herself in my shoes. No matter how strong you think you are, when you mix in some crazy hormonal surges with sleep deprivation, you can never be sure when you will reach your breaking point. I learned to accept help when it was offered to me, and I do my best to offer it to others in the same boat. If I swoop in with a meal, it's just because I'm trying to pay it forward.

Earmuffs, a la Vince Vaughn

We threatened to start a swear jar. Upon entry, all visitors to our home must abide by the rules when it comes to the use of fowl language. Deposits to the swear jar would be graded according to the severity of the offense. You drop an F-bomb in front of the kid and you best be digging for a toonie. The swear jar would be tallied at the end of the month and deposited into Eve's bank account that we have started for her RESP's.

Curbing one's vocabulary is a monumental task for some family members, not to mention any names. You know who you are. I thank you in advance for sending my kid to college.

The downfall of this master plan is the minor issue of enforcement. Who even carries change anymore? Should we get a portable debit machine for the next 20 years? Maybe I could force our daughter to make deposits to her own college fund when she hits her rebellious teenage years? Should we do a test-run on an I.O.U. system and then collect at the end of every week? Will this cause our usual visitors to stay away? Suddenly this simple plan of mine was becoming way to complicated.

We decided to take the matter into our own hands and share in the solution. Now, if you say to my daughter, "Eve. Ear muffs." she covers her ears. If you saw the movie Old School, you may remember this move. Well, we stole it. It's just one of many examples of how Will Ferrell movies have changed our lives for the better.

Unfortunately, ear muffs only work for anticipatory cursing. If it slips out, you had better start digging for change.

Preparedness vs Implentation ~ Round 1

I made a call list. It had the names and phone numbers of the crucial players in our life. It was written strategically in a specific order. All he had to do was go down the list and make 4 phone calls. The rest would play itself out as word of the baby's arrival pumped through the veins of the bloodlines of our family tree. My biggest fear was that somebody important to me would find out via facebook that we had had the baby.

Well, that's exactly what happened. Even as I type this entry, nearly a year later, I grimace. I can only do so much. I don't fault anyone, because I know that the Mister just got soooooo excited that he started making the phone calls. Correction: he didn't make THE phone calls. He started making phone calls to whoever he could think of that he wanted to share the news with. I can't be sure if his buddy from highschool knew before my parents did. Luckily for me, being in surgery absolves you of any and all responsibility in this issue.

I don't blame the Facebook status updater. Everybody was excited. It was a good lesson for me that although you want things to go as planned, sometimes it just doesn't turn out that way. I have a sneaking hunch that this sentiment will be echoed more than a few times during the journey of parenthood.

We Were Born To Make Mistakes

"She's beautiful. Have you chosen a name?"

This was one of the weirder moments in my life. I mean, I have never even had a cavity in my lifetime, never mind had someone working IN my cesarean abdominal cavity. I heard my baby's father say, "Her name is Eve."

"Eve. That's a beautiful name." said Dr. Wilson.

"Thanks. We like it so much, that if we had a boy, we would've named him 'Steve'!"

So I don't know if you can imagine what it feels like to have a surgeon burst out laughing while he is working on you. OK, it wasn't really a burst, but it started out as a snicker and built up into a sincere whole-hearted laugh. I mean, the doctor stopped and put down his instruments for a second. It's just one of many reasons why I'm gonna marry this guy. He CAN be pretty funny, just please don't ever tell him so.

We wanted a name that was simple to spell, simple to pronounce. A name that she wouldn't have to repeat every time she introduced herself. A real name, not just a collection of sounds that seemed neat at the time. In the end, we had picked out 4 or 5 girl's names, but we always knew that "Eve" would be her name. She is our first. Eve was, by biblical standards, the first. She (Eve of the bible, not Eve of our family) is also responsible for the demise of the human race for eating the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden after giving in to temptation. So why in the "heck" would anyone want to name their daughter Eve?

Well, like Eve of the bible, we all make mistakes. It's part of being human. It's how we learn and it's how we grow. We shall embrace her mistakes and call them lessons. We will give her enough space so that she might form her own opinions of love and life, of self, of purpose, of mortality. We will learn more from her than we can ever teach. She is most certainly, the light of our lives.

It's Called Labour for a Reason

Nobody says, "I went into fun at 4pm" or, "I had 16 hours of fun before I had a cesarean". That's because it's not fun.

For those of you who have never had the experience of labour, may I suggest doing sit-ups for 16 hours straight, and then multiply how bad you are feeling times a million.

Labour was 16 hours of personal time to reflect on all the things in my life that I used to think were painful. For 16 hours, my hubby paced back and forth at my bedside, holding a bendy straw to my lips so I could sip on ice water. By the time it was decided that a C-section would be the end to this saga, I had already sucked back 1 and a half tanks of nitrous oxide and was ready to smash the empties over my head. I had never been so silent for 16 hours of consciousness in my life; it hurt so bad I couldn't talk. I couldn't even curse. It was probably a nice break for everybody.

While I was getting ready for surgery, I felt the need to try and be funny with the nurses. I won't get into detail, but I made some stupid joke that was borderline inappropriate about being prepped. I mean, if this whole ordeal is painful for me, it may as well be painful for them too.

I was having contractions back to back, with no breaks, and no pain medication. For women that do this without drugs, I salute you. I actually think that you are insane, but that's just my opinion. A friend of mine had told me, "You don't get a medal for doing it without drugs." Amen. When that needle went into my spine and I lost all feeling from my chest to my toes, it was the most relief I had ever felt in my life. The miracles of modern medicine had saved me. Suddenly I felt regret for being annoyed at the anesthesiologist for telling me to "hold still" while she put the needle into my back. It was all worth it.

With a curtain separating me from the actual incision, I was re-united with my best friend/husband-to-be/love of my life, and I was myself again. We joked about the whole process with the surgeon. We laughed with the nurses. One of the doctors said, "I see his feet!" and we looked at each other and said "His?!?!" (we had a very strong inkling that we were going to have a girl). "I don't know why I said 'his'!" she added frantically. It was a few short minutes later that we got to meet the whole reason for this whole ordeal. And it was a little baby girl.

The Don'ts

Wow. You're pregnant. Let the Don'ts begin....

Don't tell anyone until you're 12 weeks in. Don't eat tuna. Don't drink coffee. Don't eat soft cheeses. Don't lay on your back. Don't eat any raw fish sushi. Don't smoke. Don't drink. Don't expose your belly to loud music. Don't lay on your front. Don't eat spicy foods. Don't eat chocolate. Don't have your seat belt across your stomach. Don't dye your hair. Don't use regular cleaning products. Don't panic.

No wonder first-time moms-to-be feel so overwhelmed. By the time you are sitting in pre-natal class learning that soothers are a no-no, and that bottles are taboo, you begin to feel like if you happen to wipe your kid's face with the wrong type of cloth that the child is going to just blow up right there in front of your eyes. "Did you hear that Stacey had a girl? Yeah, she was 8 lb 14 oz, but when they gave her her first bath, they washed her hair with the body wash instead of the shampoo and so then the baby just vapourized into thin air". Let's all keep in mind that babies in third world countries somehow make it into this world without bouncy chairs and swings and thousand dollar strollers. I did buy a natural bamboo fibre sling, and ironically, I am sure that some of those third-worlders are getting toted around in some "organic" carrying device. This is not because they are environmentally conscious, but because bamboo is all that they have so that's what they use.

I followed all the don'ts, we loved our bouncy chair and swing and thousand dollar stroller. I never used the sling because it felt weird. It's great to be Canadian.

I See Your Legs Are Shaved. Your House Must Be Filthy

B.B. (otherwise known as the Before Baby era), I heard of this trend of new mothers not even having time to shower. OK, seriously. What's with that? Is it so hard to stick the kid in its crib and jump in for 6 minutes of personal grooming time? How can these people even manage their own lives if they can't even find the time to schedule in a shower? Please. I mean, back in the B.B. era, I used to manage staff, sell product, overcome looming deadlines for stacks of paperwork, work with customers, and the list goes on. I looked forward to the days of staying at home when my biggest challenge was fitting in the time for a shower.

Well, the truth is, that once your baby goes down for a sleep, the STOPWATCH BEGINS TO TICK, AND YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOUR TIME IS UP. So if you choose to prep lunch, take out the garbage, sweep the floor, empty the dishwasher, switch the laundry over, or SLEEP, then you may not get that 6 minutes of hot water-induced solace. It's not that there's no time for a shower. It's just that there isn't enough time to do everything.

Enjoy your baby shower. It may be the last shower you get for a while.

We Welcome Random Cake

I was expecting that food would be a big part of the pregnancy. I never had much of a sweet tooth, but for some reason, I craved cake. Angel food cake, chocolate cake, cupcakes, cake, cake, cake! My status on facebook during the wee lonely hours of the night involved these yearnings for baked treats.

I sent my hubby to the grocery store for a chocolate cake mix, whipping cream and cherry pie filling. It was to be a layer cake unsurpassed in moistness and fruity creaminess, all for me. He came home with the cake mix, lite cherry pie filling, and lite Cool Whip. Our baby was just about born without a father. I could have murdered him with my bare hands. Did I ask for edible oil products? I believe if we review the tape, that wasn't on the list. Even in my hormonal rage with thoughts of "Nobody listens to me, yadda yadda yadda", I knew I was being a super-crazy selfish bitch and bit my tongue. I mean, he went to the grocery store for me. And let's face it-- I made the cake and ate it anyway.

One morning he got home from work at 5am, and he came into the house with a cake that he had found sitting on our truck.

My god. What should I do? Where did it come from? How will I crack this enigma? And how long does pineapple upside down cake last before it's past its prime? Somebody tell me.... what is my timeline to unravel this mystery before it's TOO LATE??? I need to eat this cake but just CAN'T until I know where it came from!!!! I started to study the paper plate and cellophane that contained this sweet gift, trying to decipher who would be crazy enough to do such a cruel thing to me. I scanned my list of friends on Facebook, searching for the culprit. This was no saran wrap, my friends. This was decorative cellophane with a ribbon. A ribbon.

A family member asked us later that day if the cake made it to our house. She wouldn't tell me who made it, but when we asked her if it was safe to eat, she said yes, and hearing that was good enough for me.

That poor cake, god rest its soul. We made short work of it, all the while, still not knowing its origin or its story.

That night, I was in the grocery store, looking at the cakes in the display case (I'm not even kidding you), and someone walked up behind me and said, "Haven't you had enough cake today?". It was a family friend, aka, the cake maker/carport skulker. So thanks, if you are reading this, for that cake. It was delicious and I will never forget such a nice gesture.

Naming the Spawn

My advice? Keep it to yourself. This is directed at both the parents-to-be, as well as those of you who are entrusted enough to hear the potential names of the unborn. For instance, if someone tells you that they are going to name the baby Conan (sorry O'Brien, but I think that's one reason why your show got the axe), maybe say, "An uncommon name.. how nice!" instead of, "Oh my god, are you crazy? That poor kid is going to be called 'The Barbarian' his entire life!" If someone ASKS YOU, then that's different.

Future sleep-deprived woman: "What do you think of the name 'Ada' for a girl?"

Acceptable: "Well, your last name is Frey. It sounds like 'Ate a Fry'. You OK with that?"

Unacceptable: "Well just hope that she doesn't marry a guy whose last name is Weiner." (Keep in mind that I am screening some adult content, but insert any obscene word in there to up the funniness. Use your discretion.)

People's feelings get hurt. So really, don't offer advice and even if asked, proceed with caution. You can always do the reponsibility transfer. If you have legitimate concerns, you can tell the unborn's aunt or uncle that you have concerns about the name that has been picked. Just make sure they don't go the parent-to-be and spill the truth that it came from you.

But really, if the parents-to-be would just keep it to themselves, that really would be a big favour to the rest of society. That way, how will we hurt your feelings if we don't even know what's going on? And hating the name once the kid is born is right up there with being a serial killer, so no one would have the audacity to even go there.

For some reason, people like to try and pick at you to hear the names that you have picked out, only to then criticize it. If you are easily offended, and you are telling people your potential baby names, you are asking for trouble.

And for potential name-stealing?? Keep your mouth shut! Don't tell people your bebe names at ALL if you are concerned that someone else is going to have the same name. OK this isn't a funny entry. It's really just become more of a rant. You know that Seinfeld episode where George's friends steal his baby name and they name their baby "Seven"? In this instance, and every other possible scenario in life, strive to never be like George.

This is For You, Baby

A blog just seems so self-indulgent. I am telling myself (and you) that it is for my daughter, so that when she is older she can read all about how psychotic her mother was even back when she was a baby. She can graph the progession of insanity and see it spike in the teen years.

If you are enjoying this or sympathizing at all with any of the content, I ask you to "follow" this blog. It's probably a pain in the ass to make and account, log in etc, but if you "follow" my blog then it really does help me out. If, hypothetically, enough people follow this thing, then maybe I can one day become a famous writer and send my kid to University. Or go to Disneyland and leave her behind with her aunt. At any rate, that's all I ask of you. Comments? PLEASE. If nothing else, I am certain that a few interesting discussions can ensue from this social experiment.

So to those of you who are up for this, let's do it. Besides, how else will you find out what we had for dinner on the night of Jun 18, 2009 of you don't follow my blog?!

Now the disclaimer: It would be impossible to share our lives without sharing some minor details that involve other people. If there is ever any doubt of offending anyone or divulging private details about someone else's lives, I will most certainly not be sharing. Also, unlike Jenny McCarthy, I will not be sharing any grimy details about subjects best left "for the family". Besides, when Eve is old enough she will share those details at the most inopportune times to perfect strangers. You're safe.

Know how you un-friend someone on Facebook and then when you see them on the street they ignore you? Well, I am expecting that some people will avoid me thinking, "I don't want to be in her damn blog." So if enough people follow my blog, just think of the power we will have in making other people feel uncomfortable. Although we hail from the Southerly Korea, world domination is in my blood.