I read blogs that are much more interesting than mine is, and this is a thing that some of the people who write those blogs do. So I am, too. Doing it.

Above and Beyond at Barclay’s Center. Diego got the tickets prior to knocking me up so I ate a hot dog instead of drinking a beer and we danced a lot and it was swell.

Black Coffee at the Apollo. They did not have regular Pringles at any of the concession stands. I still had fun. (But, to be clear, not as much fun as I would have had if there had been regular Pringles.)

Cat rescues with Instagram accounts made a decent amount of money off of my hormones in 2018, which I think makes up for the fact that I threatened to leave Griffon and Papi Choo Choo at the ASPCA approximately 2,018 times this year.

Diego being such a good dad to our little chunk makes my heart inflate like Violet Beauregarde and tip over and roll around in its own pool of ooey gooey love. MMM.

Engagement ring was lost and found.

Five year anniversary. I looked forward to that glass of wine with dinner for eight months, managed to drink almost half of it, and then passed out in the cab home. Misty water-colored memories.

Gestational diabetes testing. This fuckery was WAY worse than labor. I can’t even discuss it. God.

Hospital-issued postpartum underwear is both comfortable and a fun fashion statement. I may or may not still be hoarding a pack of them.

Instead of going to labor and delivery when my contractions started, I went and got a pedicure. Then I came home and had a glass of wine and took a shower and went to bed. The next day I called out of work and watched Parenthood until Diego came home and forced me to go to the hospital and three hours later I pushed a baby out. It’s a birth plan I highly recommend.

Joe. Everyone at daycare calls Zoë “Baby Joe.” It was confusing at first but I think I’ve figured out that it’s just how the two women working there pronounce it – I think it’s really cute and have started referring to her as Baby Joe myself because it reminds me of Jo from Little Women.

Kisses. So many. SO MANY. I’m squeezing them all in now before she’s big enough to say “MOM STOP KISSING MY FEET” and honestly even then I’ll probably pretend like I don’t hear her.

Laundering baby clothes is remarkably easy to screw up considering the things are made to be pooped in and spit up on. 

My Favorite Murder at Kings Theatre. Their NYC shows sold out in five minutes because insane fan cult members such as my good friend at work were ready the second tickets went on sale. We were front and center AND I got to meet them afterward AND I didn’t say anything embarrassing or try to kiss them or anything! (Even though we were second to last in line for the meet and greet because I had to pee because I drank entirely, entirely too much because it was the first time I Went Out after Having A Baby and "entirely, entirely too much" is two drinks.)

Night feedings. I almost – dare I say it? – enjoy night feedings now. She’s such an active baby when she’s awake that it’s nice to have those quiet moments to just sort of soak her in. It’s also a great time to bond with the cats, since they think it’s time to eat every time I get up. Also the tiny cat climbs on the baby so I’ve gotten good at petting him with one hand and feeding the baby with the other. I’m sure that skill will come in handy someday, somehow.

One World Observatory / Oculus. I scolded a man for putting his sweaty sausage fingers on the windows at One World and finally actually looked at the Oculus instead of rushing past it to get to whatever dumb thing I’m ever trying to get to. (And truthfully, the only reason we went was because we had a friend visiting - I'd invite people over more often and maybe go to more Things if I didn't dislike washing sheets so intensely.)

Psychic readings are sadly no longer available directly next door to me. In her place is a travel agency which I suspect is more of a laundromat. You know. For cash.

Quack! is what ducks say. Is it just me or does it seem like a disproportionate amount of children’s books are about farm animals?

Rest. Building a tiny human took a lot out of me. I napped a lot this year. Usually with cats.

School went well considering I found out I was pregnant one week after paying my tuition. I got through it sleepwalking and vomiting, which I guess is how a lot of eighteen-year-olds do it too.

Twenty-ninth birthday. We went to a matinee of Aladdin and had fancy lunch instead of fancy dinner. (I turn thirty in a few days and requested a repeat of this day date because I liked it so much. We’re going to fancy French lunch and then to see Book of Mormon, and we’re leaving our little chunk with her auntie for the afternoon so that Mommy can eat with both hands and day drink.) 

Ubered to and from work for most of August.

Virgo baby! As in, I had one!

Winter Music Conference – JK I DIDN’T HAVE TO GO BECAUSE I WAS PREGNANT. Diego went to Miami with his friends and I got to pretend I lived alone for a week and it was glorious. GLORIOUS.

Also, Waxing (as in the moon) (not eyebrows) (although, also eyebrows):

X… uh, chromosome!

Y? Because we like you!

Zoë Margaret.

There’s a slice of pizza painted on the sidewalk in front of the bar on the corner of our street. The bar used to be a pizzeria, and I remember exactly what we ordered the one time we ate there the week we moved into our first apartment. I also remember the summer in between the pizzeria and the bar, when we used to sit on the steps of the empty building every Sunday while we waited for the laundry to dry and I would smoke and read my latest fifteen-cent paperback and Diego would complain about my smoking and read parts of articles out loud to me and we loved each other so, so much that even doing laundry was a date.

That little triangle fades a tiny bit every year, and it’s getting to be where people who don’t know to look for it won’t know it’s there.

—

I’ve got a lot to say about having a baby. There are exactly twelve other documents open on this computer right now containing disjointed thoughts on my pregnancy (can’t say anything about it without careening into a sermon on reproductive rights), childbirth (everything went according to plan, completely by accident), and the walking-into-walls exhaustion and hallelujah-praise-Aslan elation of transitioning from fetus-in-uterus to infant-in-arms.

If I could organize my thoughts, I’d tell you about why we (I) (we) switched to formula after less than a month of breastfeeding, why the real reasons nothing to do with latch or supply, why I feel next to no guilt about “not trying hard enough,” et cetera (absurd) and why I think the way anyone feeds their babies is so politically charged**; I’d tell you about choosing an OBGYN over a midwife (insurance and geographical convenience and uh that’s it) and about what it was like having a (mostly) natural childbirth in a hospital setting (challenging but not impossible) (but nearly impossible) (good grief). I’d discuss how helpful it was that I happened to be taking a class on eugenics during my first trimester (I know what you’re thinking: Full time work plus full time classes plus full time nausea and full-body exhaustion sure sounds like full time fun!! and you know what you’ve never been more right about anything I recommend it to anyone). I’d copy a little something from my previous complaints about street harassment and paste it into a shiny new complaint about the special harassment that pregnant ladies and moms face, e.g., men on the street or bus shouting “THAT’S A BOY!” whilst pointing to a woman’s belly and then arguing with that woman when she tells them it’s a girl (which she didn’t have to do because she’s under no obligation to engage with you or anyone especially since the thing she wants least to do at that or any moment is to have long discussions about the size and position of her increasingly large body) or the strangers at the store who loudly and insistently insist that her baby is in grave danger of freezing to death even though it’s fifty-nine degrees and sunny and the baby is literally strapped to its mother’s very warm and squishy body and not that it’s any of anyone’s business but the baby’s head fits very snugly inside the wrap for when it actually does get cold you know like when we’re outdoors and not inside a temperature-controlled store being harangued by cashiers and men who have nowhere better to loiter at two in the afternoon on a weekday thank you very much g’bye.

Maybe one of these days I’ll throw it back to 2011 and write a “My Labor and Delivery Story” on here. (And by saying things like “throw it back.”) Are people still doing that in blog form? Are people still doing anything in blog form besides asking if anyone else is still blogging?

—

Yesterday I made strawberry rhubarb pie filling during Zoe’s catnaps. This morning I got an email from Target informing me that they were cancelling most of my order, including the pie plate I bought specifically for said strawberry rhubarb pie. (Don’t worry, baby Christmas pajamas and a can opener are still en route.) I’m choosing to view this cancellation as an early Christmas gift from the universe (and Target) since honestly it’s been about six years since I last made a pie and it will probably be at least six more until I make another one; there’s really no place for a pie plate in this home. Anyway besides pie the only thing I really look forward to about Thanksgiving is that it’s the earliest Diego will tolerate me putting up the Christmas decorations and this year I’m putting our names on brand-new stockings to celebrate our brand-new family member so those five pie-plate dollars can be glitter-glue dollars instead. Nothing like the smell of fresh glitter glue to usher in the holiday season, am I right? (Glitter glue, and Mrs. Meyers peppermint everything. Tis the season for our apartment to smell like Santa’s house.)



** It seems like you’re going to get shit no matter how you feed your baby, which is about the dumbest damn thing I can think of. It’s so, so weird to me that there are people that get weird in an outraged way about a woman breastfeeding in, say, a restaurant. Everyone else is eating, what is the problem? And like, women in countries who breastfeed for longer periods of time and with overall higher breastfeeding “success rates” also typically get a shitload more maternity leave and have more postpartum support in general. Cave ladies had each other to rely on, and also weren’t subjected to a lot of the fuckery that we modern ladies are today - like how if you do breastfeed your baby you have to make sure you cut them off at an age that society deems appropriate instead of what feels right to you. Fuckery, honest to god. Additionally, “breast is best” is only true if you add “…unless breastfeeding is a threat to your mental health, your relationship with your baby or your partner or your other children, a physical impossibility, or if you can’t or just don’t want to for any reason in the world because you’re a living breathing human with access to healthy alternatives and the ability to make an informed decision.” Those three snotty words put so much unnecessary pressure on mamas who are already physically and emotionally vulnerable and create a dynamic wherein properly caring for your baby means putting your own needs last. Anyway, just wanted to clarify that I’m all about breastfeeding, I just didn’t want to keep doing it. Not advocating for anything except that women get support for whatever choices they make. I’ll sit next to anyone with my boobs out in solidarity at absolutely any time while my own baby tries to talk and drink milk from her bottle at the same time even though I keep patiently explaining to her that it doesn’t work that way. I’m serious. Call me. 

Mon petit bébé and I have settled into something resembling a rhythm and these late October, November days have been as golden as the leaves on the ground. Well, they’re more of a yellow actually. The leaves. But if I said “These days have been as yellow as the leaves on the ground” you would think “Oh does the baby have jaundice?” and she doesn’t. So I said golden and we won’t discuss it any further.) Thankful doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about what an easygoing two-month-old I’ve got; I can’t imagine how much more challenging this season would be if my little girl didn’t have a solid sense of humor about her mama.

Probably as challenging as reading through thousands of baby product reviews. Ba-doom tss. (WHAT A SEGUE WOW LINDSAY YOU’VE STILL GOT IT.) So okay, we didn’t buy very many things for the baby before she was born. The one and only major purchase we made was the crib which I was for some reason obsessed with getting and setting up before she came - well, Zoe’s two months old and the only one who’s slept in it so far is the cat. (Don’t give me any advice about how to keep him out of there. I have internet access too and I promise you none of it works.) Her changing table, for example, is a dresser that one guy at work gave me for twenty bucks because he was moving to the Bay Area like everyone seems to when they’ve had enough of this city and that another guy at work completely refinished for us for free. (Here’s a tip for having a baby on a budget: Make sure you know a lot of people with slightly older kids and tiny apartments. They’ll be really eager to gift you their kids’ old high chairs, diaper bags, and even a breast pump and it will all be way nicer than if you waited for them to buy you something brand-new at a shower because who spends real money on other people’s kids no one okay bye.) Well one of the things we were fortunate enough to receive was a stroller, which I actually really like. It’s the “travel system” (ooOooHHoOHh) kind with a carseat that pops on and off. The thing is that we don’t own a car so the carseat thing is a bit of a wasted perk, plus it makes it more cumbersome than I want for when I start needing to maneuver her around Manhattan. (“Enough about the stroller,” says Papi Chulo/Sonny/Dexter the tiny cat from his perch on top of the air conditioner that we still have not taken out of the window. “You’re losing them. Nobody cares.” “And take a nap, for the love of Aslan,” calls Griffon from the kitchen, where he’s watching Zoe sleep in the stroller we are currently discussing because I have to trick her into taking naps. “Cats don’t speak English. You’re hallucinating.”)

So I started looking at strollers and almost immediately threw up. The baby shower episode of The Office had prepared me for the price tags (and thanks to Dwight I knew what basic safety features to look for) so the cost wasn’t shocking, but the reviews on these things are out of control. If you ever want a reason to give up on humanity I suggest you visit BuyBuy Baby dot com and browse a little. “Voice on GPS feature grating. Diaper bag lost at coat check. Ladies’ room disappointingly small. Service at swim-up bar slow.” ALL I WANT IS FOR THE THING TO NOT FLIP OVER AND KILL US BOTH. And a cupholder would be nice. Who are these poor kids whose parents are nitpicking strollers that cost more than my rent and how can we save them? The things are meant to hold the children, not raise them, unless I missed a very vital chapter in “What to Expect.”

This is not what I meant to say. Stroller reviews, really. But I hear chubberina cherries waking up and I must, must must go kiss her feet now. I must.

A year ago I was on here writing about how if I wanted to have a baby I’d have to give up my stupid-expensive morning Whole Foods juice habit (a habit that was necessary to flush out my evening Craft Beer and Soft Cheese habit) because I earn a sock full of nickels each year and children are more expensive than kombucha. (If you don’t remember that post, scroll down like two centimeters. Or however many centimeters the last blog post or two is down on the screen of whatever device you’re using. That was a terribly-constructed sentence, don’t read too much into it. Hey, what if you’re a giant and the last posts are entire METERS down on your screen? Are you a giant? Hello, you. Welcome.)

So then, I don’t know, the moon got full or the water got infected and we pretty much just said “Hey! Maybe having a baby wouldn’t mean the complete devastation of everything good in our lives after all” and then the next thing I knew I was standing in line at CVS every night after work for a week straight clutching boxes of pregnancy tests and staring with a cold heart at ragamuffin children that were inevitably right in front of me beating each other to death with some sort of school supply while their exhausted mother halfheartedly swiped at them with one tired arm while the other lovingly cradled a shopping basket full of (presumably) NyQuil and Tylenol PM. “I may have made a huge mistake,” I would soberly tell the cashier each evening. “And yet every time one of these tests tells me that there’s nothing in there besides what’s usually in there, I’m a little disappointed.”

“We don’t know each other,” she’d answer, “So it’s weird that you keep trying to confide in me.”

“Thanks, Evelyn,” I’d reply. “You’re going to make a great godmother to the zygote that may or may not be floating around inside of me. Do zygotes float, Evelyn? Is that how that works?”

“Next in line,” Evelyn would say. We’re still quite close, if you’re wondering.

—

All of the above was written approximately two weeks ago. It’s 7AM on Tuesday now and any minute my baby daughter will bust out of her swaddle for the thirtieth time since 10PM last night and I’ll go get her from where she’s laying sweetly with her dad. (Because I woke him up two hours ago so that he could put her back to sleep after her nine hundredth night feed because I have learned that dads evidently have magical chests that make babies fall asleep (possibly the only earthly advantage to a lack of breasts) and if I didn’t wash my hair and eat a bowl of instant oatmeal in peace then I would have no other choice but to build a boat, grow a mustache, sail away to South America and never speak to anyone ever again. NO OTHER CHOICE, PEOPLE.) (By “in peace” I of course mean “while the cats yodel aggressively for food and knock things over.”)

My baby daughter, her dad. My heart is fit to burst.

Here seems like a good place for a picture of my butt.

I can't remember the last time I shaved my legs, but did I let that stop me from shaving my face? No, I did not. There are a few cuts on my arm from where I practiced with Diego's straight razor (which several internet sources advised me NOT to use, but did I let that stop me? No, I did not!) but they sort of blend in with Griffon's handiwork so I don't think they'll alarm anyone. So far I feel exactly as neutral about this method of face-hair-removal as I do about any other method of any-other-hair-removal. Why yes, actually, I am perpetually disappointed that hair removal and how many pounds my body is takes up so much brain space. Thank you for asking. 

I lied, I can remember, it was Tuesday. Same day I washed my hair. 

I spent $100 on a juice cleanse even though we bought a juicer a few months ago and I could probably just make the cleanse myself. Or like, not do one at all, because they're stupid. But since when has anything being stupid stopped me from doing it? Never, is when! 

Yesterday while I was scrubbing away all evidence of the week from all the surfaces of our apartment, I was also thinking about which dress I was going to wear to dinner at the cute place with the curtain-y booths and about how nice it would be to put on lipstick and be in the world after a day of scraping wet cat litter (AKA CEMENT) off of the bathroom floor. What we ended up doing was ordering in a lot of garlicky carbohydrates and watching Practical Magic. I did put on my house dress to go get a bottle of Chianti, so like, I made it partway into the world. What do you want from me? 

Here are some miscellaneous pictures of summer that are sitting on my desktop for reasons I cannot recall:

Linking up with Becky even though BY HER OWN ADMISSION she has read HP fanfiction. 

I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
it’s just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
LUCAS REGAZZI

This isn't a confession, I'm just going to talk about my cat for a minute. Or ten.
He's finally, finally "adjusted." I think. He's gone from squeezing his big fat butt onto the shelf next to the toilet and growling while I feed him treat after treat after treat at 2AM and empty my bladder as quickly as possible to following me around wherever I go. He is my short and scratchy shadow. Like, here's where he is when I'm sitting at my desk:

And here's where he is when I sit on the couch (aka here is where both of us always are):

Et cetera, et cetera. I JUST LOVE HIM SO MUCH, YOU GUYS. And he loves me, too, or so it would seem. As long as I don't pet him for too long, or, goddess forbid, try to snuggle him. He really does not like that.

MOVING ON.

I'm a shitty vegan but an okay vegetarian. 
I just can't stop with the cheese. Also, did you guys know that not all beer and wine is vegan? I'm half a bottle in to a probably definitely NOT-plant-based bottle of white, okay okay three-quarters, I'm three-quarters of a bottle in, wine as we speak. As I type? Anyway if I'm waiting for Diego to finish work and somebody hands me a chai latte, I'm not asking if they made it with almond milk. I'm just drinking it. And hoping he finishes soon because it's Saturday and Full House is on Hulu now and I'm about ready to drop the "I Am A Person Who Gets Dressed And Goes Places" charade. And listen, if I'm going to eat a taco and it's not going to have pork and pineapple on it, then it's going to have fish and I'm going to be really happy for however many seconds it takes me to make it disappear. I don't miss meat at all. Not even fish (unless it's on a taco but we've already covered that.) But the rest of it is challenging. And you know how I deal with things that are challenging... by not!

The good gosh darn am I talking about? Cats and fish? I'm so sorry, everyone. Blame the meat wine.

I had an idea of what I was going to read next but then I realized there was a book I bought a long time ago that never downloaded to my kindle. So, sorry book about Actual Important Things - you'll have to wait, because I'm now very involved in this book that I cannot remember the title of/have the faintest idea what it's supposed to be about except that there's a forest and an abandoned town and a lovable dog and a sarcastic protagonist and some dead guys. BASICALLY EVERYTHING.

I'm in the process of trying to get back into college and it's the worstttt. It's more the worst than I am at eating plant-based.
It is actually not the worst, and I am quite extremely privileged to have access to an education. And a hard-working Mexican to pay the tuition I owe to the last college I went to so that they'll release my transcript - ba-dum, tss!

And in between dealing with that, I'm googling properties for sale in another state because I think I may be coming to the end of my tolerance of this city. I love her so much, but she's wearing on me, guys. I've got maybe three, four more years left in me before I start talking to myself on the bus. I mean like, loud enough that other people can hear me.

I love fall so much that as soon as the temperature dropped below 70 I ripped all the sweaters out from under my bed and rolled around in them. Pumpkin I could give a shit about, but clothes in earth tones that cover my chubby upper arms? HAPPY OCTOBER TO ME.