Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Despite What That Brazilian Supermodel Says ...

(Subtitle: "Another Sorry Excuse Why Pretty Hasn't Been Around in Too Long"

Darlings! I'm devastated that I've been away from these (un)heralded pages for so long, and from the copious amounts of fanmail I've (not) received, so are you. Motherhood, to put it delicately, has me by the, um, handbags at the moment - poor Grand Master P has a case of reflux, so he's giving his mother serious competition in the Fussy Department. Hence, time I'd usually be spending crafting great feats of bloggity brilliance & reading yours are now going to bringing whatever degree of comfort I can to my favorite little despot babe and stealing naps / pinot when I'm otherwise able.

Because despite what that renowned parenting expert / Brazilian so-and-so-who-we-already-had-enough-reason-to-loathe-Dear-God-Woman-isn't-Tom-Brady-enough? says, this Motherhood stuff is hard.

If you're Twitterly inclined, I'm spending more time there nowadays - one handed
typing being so much easier when limited to 140 characters - so hopefully I'll see you over there. Looking forward to returning here & to your painfully insightful and charming blogs soon ...

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

The First, "-est" Month

Given the name of this blog, you might think I'd entice you with umpty million photos of my gorgeous, cooing baby grinning his gummy, slightly out-of-focus smile.

Alas, we're going with "pretty" as in "pretty realistic" on today's entry, which memorializes Grand Master P's making it to one month old. We'll have none of that suspiciously cheerful Anne Geddes, posies-and-unicorns-and-fluffy-babies-that-don't-poop, uh, poop here. Rather, I'll let you see for yourselves what a bona-fide 4-week-old new human probably looks like for most, if not all, of a photo shoot:


Nary a cutesy bunny outfit or angelic expression to be found that day - just a real, live baby, purveyor of the funnest, tiredest, longest, fastest, difficultest, weirdest, bestest, strangest month of my Pretty life. No unicorns required.*

(*OK, not entirely true - if you find the one-horned mythical beast who will allow me to lose these last 10 pounds and take the occasional 4:30 am Milk Bar shift, I'd be thrilled - even suspiciously, Anne Geddes sinister-bunny-babies-level so.)

Monday, July 12, 2010

Surrender, Dorothy

I admit it.

This here blog began as a frothy devotional to my own vanity concoction about my current obsession du jour - mostly fashion, with some travel and new-kid-in-town blather about this Californian's move to Texas mixed in - and has veered dangerously towards being a ... a ... well, I may as well just say it:

Mommy blog.

Gaaah. I can fuss and moan and bang my (delicately featured) Pretty head against the keyboard, denying my blog morphage all the live long day, but there you have it. Life changed irrevocably once Grand Master P made his appearance some 3 plus weeks ago, and to fight the change here would prove yet another area in which I need to let go and just ... I dunno. See the title of this post.

I'm a mommy blogger. There. And one who has taken much time off from ye olde interwebs to figure out this entire baby thing, which is admittedly wildly more difficult and fun and challenging and rewarding and weird than I'd anticipated. It doesn't mean I've given up the Good Life quite yet for a life of wearing Crocs or other sartorial horrors, but ...

A mommy blogger who had, despite all warnings to the contrary, secretly envisioned a cheerfully slumbering newborn who compliantly slept, smiled, and cooed on command as I recommenced going about my pre-pregnancy business, smugly congratulating myself on a job easily and well done.

(*Pause inserted to allow sufficient laughter*)

A mommy blogger who has quickly put together that, to bogart a bit from the SATs, new babies - or mine, at least - are to compliant schedules as Lind*say Lohan is to law enforcment. That is to say, a laughable, if not entirely fictitious, mix at best. My schedule, my prior life - all wonderful stuff, but all on hold for now.

So I surrender - peacefully, happily, willingly, at last. Surrender to the new blog direction - if not permanently, for the foreseeable future. Surrender to the simultaneously difficult and awesome, slowly unfolding little package that is Grand Master P.

(Not to worry - strictly fun, non-pontificating photos to come shortly. Pinky swear.)

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Babies Are the New Rehab

Some celebs blame addiction treatment for their sudden disappearance from the jet set, while others run off and procreate. Introducing Grand Master P:



I'm scurrying back into deep hiding from the 'net until I get reaquainted with that "sleep" concept - at the moment, catching a few minutes in bed couldn't sound more appealing if David Beckham himself took up residence there* - but thank you for the well-wishes, and please contact the Pretty Publicist in the meantime with any press inquiries ...
*Love you, Anonymous Baby Daddy!

Friday, May 28, 2010

Brain Dump & Bump Update


I will not obsessively read about what the Hell to do with a newborn as if this were the Bar exam.

I will not obsessively read about what the Hell to do with a newborn as if this were the Bar exam.

I will not obsessively read about what the Hell to do with a newborn as if this were the Bar exam.

I will eat brownies until I temporarily distract myself from obsessive, Type A Minus baby research - complete with dorky highlighter and sticky notes! - and attempt to relax.

In less anal-retentive news, here's the latest Pretty bump shot at 36 weeks. Identifying details have been cropped to protect you from my vanishing cheekbones & other unsightly puffiness:

Friday, May 21, 2010

Santa Claus, Childbearing Hips, and Other LIes We Tell Ourselves

(Warning, all ye who enter here - mention of lady doctor appointments & ladybits ahoy!)

A pregnant lady's faith in her obstetrician (or midwife, doula, shaman, fairy - whatever your health practitioner of choice) is not unlike a child's belief in Santa Claus - you know that he or she is likely the one magically delivering the goods and pray fervently that he'll deliver as promised on the appropriate date.

With this faith & prayer comes the third part of the holy Gestating Trinity, the desperate hope that your Dr. Claus has All The Answers. To, you know, everything related to that glorious life you're growing within you
blah blah blah, but also in that Mr. Rogers-y sense of being generally comforting and omniscient about the universe and life etc.

While in the midst of my first weekly appointment yesterday -
*Allow me to pause & inform the non-P Word crowd that those are the, ahem, rigorous examinations done in the last month of one's pregnancy in which your OB gets more fresh with you than your enthusiastic Prom date attempted junior year - I happened upon this theory. My personal Dr. Claus, preternaturally cheerful to the point of nearly being irritating, looked up from the examination table and beamed beatifically at me while proclaiming ...

"What an adequate, very proper pelvis you have!"

You can imagine my delight, of course, upon hearing those magical words - it must be that proper pelvis of mine that keeps me honest about the flossing and the thank-you note writing! Perhaps those scofflaws like Miss Lohan wouldn't have those pesky legal troubles if only their ladybits had decent decorum!

Naturally I had to share this felicitous news, so after thanking Dr. Claus profusely (properly!) and throwing myself together , I sped to the Trophy Wife Wagon and shared his expert opinion with the Anonymous Husband.

Wouldn't you know it - the AH barked out a laugh, paused a beat, and then inquired in all seriousness, "
Sure, but isn't that just code for childbearing hips?"

Please don't be alarmed - rather than being disappointed with the AH's analysis, I giggled and felt a sense of relief. After all, if I've had to dress around these hips of mine for some thirty(-two) years, at least I now have the comfort of knowing they serve the greater purpose of entree into the Junior League and other, ahem, proper institutions (if also the labor & delivery ward).

Friday, May 14, 2010

(Insert Dave Matthews Song Here)

(Subtitle: Because I Can't Quite Bring Myself to Name a Post After a DMB Song Title Like "The Space Between", Even Though I'm Secretly Still Playing DMB Like It's a 1995 Kegger & People Still Say Things Like "Kegger")

T-Minus 1 weeks: I begin working from home to await Grand Master P's arrival (thanks to hideous commute many leagues from hospital);

T-Minus 5 weeks: Grand Master P is theoretically scheduled to arrive*;
*Note to Anonymous Husband: "Theoretically scheduled" does not mean "put it in your Outlook as a firm appointment". Feel free, however, to pencil in "shop for Push Present" in as "permanently busy" for the next five weeks.

T-Minus 0 weeks, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds,etc: I deduce that this is both too soon and too far off, all of it, and panic about how to live the time in between.

When I say "live", I mean to say to appreciate the time the AH & I have as a family unit of two blah blah blah.
"Patience" is both a glorious song of yore and about as abstract and unlikely a character trait to happen upon me as it is for Axl Rose* himself to make a comeback. How to focus on what I have now when what I've always wanted - the whole picket fence chiche and all - is just around the corner?
*Dating myself in this post with not one, but two circa 1990s music references. I feel as ancient as when "Glee" referred to U2 as "classic rock" this week. There is no Botox dosage large enough to cure this feeling of old, is there?

Friends have warned us in ominous tones to enjoy this time as if Armageddon or Justin B*ieber (assuming you recognize a difference between those two) lurks just around the corner. While I'm happy to stuff as many dinners out & pampering opportunities in as possible, surely - hopefully - maybe? - the birth of Grand Master P doesn't actually signal the end of Fun As We Know It?

I recognize that things are changing.

I recognize that Fun As We Know It will cease for a short while - but won't the AH & I, with luck and effort, eventually emerge on the other side as somewhat the same people we were before?

Any advice, wise ones? Would it help if I throw in an unforgivably gratuitous puppy photo? I owe you a bump update, but failing that, please allow me to distract you with the candid Pug stylings of my nursery design assistant (Twitter friends, you'll recognize this one):

Monday, April 26, 2010

That Body Image Thing

Subtitle: "In Which, Against Her Better Judgment (Which Has Been Defeated by P-Word Insomnia Anyways), Pretty Attempts to Be Serious for Five Minutes"

In a quote heard 'round the world - at the very least, the teensy corner of the internet occupied by P-Word obsessed types like me - "Biggest Loser" personal trainer Ji*llian Michaels sparked no small amount of controversy in an recent interview quip regarding biological children, "I'm going to adopt because I can't handle doing that to my body."

Debate aside (not to worry - I'll get there in one hot minute, darlings), her statement brings up a body image issue that I feel sometimes gets short shrift for those of us who struggle with the "Do I or don't I want kids?" question. Full Disclosure: since my earliest memory, I've been firmly on Team Kid. It has just been One of My Things I've known about myself, since forever. However, even I admit to a passing thought at this pre-baby - emotionally, vanity included (since I'm nothing if not vain), could I handle the whole carrying a child thing, assuming I was blessed enough to get pregnant? Could Miss Type A here accept that the many changes that will happen (note: are happening, one brownie at a time) to her body, weight gain included, are a healthy part of pregnancy?

Back to the specific quote controversy, if your gut take on Michaels' quote wasn't warm & fuzzy, you're not the only one - my initial reaction was one of judgment, "Whoa, vain much? And doesn't 'doing that to your body' imply that the many bodily changes a P-word lady goes through are akin to a loathsome disease to be avoided?" Taken to its logical extreme, the thought struck me as self-centered at best and incredibly insensitive to those of us who choose to be P-word and/or those of us who struggled or are struggling to conceive in the first place. I admit I questioned whether someone so obsessed with her appearance should be a mother at all, whether the children be biological or adopted.

That said, my second reaction after chewing on this for a bit was, "She has every right to decide for herself if this just isn't something she chooses to deal with, whatever the reasoning; even if I don't personally agree with it, kudos to her for being self-aware enough to say it. Plus, the body change stuff *is* weird."

One of the spiffy parts of doing / not doing this P-word thing in the 21st century? (Note: I am not, not, NOT about to launch into the pro-choice / pro-life stuff here. Really. Nanny nanny boo boo, you can't make me.) That the women amongst us, to the extent that any of this is in our control, can decide if and when to do the motherhood thing, in the manner that makes most sense for us & for our family. We all bring our bias to how this works out, of course - my pro-kid, Episcopalian, cookie-dough-eating lens I see things through necessarily colors how I think this happens. Bottom line, however, it's terrific that someone like Michaels can decide that for herself if and how to have kids (with the repeat caveat that, to my view, much of this is out of our human hands), just like I can decide those concerns absolutely don't outweigh the benefits for me.

In addition to this freedom thing, Michaels validly touches on a sensitive point for many of us - the weird body change thing. Here's my experience - it can be, you know, strange. I'm no workout fanatic, but I was athletic as a kid & have regularly exercised and kinda sorta kept an (lazy) eye on what I eat* since high school. Hence, there is a part of purposefully gaining weight, even when I know intellectually that it is for the best interests of my baby, that simply takes getting used to for me and, I suspect, for many of us. I've absolutely had my moments looking in the mirror and thinking to myself, "I look enormous. Fatter than fat. Will I always be this large? I wonder if my husband notices (hint: yes)?"

Admittedly, there was a teenaged time when I took to the latter part of my Grandmother's maxim, "You can never be too rich or too thin," a bit too literally. Thankfully, my extreme dieting flirtation was brief - as anyone who has seen me or my eating habits since can attest - but it does allow me to empathize to an extent with the body image & control issues Michaels mentions. I can only imagine how those are magnified for someone who makes a living looking fit & encouraging others to follow her example.
*Glaring sugar consumption habit aside - what I lack in natural sweetness I attempt to make up for in diet.

A happy surprise & vanity bonus of the body change stuff for me has been how it has improved - yes, improved - my self-image about certain body hangups. Those hips I previously liked to complain about, much to your certain delight and amusement? Are currently part of a curvier, balanced picture. It's been a cheap thrill seeing how the other, more voluptuous half lives. I now know what it's like for someone to not make eye contact with me while in conversation, even if the talk is increasingly being made in the direction of my burgeoning belly.

On a less vain and more important note, that I've been blessed enough to be able to carry a baby in this body thanks in part to said changes? Pretty cool. As someone who had fertility challenges going into this whole deal - ironically, possibly due in part to said past extreme dieting - I don't take this lightly. It is, in a word, awesome, and I can't adequately express how grateful I am. For me, and hopefully for many of you considering the whole P-word thing, this is a fat that feels pretty lightweight, all things considered. If not, like for Michaels, then that is absolutely your right as well.

Now that I've bored you senseless with my baggage, what's your take on this? And should I fear for my blog life now that I've dipped my (in dire need of pedicure, I have to confess) toes in more serious waters?

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The (Not-So-) New Girl In Town ...

It would really help if I were a nudist.

Well, not really, but (a) I just wanted to see if you were awake and (b) it would be nice to be more comfortable in my own skin (if not actually
baring skin) when it comes to certain things. I'm coming up on two years of living in Austin, and many important pieces of my life - marriage, work, and baby-on-board - have fallen into place just so, more or less just as Miss Type A Minus here would have planned. I'm a fortunate one, even if I'm hesitant to drop my patented Icy Cool Demeanor enough to often admit it.

In the area of making new friends, however, things have admittedly not exactly gone along with my hopes. I know what you're thinking - how could anyone like me not be besieged by one social invitation after another?

This is entirely my fault, of course. My long history as a Recovering Introvert clearly indicates I'm nothing if not (a) lazy; (b) nearly as shy as lazy, if not quite; (c) an aficionado of solitary pursuits - unless anyone knows of a Book Reading Twittering Cookie Dough Eating Club*?; and (d) overly fond of alphabetized lists. Combine this list with my utterly solitary, lawyerly job in a land far, far away, and it just hasn't been as easy as I'd imagined to meet new people, amiable as Austin is. Coming from towns in which I'd either grown up or had other organic social introductions, I'm also finding myself a bit adrift on just how to go about this.
*If not, anyone want to start this totally awesome sounding group with me?

Fear not, dolls - lest you think I'm a shut-in, I have quite accidentally met a terrific friend or three here. I'm also taking steps to overcome my natural laziness and regularly do stuff that I both like and involves, um, other people, with the hope that repeated exposure might wear down their defenses. Yoga. Church. Junior League. Researching the Smug Mummy groups I can join once Grand Master P arrives. All this without the kind, socially lubricating assistance of alcohol, I might add.

So until I happen upon a few more innocents and trick them into hanging out with me - or in a couple of months when I can start imbibing again, whichever comes first - well, frankly, I'm struggling to be patient. Much of my 2 years here has been wonderful, and this piece will eventually fall into place as well. Without my having to resort to the whole nudist thing, I hasten to add.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

The Pregnancy Police: Updated Rap Sheet


The (Overly-Opinionated) People
vs. Pretty
in the Court of Judgment, Gestation Division
April 4, 2010

COUNT 1: Drinking (decaffeinated) coffee while pregnant

- STATE'S WITNESS: Girl Scout X, a stern 5th Grader who marched up to Defendant and commenced lecturing her on The Evils of Caffeine at a Junior League function.

- MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES: Defendant claims the "decaf" defense, and alternatively notes that even if her few lattes per week weren't decaf (by preference, pregnant or not), P-Word women are usually allowed a certain amount of caffeine. Plus, she incredulously asks, a 5th grader?

- VERDICT: Guilty, though the State has heard rumor of Defendant taking the drive-through Starbucks line so as to avoid other judgmental 5th graders.

COUNT 2: Wearing high heels while in the P-Word state

- STATE'S WITNESS: Normally sweet, lovely, 95-year-old Anonymous In-Law, whose eagle eyesight (unfortunately) is still good enough to observe Defendant very occasionally wearing high heeled boots and shoes, despite dire warnings about the effect of gravitational force on the fetus, etc.

- MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES: Entirely unrepentant Defendant notes her ability to do challenging tasks such as staying upright and ambulatory while pregnant. Furthermore, under pain of death, Defendant states refusal to succumb to Mom Shoes (see: Crocs, overly bedazzled flip-flops).

- VERDICT: Guilty, and Defendant has been seen eyeing the Nordstrom shoe section as recently as last week.

COUNT 3: Shopping for and purchasing alcohol while pregnant, without intent to consume

- STATE'S WITNESS: Numerous men at the local liquor store who, like the wildly upstanding citizens they are, gave the Icy Glare of Judgment and stood silently while Defendant searched for and selected her purchase; Defendant notes that these were the sort of men available to peruse the bourbon aisle (read: college students) at 2 pm on a Friday.

- MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES: Defendant claims said alcohol was purchased for guests at a dinner party she & her alleged "Anonymous Husband" were hosting that evening. Further, Defendant notes that said Anonymous Husband, being possessed of a so-called "evil sense of humor", intentionally sent the visibly pregnant Defendant to purchase the alcohol.

Defendant, becoming visibly irritated, also states that, save a sip of champagne on New Year's Eve (it tasted awful, she claims), she has opted not to drink any intoxicants during her pregnancy. Though some gestating women do in moderation in their 3rd trimester ("with their doctor's blessing blah blah," she notes), which Defendant is fine with, Defendant personally prefers to wait until the arrival of the alleged baby, mostly so as to have an additional something to complain about until that time.

- VERDICT: Guilty, though knocked down to misdemeanor in attempt to quiet Defendant down about the judgmental bourbon aisle men.

COUNT 4: Accidental & occasional ingestion of raw cookie dough / bleu cheese / other poisonous P-Word goodness

- STATE'S WITNESSES: Various waitstaff / grocery checkout clerks

- MITIGATING CIRCUMSTANCES: Defendant rather shrilly points out the ever-expanding list of pregnancy foods that are apparently off-limits In This Day And Age & claims her occasional ingestion of same is usually related to her forgetting said lengthy list. In particular, she appears to have a difficult time recalling that cookie dough, containing the wickedly evil raw eggs it does, is a P-word no-go.

- VERDICT: Guilty, and we're keeping an eye on the cookies.