Hooray! Mike was able to get pictures up at http://mikenjennymartin.home.comcast.net He’s using a new program now, so it’s much easier. Hopefully this means it won’t be months and months of waiting before our adoring fans can view us.

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I presented Mom with her birthday gift on Friday. My ‘blog book’ Jenny’s Thoughts: Tales of a Terrorist Cervix and Beyond. Pretty catchy title, don’t ya think? She loved it. She was totally surprised (or at least appeared to be). And she cried! (So, therefore, I cried, and Dad even teared up a bit though he’d probably never admit it. Matthew was a bit confused with all the teary blubbering). It’s always a good sign when someone cries over a gift…well, usually a good sign anyway. I hadn’t changed any of my blog, just kept it to its true rambling and random form. But I did add a Foreword. (It was fun writing a dedication, I felt all official and author-y)! Here it is:

FOREWARD

This story isn’t finished, and I don’t know when it will be.

What began as an on-line BLOG in the hospital while on pregnancy bed rest has developed into so much more. It has become a way to keep in touch with family and friends. A way to share cute anecdotes of our kids. A way for me to vent the sometimes – and often – frustrating existence of a stay-at-home Mom. A way for me to release and share the entertaining, the confused, and the true thoughts that run around in my head.

I hope you will enjoy my random, frequently pointless tidbits as much as

I’ve enjoyed writing them.

I have not made any corrections to my Blog entries. You will find the occasional grammar error, missing word and plenty of run-on sentences. Please bear in mind that for quite some time my Blogs were written while under the influence of:

drugs, weeks spent in a bed, extreme sleep deprivation, an addiction to caffeine,

the emotions of Post Partum Depression,

and an excess of antioxidants (in the form of dark chocolate).

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I dedicate this work to my family.

I couldn’t have gotten through any of this without you.

Mom, Happy Birthday! You are wonderful, and I love you.

Dad, thank you for your never-ending support and help. I love you.

Zachary, you are worth every hour I spent in bed and more. I love you.

Matthew, you were the best surprise and are perfect the way you are. I love you.

MIKEY, you are my best friend and my everything. I love you SO much.

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Yes, yes. Touching and mushy; I know. Speaking of mushy and – in this case, conflicting – emotions. I have news about our big boy Zachary – he weaned himself! He’s no longer my nursing little baby. It’s very bittersweet for me. I began to gradually give him bottles of whole milk, and holy moly – he took to them like a champ. So, before I knew it, we were down to just one nursing a day. Around 4am, I’d change his diaper, and then he’d have a snack before going back to sleep. I was thinking we’d keep this up until at least after his birthday (my plan was always to nurse him for a year, like I did Matthew). It was nice to no longer wear nursing bras or attempt to nurse a squirmy baby discretely in public, but I was really not feeling ready to be completely done with nursing.

What if Zachary is the last baby I ever get to nurse? We had such a hard time nursing in the beginning, I was going to do it for a while to make it worth all the pain. Nursing is the only time I can cut this mover and shaker’s finger nails. I get to have a few moments of peace and quiet when I’m nursing him, just the two of us – usually in his room away from distraction (named Matthew). Sometimes I’d even get to do a few minutes of reading! And in nursing, he’s taking some of my over-indulgent calories for the team!

Anyway, these were some of my thoughts going in to the whole weaning process. Obviously there are GREAT things about no longer nursing: no more nasty nursing bras (I’m thinking about burning them), in many ways bottle-feeding is easier, I get my body back (though I’ll miss him burning the extra calories for me), I can booze it up to my heart’s content should I choose to, Mike gets to do as much feeding (if not more!), I could go on an overnight without Zachary!, etc., etc. I’m trying to focus on these bonuses since two nights ago, Zach totally weaned himself.

4am, I wake up to the usual cries from the other room, change his diaper and go to nurse him, but wait! He’ll have none of it. He even cries and turns away, choosing instead to suck his thumb. I’ll totally admit that my heart broke a little bit. I tried again, but no. He’s done. My baby is growing up. He’s no longer dependant on Mommy. I was the only one that could do that, and now that he’s done, I can feed him in the same way as everyone else. Time to let go, let him grow up. He fell asleep sucking his thumb, with his head on my shoulder. I rocked him in the chair for a little bit just enjoying the moment before I put him back in his crib.

About 15 minutes later he woke back up crying. I laid there for a minute thinking, OK; I could go try to nurse him, but…”Honey? Mike. MIKE. Can you go give Zach a bottle? He won’t nurse.” Tag; you’re it! And I rolled over and went back to sleep. I could get used to this.

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I don’t know if I’m the only one who does this, and maybe, it’s a little bit weird, but I name people – I give strangers that I frequently see a title. In middle school, we would give code names to the boys that we liked, that way we could talk about them and no one would know to whom we were referring. Man, we were so cool. Then, I remember doing this in high school when I took the public bus from our quaint little island suburb into the city. I had a bus driver who became the “Nazi Bus Driver.” He literally relished in his ability to make unsuspecting riders trip and fall into each other while walking down the aisle. Just as a business woman was about to gracefully sit down, he’d release the break, let the bus roll a few feet and then SLAM, making her fall into the old man reading the paper. And his favorite was to do this when the group of us girls would get up to exit for our short walk to Holy Names Academy. He’d wait until we were all standing gathering up our bags, and then SLAM – backpacks, my flute, our dress-code-clad bodies went sprawling. He wore a black beret with a small silver pin of a naked woman. I finally decided I would kill him with kindness and every morning would greet him with an overly huge grin and bright, cheesy “Good Morning.” He’d never even look at me. (Except of course, when he’d look up in the mirror to see us sprawled out on the floor of the bus).

Also on the bus was “Chicken Soup Lady.” We don’t know where she was going or what she was doing. But every morning she’d get on the bus at the same stop and get off at the same stop (I suppose that’s what most people do though, huh?). She always wore a South American-style Poncho and she always carried a fairly large cooler with her. And she always smelled like Chicken Soup. Obviously, chances are good that that’s what was in the cooler. She talked to herself nonstop, and she didn’t walk to the bus or away from the bus; she ran – a slow, low gait (looking a bit like a witch or something equally odd and scary) with the cooler swinging next to her.

I carried this title-giving habit into my college years. Unlike high school, in college you don’t know the names of everyone in your class, but you do end up usually sitting in the same place. (Isn’t that funny? Have you noticed that? We are such creatures of habit. You sit at one desk on the first day, and chances are really good that you’ll sit in that exact same spot for the rest of the semester. It’s like we subconsciously need – and miss – the comfort of “assigned seating” from the days of yore). In one History class, I remember the players well. There was: “Left Door Late Girl” (not very creative, I know): she always came in the left door and she was always...late, “Crusty Old Guy,” and “Sorority Bubble Gum Girl.” My friend Ingrid and I would even carry over the naming to people we knew. One of our French Professors, a rather large and overbearing woman, became “Madame Linebackerrrr” (complete with French r-in-throat accent). My parents knew of this habit and these people and would ask about them occasionally – the unsuspecting characters became a part of family dinnertime discussion.

It goes as no surprise, that I’ve carried this title-giving trend into the current aspects of my life: the mommy cliques at the park and my yoga or spin classes at the gym. At the gym we find “Short Hair Chic” – she is always working out. No matter what time of day I go, she’s there. There’s “Muscle Grunting Man” – there’s actually quite a few of these but one, in particular, stands out. He wears a long-sleeve, skin tight, bright yellow shirt; it has the added bonus of being see-through just in case you wanted to see his well-developed pecks and nipples. He grunts when lifting weights…louder than anyone else in the gym. Apparently the louder you grunt, the buffer you are. I’ve tried the grunting thing but it just doesn’t work for me – maybe you need to be lifting more than 15 pounds though.

Let’s move on to Yoga. First of all, have I told you that the Yoga instructor just happens to be my PE and Health teacher from middle school? Yes, I learned 7^th grade Sex Ed from her too. And now hearing her voice explain what position to move into next brings back some odd memories, that’s for sure. Anyway, in Yoga I’d like to introduce you to “Crocheted-Cozy Yoga Mat Girl.” She’s one of my favorites. Not your typical, die-hard Yogi, this gal is quite overweight, and claims that she ‘loves Kathy’ – our instructor, ‘Sun Salutation and can really tell when she hasn’t been to Yoga in a few days.’ (I did actually speak with her once). At my first ever class, I occasionally watched, intrigued as Crocheted-Cozy Yoga Mat Girl didn’t really participate in any of the Sun Salutation that she loves so much. She pretty much just sat on her mat, leaning up against the wall and watched as the rest of us stick our butts in the air during Down-Dog. (Maybe she’s on to something though). And then my second or third trip to Yoga class, I overheard her berating ME to another class member because I (“that new girl” – complete with gesture so I knew that that was indeed my title) apparently was in her preferred Yoga mat spot. Again, just like in school, we self-assign an area and get all bijiggedy when someone takes it. Seeing your butt in the mirror from a different angle during Down-Dog is very disconcerting, it turns out.

Next, I’d like to introduce to “Way too Short Shorts Old Guy.” He’s stuck in the 80’s and does Yoga in REALLY, freakishly short track shorts. Not OK. Not acceptable. But I do actually like him, because he provides entertainment for after class (I try to avoid looking at him during Yoga for the obvious reasons). While I’m rolling up my mat and packing up, I enjoy discretely eavesdropping while he flirts with instructor Kathy. Once, he even made a move. She’d mentioned that she needed some new New Age music for class, and he surprised her with a burned New Age CD from his personal connection. (This is the modern day equivalent of making a Mix Tape for the girl you like). She thanked him with a hug. (I thought to myself, OK, loose the short shorts, buddy and maybe you’ll have a chance with her)!

Finally, we have “Jeans Bangle-Dangle Bracelets.” This gal is about sixty years old and chooses to come to class in tight-non-stretchy jeans. How can you attempt to be flexible and hold positions in jeans? It’s hard enough in stretchy yoga pants! And that’s just it, you can’t. She’ll attempt a balance move, say Tree or Eagle, and every two seconds tips over and has to put her foot down for support. I’m fine with that, the problem that I have is her arms are covered in bangly-dangly silver bracelets. So every almost-fall-over is accompanied by loud and distracting clinking. How am I to find a state of Zen with that going on? Maybe I should just follow the example of Crocheted-Cozy Yoga Mat Girl and give up all together and just watch everyone else. I mean, she does have a crocheted cozy for her yoga mat. She’s intense and really into it, so she must know what she’s doing.