The Misadventures of Sarah Lolley began while Miss Lolley was studying in Prague and traveling Europe.
After all the wonderful misadventures of dating and nightlife she abruptly became pregnant and married.
This is the next chapter of life for Sarah, an irreverent housewife and mother that also freelances for the local newspaper the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. She has retired her nightlife tiara to cover fashion and travel.
Now the real adventure begin..
In honor of this Friday's fashion event that will benefit Partners for Quality I give you a fashion story by me :)
Last September, I had so much at the Pittsburgh Fashion Story charity function held at J Verno Studios in the South Side that I filled my nursing anatomy with vodka infused leche the night before my flight to NYC to cover Fashion Week.
The process of draining the contaminated mother's milk drained my brain along with it because I subsequently forgot my garment bag filled with carefully coordinated outfits for each day. Instead, I had a suitcase full of great shoes, my son’s best outfits, and mama-jamas. I had decided to be an adventurous mama and bring my three-month-old son Luca along with my sister Kathleen for nanny support. Word for the wise, never do this.
Never decide to have your first drink in over a year the night before a huge business trip that requires you to look your best and skinniest along with dynamic versatility. Never think that your rock-star metabolism will magically allow you stay up late and get up early after being reunited with your old friend vodka. I am probably sounding a little like Chelsea Handler now so I better stop here.
After losing Luca's favourite binky because I wedged it somewhere in my bra for lack of a pocket, my sister and I endured a gruelling, tearful plane ride and taxi ride to the chic Empire Hotel where most of the guests were wearing nothing less than six-inch heels. I think I was still wearing mama-jamas and slippers when I arrived. When they told us our room wasn't ready yet I told them the alternative was enduring the headache octaves my son could reach. We learned quickly that he didn't like city noises or fist pumping reception area music. We were given a room immediately.
Luca did however love the whistling tunes of "Brother Bones" a 1930's African American that whistled entire songs while knocking bones together. My sister spent most of the time playing with the baby and learning to whistle entire ballads. I made the mistake of taking the baby for long walks in Soho to go shopping. My subway radar was way off and ended up sort of lost looking for couture baby clothes.
My sister had decided that after an embarrassing walk to Central Park with my son, Luciano Pavarotti, she was quite content whistling in the confines of our hotel room. When my son was born his screech was so deafening everyone including the delivery doctor gave each other that "Holy Crap" look. Yeah, he is Mariah Carey, dog deafening loud. He can hit notes that are reserved for jet engines. Having him come screaming out of me like that can only be a testimony as to how bad it must have been trapped in my body. Lol, I should know what that feels like.
Last year the weather was pretty awesome and sometimes Kathleen would meet me outside the tents so I could breast feed for all the style mavens to see. I admit Luca was the best accessory.
This year I am pregnant again and covering the fashion circus in New York City so I cannot make the event in Pittsburgh. However, I encourage you all to attend. The best part of the event is not even the fashion it’s that the proceeds and donations go to children who need it. The money raised help families struggling with disabled children during rough patches in their budgets. It is not welfare, but a one-time emergency fund to keep kids in their homes with proper care.
For more information on Partners for Quality go to www.pfq.org, email Mary at mmmitchell@pfg.org.
Donations information is on their website. For tickets to the event go to http://bit.ly/riV1mL .
Call me a hill-billy, but I didn’t know if your kids weren’t listed on a wedding invitation then you couldn’t bring them. My husband Patrick and I had planned our summer vacation around a Philadelphia wedding, which we learned too late was for big kids only. Before abandoning the wedding for lack of a babysitter my retired dad saved the day and said he would take a train to Philly to babysit.
Our destination was the Jersey Shore. Cape May, New Jersey is 7 hours from Pittsburgh and 1.5 hours from Philly. Seven hours also happens to be the limit my young children, Lyra (3) and Luca (1) could watch DVDs in the car. It was perfect.
Cape May is the oldest beach resort town in America and although it is still technically the Jersey Shore it is far from beachcombers that look like the Situation and Snooki. Instead, the town is filled with quiet Colonial and Southern veranda style homes that are almost all upscale b&b hotels (www.capemay.com). We were looking for a rental late in the booking season, therefore a lot of the family friendly places were booked. Many of the mansions do not allow children because they are adorned with antiques.
Of course, when people tell me I can’t take my kids somewhere I want to yell in their faces that they have no heart, but it wasn’t so long ago when I would give the parents of a screaming kid a look of disdain if I was on my grown-up vacation. Still my kids are cuter than most and have yet to publically embarrass me. That is if you don’t count running around naked, incessant smiling at strangers, vomiting, and pooping. Otherwise, they are acceptable.
I went to www.vacationrentals.com to find a property that was open for a week in July. The hotel rates for a week were almost the same as renting a condo or house so we invited a couple to come with us who had kids the same age as ours. Whoopee! Beach Daycare!
You need a beach tag to be on the beach. A couple of young lifeguards pointed out on the first morning of our visit in a half-beach bum/ half-long island accent, “If you are on the beach before 10 a.m., enjoy the day. But if you go to the boardwalk and back then your dust.” I am guessing that meant we need a tag unless I wanted to pee in the ocean, which incidentally is what my husband taught my daughter to do.
Beach passes are $15 for all persons over 12. My husband pinned his to swimming trunks and claimed if it came off it was NJ’s fault for a faulty design. I think he was just upset he couldn’t wear his Euro Speedo bottoms. We had been told that men had to wear trunks that come to mid-thigh. However, we let our son wear his baby Speedo version.
The first thing I do when I get to a destination is book a massage, which I did at Cape May Day Spa (www.capemaydayspa.com). I have learned that if possible you should get your nails done before a trip not during. I have never received a better manicure than I do at home. However, if you need a redo go to Hale Nails on Gurney Street beside Louie’s Pizza. They have gel nail polish that last longer when digging in the sand.
The best things to do with kids besides let them eat sand and dig holes in the ground is riding bikes. Our friends had brought their Chariot stroller that can attach to a bike to pull the kids. We rented ours because I had filled our SUV with suitcases for each of my kids, mine was the biggest. Bike rentals are about $15-$10 for 24 hours.
Patrick and I had another one of our cherished married moments when I couldn’t find my bike lock. He aggressively told me he had no idea what I did with it. A woman from the bike shop was on her way to cut the lock off when he found it in his pocket. It was a ball twister, meaning I wanted to twist his balls.
There were many swanky restaurants that had fine reviews, but not one of them was suitable for children. Consequently, we did not have one extraordinary meal, although, we did cause a scene the first night in town.
While waiting for dinner at the Montreal Inn across from our rental at Capri-Motor Lodge (www.caprimotorlodge.com), Patrick decided he was going to let Luca try a swig of beer while sitting on his lap. I should explain my husband is Romanian and thinks many things are funny that I don’t. Having responded to my evil eye he moved the beer further from Luca’s reach. Then he decided to arrange more glasses on the table while taking his hands momentarily off Luca sitting in his lap. At that moment Luca took a lunge at the beer following the glass bottle to the concrete floor. The sound of my kid’s head hitting the ground together with the unbroken beer bottle caused women to cover the mouths in horror and the bar music to stop. My first impulse was to whap Patrick, but I reserved myself and focused on examining my son’s noggin.
A man rushed over and said he was calling an ambulance. Patrick replied, “I am a doctor. I think I can make that decision.” I could sense he was annoyed at this guy’s intervening and decided it was best to make an exit. At that moment the waiter came with our food, which I replied would have to be wrapped up. I hightailed it out of there ahead of my husband. Not a scratch or dent on my son could be found and before I left he was calm again.
There are many reasons why you shouldn’t feed your child beer and this may be one of them: they will think beer bottles are neat toys and fall off a table.
Thankfully, we had a great kitchen and although there is not a Whole Foods are on the island there is a great seafood market at the Lobster House (thelobsterhouse.com). Having a kitchen when traveling with kids is essential especially if they are my kids and will only eat the organic cereal and cottage cheese that you thought would be better for them when you started feeding them. Subsequently, they will not eat any other brand and we have to search out a Whole Foods at every place we travel - oh joy.
Our beach buddies are yoga fanatics. My girlfriend coaxed me into yoga every morning while she left the kids with her husband who almost had a meltdown himself trying to preserve our security deposit. They sort of colored the fridge with crayons, nothing crazy. Anyway, the yoga instruction was not as strenuous as BYS where we normally attend in Pittsburgh, but they were fine for me. The beach yoga class organized by the hotel Congress Hall was awkward in the sand, but the setting was calming with the morning mist surrounding us.
Dolphins come so close it looks like you can swim out to them, which my daring husband tried to do. The lifeguards made him keep our youngest out of the deeper water on the days when the ocean was too choppy. It is always funny to see him get in trouble for things I tell him not to do.
Of course, running a little beach daycare with four little people stumbling about doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for shopping but there is always a nap time to take an excursion. Luckily my husband needs a nap too so I could escape to Washington Street Mall (www.washingtonstreetmall.com). All around this three block area are little shops and restaurants. I found cute souvenir mermaid shirts for the little girls at www.lynnardens.com and a pirate onesie at Happy Baby Boutique (Twitter @capemaybaby).
The best souveniers in my book happens to be a book. An English bloke started a small press called Exit Zero (exitzero.us ) that produces a retro style newsprint weekly about beach life and coffee table books about the historic homes and sites. Their shop is on the way to the lighthouse, which is about a 20-30 minute bike ride from the main beach strip. Along the way there are numerous amazing homes to ogle.
Tip: Always bring a change of clothes for potty training tots. It will happen when you are far away from the car and supplies that they have a bout of diarrhea and your husband, making up for his ball twister, will have to clean up the mess in the men’s bathroom. Mom will put offending articles in a plastic bag in her purse and forget about them and only remember when she pulls them out at a wedding rehearsal dinner.
Note: Poop seems to always be a reoccurring element in stories that involve children so get used to it. Parenthood is messy and stinky, but so is my husband so I know where they get it from.
Speaking of poop, horse poop that is, one of the best ways to explore the homes is by horse and buggy. The only way to book a ride is to go there stand at the top of Washington Street Mall where there is also a stand to buy tickets for the trolley rides that are themed for kids or couples. There are regional theater shows to see and haunted boat rides to enjoy, none of which we actually got to enjoy. However, we would have if the kids were a little older, or had a sitter, or were left at home – with a sitter of course.
When we were leaving the heat was cranking up and the sand felt like walking on a hot grill. Philadelphia was what I imagine hell to feel like. My dad was already at the hotel which I will never go to again. Club Quarters may be fine for a single business traveler, but do not go there if you have a car to park or children. The hotel was chosen by the bride and groom because it was near attractions; however, it was too hot on this occasion to enjoy anything that didn’t have powerful ac generators.
We were an hour and half late to the rehearsal dinner which we were allowed to bring children. Luca fell asleep so we brought Lyra. We took a cab to South Street. Another good tip: taking a taxi is not a good idea of your child is prone to car sickness. As soon as she started to moan we stopped the taxi and walked the rest of the way. It was a good thing because I didn’t have anything clean in my purse to dress her or myself in.
In the end the messiness of parenting is a great excuse to over pack for excursions, it is also a great reason to have a large purse, and spend lots of time in the bathroom. Until the next time I torture myself with jetsetting with toddlers, take care and always carry wipes.
With a romantic, but edgy sensibility Rebecca Taylor has charmed celebrities, boutiques and department stores with her classic, but youthful style. For this journalist she was also a much needed smile during the stress and party scene at New York Fashion Week.
I was five months pregnant when I first met Rebecca at an after party for her Fall 2010 collection. Because of the celebrity popularity of her runway show that year I was shut out of the presentation, however, the organizers let me attend the after-party across the street from the tents. I felt like Humpty Dumpty standing next to Carmen Electra who looked at me and asked for approval of her pony-tailed hair before greeting the press. I said, caught off guard, “It’s a great hawk. It’s you.”
Although I hadn’t prepared an interview I got in line to talk with Rebecca. Describing Rebecca as lovely doesn’t justify her calm and collected demeanor amongst the melee around her. When it was my turn she eagerly told me about her twin daughters and son, and how she would love to be able to design a children’s line. As a mother she is often inspired by how excited her children get about fashion and colors.
After studying fashion in New Zealand she came to New York with little money, but lots of moxie. Her talents eventually landed her at Cynthia Rowley where she worked for six years before her first runway show debut in 1999 with her namesake company. Her name is now synonymous with established celebrities like Sarah Jessica Parker, Uma Thurman, Cate Blanchett, Beyonce and Kate Winslet as well as new faces like Lauren Conrad, Taylor Swift, Kristen Bell and Whitney Port. However, glamour and glitz is far from the laid back chic identity that the Rebecca Taylor brand embodies. It is exactly what the famous and fashionable wear when they are appearing as normal people instead of characters in a drama or show.
The second time I met her was for the Spring 2011 collection. I had brought my baby to Fashion Week because I was breast feeding and I decided he was the best accessory a mom could have. Not! I remembered all his baby gear but in my haste forgot to put my garment bag, containing carefully choreographed outfits, in my suitcase. I looked like a baggy housewife when I showed up for Rebecca’s after-party at a swanky glass roofed nightclub. This time when I went to interview her, ready with my recorder, the batteries popped out as I again regarded how calm she was amongst the cacophony of conversations surrounding her.
“You must be tired,” I muttered looking for the batteries.
“No, not at all. Do I look tired?” She replied.
“That must be me. I should have left the babe at home.” As I was fumbling for my batteries I noticed her sparkly blue oxfords at the end of her casual jeans; comfort and shine. I regarded that meeting as another testimony to her good manners and gracious sentiment in everything she does.
That inspiration is easy to see in her vintage floral prints with prairie sleeves emboldened with rich colors and beaded bursts. Inspired by pretty things, she creates looks perfect for an urban garden party; they are playful designs with a sophisticated air.
“I like to design clothing that women can wear and feel good in. The Rebecca Taylor girl knows pretty, but she is not overly precious. I design with that girl in mind.” Rebecca said after her recent Fall 2011 runway presentation. This you she forwent the parties, but made time to answer questions from me.
For this season she looked for patterns that reflected her sentiment. She explained, “This season I was inspired by Ross Bleckner’s paintings, blurred images and sparkling lights.” The star bursts of color and striations of tones are reflected perfectly in the textiles she created for her separates and frocks.
Common to her collections is universal neutrality that she applies to her style compositions that gives her artistic interpretations a wider brush with consumers. The pieces easily fit into any wardrobe. “I feel there are no real cardinal rules when it comes to fashion. I think women should have fun with fashion. I love camels and grays. They are easy to wear and look great when paired with bold colors or patterns.”
Although, my disheveled chic style may be a far cry from the posture of Rebecca Taylor, her collections are always filled with wearable flirty, but refined designs that any woman, including me, can appreciate and wear with delight. America’s star Kiwi designer earned her sparkle by striking a chord that resonates in all women. Her designs, much like herself, are graceful, flirty, and simply pretty.
My impending doom hit me on the opening night of Cirque du Soleil's Totem performance, which was also my husband Patrick's 36th birthday. It was a rainy night that made lakes of puddles and turned the rain into pelting water bombs. As we found our seats, passing up the bar serving champagne which I longingly desired, I had that feeling I often get at these times of my life. I felt plain stupid.
I was pregnant, again. I have embraced my new role as Accidental Mama with a sense of humor and maybe a little style, but a third! My son was not even one-year-old! He was still breastfeeding. It was the nanny's fault for sure. She had been feeding my son more solid food and telling me not to give him booby. Thanks to spontaneous ovulation and my husband's commando sperm I was going to spend another summer fat and hormonal anticipating the explosion of my loins giving birth to another living being that will probably blame me for scarring their innocence, which might be true. I don't do a good job at endorsing Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. It's the Jewish side of me.
All this was going through my head as the lights went down and a figure in a crystal bodysuit appeared hanging from the ceiling above an organic cell like structure with chanting reptilian characters responding to the descending crystal acrobat. The comparison to my defenseless egg screaming out at the invasion of Patrick's charging sperm was too obvious for my imagination. The crystal form began contorting and swinging from bars inside the membrane as the lizards led a tribal chant and danced around the main attraction. This was what happened inside my uterus for sure. Damn it why didn't the lizards people fight back and kick the glittery man out!
The cell frame was lifted and a mostly naked Native American boy danced around the stage performing clever scenes with rings. This still reminding me of my pregnancy, after all Patrick wanted another boy.
Then a loud European in a speedo comes out yelling about this mama at the audience. Now this reminded me of my Romanian husband that won my heart because he does a great Borat impersonation with his thongs on. Oh lord, is this really my life happening before me under the Big Top?
After the skit, a man resembling the camp style of Vanilla Ice and another man with Ken Doll hair dancing to Bollywood and hip-hop beats was left on the stage. They got in an acrobatic bravado battle over the attention of a woman who had the most beautiful abs I had ever seen. I whimpered at that point. That will never be me and I had hopes and dreams of becoming semi-muscular this summer. I was just feeling them tighten again when bam they were sentenced back to mush.
Just when I was wishing for something that didn't remind me of the organism in my womb to divert my self-absorbed attention, aliens came out of the ground accompanied by two beautiful Las Vegas showgirls dripping in crystals. They twirl and balance crystal towels with their extremities, passing them back and forth with precision. It was a pretty good distraction since it didn't resemble house work at all although I thought it would be fun to dress up in a shiny skin color body suit and prance around the house when I am eight-months prego.
The show's theme is abstractly choreographed around the idea of evolution. Neanderthal and monkey characters play integral parts of antagonizing seemingly civilized characters. There are also scaly figures that evolve out of metaphorical water to perform tricks on land. Wonderful, I knew at 6 weeks pregnant I had a little guppy inside me performing its own evolution.
Before intermission the civilized men at war with the apes tore off their suits to reveal rubber bodysuits! If only Patrick had worn one of those the night of my fateful conception. Yeah, if only Patrick were half the acrobat as these guys were balancing on poles and contorting into strange positions. As it happened for this pregnancy, we were in a weird position on the couch and he couldn't maneuver his way out in time. And that is how I became the Accidental Stupid Mama.
The second half of the show reminded me less of my stupidity, although at one point it did remind me of my marriage. One of the highlights of the show is watching a beautifully sculpted couple theatrically argue over the trapeze and in the end resolve to lean on each other. Yeah that's Patrick and me. Stuck at the end of suspended ropes trying to be the one in charge and resolving to life's defeat of us both.
FYI:
I wanted to wait to post this story until I told my parents the news of my third pregnancy.
My dad laughed at me and said, "It's going to be like a chicken farm around here."
I said with my two blond children at my feet, "I was hoping for a red head this time."
He said, "Great, a rooster."
Here's to the balancing act of life.
Totem runs in Pittsburgh until June 4th. Imagine yourself pregnant for the third time in three years while watching it for an added thrill. Not!
The last we left my story I had gotten knocked up again, luckily by my husband. It was an accident so I like using the term “knocked up.” It kind of reminds me of backing into someone’s car and causing a dent, but way more life changing.
After humorous trips to New Orleans and Miami as the D.P.D. “Designated Pregnant Driver” Patrick and I discovered we were having a boy. Oh no! Here it is – the inevitable question that spans cultural and religious arguments between our families; he is Romanian and I am a half Jewish, half Catholic American. To circumcise, or not to circumcise, that is the question.
According to medical journals on the subject of circumcision, Patrick still has his “penile integrity” while the men of my family, you could say don’t have integrity in that area. To many of my American friends the decision to circumcise is a no brainer. Their husbands, fathers, and brothers all survived the removal of their foreskin so will their sons. However, my husband was not born American and the idea of slicing off his foreskin is torturous and arcane to him. My father, on the other hand, started to wage a campaign for circumcision by reminding me daily of the dangers of “schmutz” build-up. I like to consider my self a progressive thinker and took the duration of my pregnancy to deliberate keeping my son’s ‘integrity.’
My first response was to consider my relationship with the uncircumcised sect. I had always preferred them since I met my first foreskin when I was 20-years-old while studying abroad in London. The owner’s name was oddly enough Christopher Reeves. I never actually had sex with him, content on seeing how it worked manually. The first time I actually took one for a ride was in Pittsburgh by a tattooed, raven haired boy who had been born at home. For the first time in my inexperienced sex life, it didn’t hurt. I had found my type!
Thinking of my little baby as a man was giving me disturbing pregnant mama dreams. I had no idea how to raise a boy! I mean I barely knew how to date them and now it was up to me to mold his idea of women for life. If I let my husband do it he might end up with all his father’s flaws! I didn’t have these anxieties with my little girl Lyra. I just told Patrick she wasn’t dating until college. He rolled his eyes at me and told me I was paranoid. “No, I know myself,” I replied, “and if she is my daughter than there is trouble ahead. ”
But it was a ‘he’ now inside me kicking my ass from the inside out and the decision to nip his willie was starting to feel barbaric. Was it even my decision to begin with? It seemed a big personal decision for a man. Shouldn’t it be his decision? Will he be made fun of in the locker room if I didn’t!?
According to the U.S. Circumcision Statistics about half of the babies born in the U.S. are not being circumcised, which is about 15 percent increase from the 80s. According to our neonatal physician, the practice of circumcising became popular after the World Wars in the States. Men who were subject to the unclean and dire environments of the trenches came back with infections and other gross ailments. Consequently, they started to circumcise babies because the process was very painful for adult. Now the procedure is considered elective and some insurance carriers will not cover it.
My father likes to remind me that my grandfather had his done to marry my Jewish grandmother. Poor man was disowned from his family for it, or maybe it was the Jewish bit. OMG! Why was I listening to my family? I never had before, but having kids makes you realize you need help and, in my case, a reminder of what not to do. My little unborn baby’s peter was becoming a hot topic at the dinner table.
My mother is under the belief that men get circumcised so they don’t give women yeast infections. During my check-ups I took the subject up with my OBGYN, who happens to also be Romanian. We usually spent most of my visits gossiping about our Romanian husbands and trying to cure my sore butt. She told me that her patients get yeast infections from partners that were circumcised and it wasn’t a cure for contracting STDs.
The biggest fear I had of becoming the proud mother of an uncut boy was that I would be the mom that constantly had to remind their son to wash his penis. I could see myself yelling at my poor embarrassed son, “Did you wash your peter? I don’t care what your daddy says you go back in there and wash your peter.” Horror.
But what if he wanted to be Jewish? It turns out it is one of God’s commandments to be circumcised. That was like 5000 years ago, I argued. Can’t there be a new interpretation that would let my son remain intact and accepted? Not sure I am the person to start the revolution within the Jewish community, but I vowed if my son wanted to study Torah I would go to battle. Until then, Merry Christmas.
By the time I was eight months pregnant I was insane with having to make a decision. I had also gained 55-60 lbs by eating cupcakes everyday and was ready to start dieting, so I thought. I was ready to be unpregnant by the end of May, but wasn’t ready to make the decision about the future sex life and hygiene of my son. That was when my husband finally spoke up.
“I thought you were going to make the ‘right’ decision on you own, but you are thinking about this way too much,” he said. “We are not circumcising.” Whew! Someone made a decision. To further cement his case Patrick cited studies that stated the procedure could be psychologically traumatic and destroy nerve endings.
When we told our doctors they congratulated us for making the decision. When we told my family they were less pleased and acted astonished that Europeans like my husband are not. Actually, my son will join 80 percent of the world’s males in that area.
The only thing left to do was give birth. I had been having contractions every time I farted, or rather the baby farted. I had even gone into the hospital to be sent home when I only dilated 3.5cm. On the way home, Patrick and I stopped at an old favorite of mine – the bar. In the 70s they use to administer alcohol to women in labor to help them with contractions. Not to fear, I only had one glass of wine.
After a week of bouncing up and down, having sex, taking walks, and trudging my daughter around the zoo in the heat I decided to get induced on May 30th. My deliveries go pretty fast once they get started. This time around everything went smoothly, unlike the emergency entrance of my daughter. My husband, who is an anesthesiologist, even let my daughter gently pull out my epidural line.
“Ha! Even a two-year-old could do your job,” my dad chided from the back of the room.
We named him Lucian Orion Filip. His middle name was from me. Orion use to be the only man I could depend on, always in the sky above me. Now here he was in my arms. I am not sure how good a female role model I will be, but for now he is my little lover, always connected to my boobs.
There are two kinds of accidental moms. The first is the girl that gets pregnant and changes their reckless ways for good, like changing their stripper profession for teaching math. The second are those that secretly wanted to have kids but are not very good life planners. These are at least the kind of friends I have anyway. I probably fall into both categories, except I was a nightlife reporter, not a stripper.
After my daughter Lyra burst out of me like a little cone-headed alien escaping her captor I sat on the couch in shock for about a year. In the beginning, she was a tiny thing that was prone to bashing her head against my big boobies in tears. Patrick and I were determined to be all natural and only allow her breast milk; therefore I had to get a breast pump to quill Lyra’s impatient cries.
And because I have all the tact and grace of a circus clown I attracted a lot of attention trying to breast feed in public. In the previous year, I wouldn’t have flinched to expose my girls to admirers, but choking a baby in public with my raspberry-sized nipples was not the least bit sexy. So I stayed at home in my topless garb to keep from embarrassing my infant daughter.
When at six months-old she thought it was hilarious to try to bite my berries off I ended the abuse of my boobies. She responded by mercilessly vomiting on me at the most in opportune moments when we switched to formula. Motherhood is freaking messy.
My delighted audience was my crew of childhood friends who I had watched get pregnant in their early twenties. Missy, Suzanne, and I went to an all-girl Catholic high school in Kentucky so naturally we had a crazy edge. They signed me up for Facebook after I gave birth to Lyra. I had always been too busy for social websites, but sitting at home watching CSI reruns was making me paranoid to walk down the street.
I soon discovered that I didn’t need parenting guidebooks, I just needed Facebook! All of my 200 high school classmates were all there waiting to give me parenting advice since 80 percent of them were seasoned moms. They sent me messages like “Gee, that blows my mind that you are a mom!” Very encouraging.
Missy’s life story was straight out of a hundred different country songs. She was gorgeous, wild and stormy. If you pissed her off she would sod your yard with her daddy’s pick-up truck. She had become a mom right after high school to her boyfriend Billy. Three kids later she had earned a nursing career and still wears a size 3. However, after eighteen years of the same man she was going through married-life crisis.
Suzanne was the girl who introduced me to Edie Brickell and Cat Stevens in art class. She would get in trouble for wearing Birkenstocks to school and on the weekends we would take turns making out with boys in her parents’ Winnebago in the backyard. She got pregnant and married not long after high school as well. When her daughter was thirteen, she was on the verge of a much needed divorce. However, instead of going crazy all over again she went all Jesus and started dating a minister from her mother’s missionary work. Suzanne and her holy man decided to abstain from vaginal intercourse. Little drastic I thought! I started calling him President Clinton.
Back at my ranch, Patrick and I were teetering through parenthood barely able to contain the explosions from either end of our small daughter. When Lyra was eleven months old we took her on a road trip through Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Romania. Sounds luxurious when you consider we were picking up our BMW at the factory to take it for its first road trip. Let’s just say Lyra baptized it every time we started the engine. She has a severe case of motion sickness – good times let me tell you. While in Romania a doctor told me she might have an eating disorder. What already!
It was in September after the crazy European vacation that a Kentucky storm took over my life again in the form of a bourbon bottle that I smuggled into a Russian opera my dad had suckered my sister and me to attend. I came home to a sleeping Romanian and insisted he ravish me. He insisted that it wasn’t a good time of the month for me.
“Nonsense, you know nothing about my body!” I slurred at him. A few hours later I sobered up and counted the days from my last period in my slumber. Oh drat, not again.
A couple of weeks later we were in Kentucky for my high school reunion. Missy was split from Billy and had convinced herself that she couldn’t be alone, or rather just needed a man in her life. The man she chose was Billy’s childhood friend Billy. Sound bizarre, well, it’s just Kentucky. Suzanne was sexting her minister while I was entertaining my mother-in-law from Romania that came along for the ride.
At the reunion we all received name tags with our senior pictures on it. Mine read Sarah Lolley Flip (my husband’s last name is actually Filip pronounced Phillip). Truthfully, I was relieved to be married at all. I felt like I was finally normal just to be married with a kid. Meanwhile, Missy was working on severe abandonment of the past eighteen years as her new ‘Billy’ waited in the car outside the event. She disappeared after an hour.
Suzanne and I made our rounds comparing everyone’s new names and faces when at midnight we got a call from Missy that she was holed up with the new Billy at a bar when the old Billy tracked her down. Drama! Suzanne forbade me to go get her and Patrick was convinced I didn’t need another drink because I was pregnant. “No I am not!”
At 3 a.m. I got knock on my hotel door. Missy was doing cartwheels in the hallway. She got a room at the hotel and proceeded to sing “Like a Virgin” at the top of her lungs. She had picked up where she left off literally. We spent the night amusing ourselves with scenarios of what she might have done if she hadn’t become a mom so soon. None of them were realistic because she could only be this crazy blonde bombshell who raised three well behaved kids. We went to bed with her swearing she had never slept with the new Billy. It seems sexting is taking the place of condoms, a better birth control.
Patrick and I haven’t caught onto the practice because upon my return to Pittsburgh I discovered I was indeed pregnant, again. Oh snap!
The sequel to the first installment of the Accidental Mom starts off with hormonal changes and ends with a dramatic entrance also riddled with hormones. As a fellow friend of mine said to me after hearing I was pregnant, I was about to lose control of my body and she was happy to be watching. Silly me, I thought that had already happened on numerous occasions by the will of Jack Daniels.
It was January of 2008 when Patrick and I returned from meeting his parents in Romania after having bumbled our engagement by losing the ring as he proposed on a provincial mountain overlooking BranCastle (aka Dracula’s Castle). The ring was found days later by a friend Patrick contracted to find it. It was nothing short of a miracle. My life was starting to resemble a chick flick, however, I don’t believe in happy endings so everyday was more like a horror movie you wanted to keep your eyes closed for fear of what happens next.
The ring on my finger now symbolized the excitement and anxiety growing inside my guts quite literally. I always felt that I had no idea what a successful relationship felt like since my parents were unsuccessful. Through all my daydreams of the perfect wedding that my heart conjured up, my head always told me that that image was balderdash. Now I was pregnant and engaged to a fate that was so oblivious to me as to be beyond any preconceived notion I might have ever held about my future. This was indeed up there with impulsive and crazy, and yet it was completely normal.
Who ever said that morning sickness only lasts for the first trimester is full of bologna because my mornings lasted for eight months. During this time, every mother I met liked to tell me that they felt free to eat whatever they pleased. Ha! It was my fate that I became lactose intolerant to the point of wanting to barf if there was the slightest bit of butter in a pastry. I was also exhausted and prone to body rashes; therefore, I didn’t have the pregnant glow either, unless you count my bright red, hive riddled face. It was as if I was a slug and a bratty kid poured salt on me, and I began to disintegrate and get fat.
Furthermore, when I discovered I was having a girl the previously mentioned friend told me that being pregnant with a baby girl will suck the beauty of you. At this point, I wondered when the warm, fuzzy mommy feelings were going to start because most of the time I was about as cuddly as a shaved gorilla.
It was in my fifth month when the anxieties of getting married hit me like a psychotic episode. My due date of July 21st was looming over me like Armageddon. I had no idea what the world would be like after the birth of my daughter. The prospect of having a new body and quite possibly a new vagina also weighed heavy in my discussions with Patrick. He began to whimper that he liked it the way it was and maybe I should have a C-section, ya know, to make sure there were no complications.
As we lay in bed chatting about such ridiculous notions as the size of my post baby body, I was coming to realize that there would always be someone between us. These were the last months we would ever be alone. Even when our daughter grew up, a part of our thoughts would always be with her. Parenthood was beginning to happen to me, happen to us. Oh Lord, we needed to buy a house. I wasn’t going to live in an apartment with a shower the size of a telephone booth. I was even unsure I could wedge my full term belly in there.
There are more exciting bits to this story than the details of our house hunting so I will be brief. The idea of moving out to the suburbs had the same affect on me that a new school would on a young child with glasses, braces, and zits. Patrick and I prided ourselves on our urban sophistication and we both agreed to hold onto our previous single lives a little bit longer by looking for a house in the city. After debating many cool ambitious renovation projects we decided on a new “green” constructed townhouse development in the South Side that promised to have our house finished in our short timeframe. We were so cute and gullible.
The responsibility of mortgage payments conjured the foreboding responsibilities of a financial commitment that stretched the lifetime of my daughter. I might mention that I was deeply hormonal and nearly every week we spouted more tears of joy or rage. My state of mind was so delicate that I was half afraid I might do something stupid like leave him because he was friends with his ex-wife on Facebook. I needed to get married in a bad way. I needed something to make me feel safe and calm the storms that were fixed in my head.
My dad, a retired heart surgeon from Louisiana, had been hanging about a lot lately. He conveniently had decided to retire at the same time I found out I was pregnant. Let preface by telling you that my father is a self proclaimed Confederate Jew that resembles a walrus with long ends of his moustache dropping down over his jowls and matching long bushy eyebrows that seem to obscure his eye sight. He started coming over solely for the purpose of expressing his desire that I become an honest woman and get married in a small plantation town outside of New Orleans called St. Francisville. He charmed us by telling us stories about how he was a prison doctor in nearby Angola Prison. It was a perfectly crazy idea.
I had thought that planning a wedding in three weeks would be as easy as a Vegas style wedding, but Louisiana style with a voodoo minister instead of Elvis (chapels in New Orleans actually offer this service). Instead the small backwoods town was full of large antebellum homes that were accustomed to big Southern weddings. I finally found one that wasn’t booked and was oddly called Desert Plantation despite being located in a lush weeping willow terrain. The owner Wilhelmina was raised on the thousand acre plantation and agreed to rent out the entire place for the wedding. The catch was I had to arrange the catering, minister, and photographer. This wasn’t going to be as easy as the voodoo wedding chapel on Bourbon Street.
The news of a Yank coming down to have a shotgun wedding became part of the town gossip after many days of begging many proprietors in frustrated tears to provide services on such short notice. The Reverend Jesse Means decided to come out of retirement to save the day and give me a proper wedding. He was a man that resembled Colonel Sanders and held many hats in the town, which came in handy when I discovered I didn’t have a valid proof of my birth in Texas. Patrick was a naturalized citizen with a translated divorce document; however, it was me, the born and bred American that had documentation problems.
“Those noodle heads in Texas, don’t worry your pretty head.” Rev. Means said to me. “We’ll get ya married, proper. Your daddy is from Louisiana and that counts for something. Just come down to the court house with your daddy and meet the judge.”
As if I needed something else to cry about, every gown I found looked like a Halloween costume. One of my very close friends was a wedding dress designer, Stephanie Keremes, who at the time was hibernating from social calls in her busy wedding season. She was use to high profile brides that spent thousands of dollars on a gown and often flew her around the country to do alterations or dressings the day of the wedding. I was just a little person in her world of crystals and delicate embroidery, until I started crying my eyes out in phone message after phone message.
“All right I will do it!” Stephanie said giving into my girlish moaning. “You know I will be there for you and fashion is one thing I can do. No diapers or babysitting, but if you have a wardrobe problem you can count on me.”
To have a couture dress made for my emergency wedding was like having a security blanket to take with me on the biggest ceremony of your life. It was a soft silver silk with the slightest touch of blue. She wove in crystals in the fine twisting of the empire-waist bodice. I wouldn’t have a rockin’ band or tons of my closest friends at my wedding, but I could have the dress.
On a bright misty April day amongst weepy Spanish moss, I walked down the steps of a large white antebellum house with only two guests to witness our wedding tears. My dad and Patrick’s sister Olivia were the wedding party and our witnesses. I had written my vows the night before.
“I spent a lot of time regretting heartache, but on this day I wouldn’t change a thing,” I looked into his eyes and said. “Because all of my mistakes led me to you, the best and most blessed mistake of them all.”
After that day I finally got my pregnancy glow. I was falling in love with the father of my baby even though he ran around with holes in his underwear and wanted to home school our kids to avoid any negative American indoctrination of our child.
You might think that my story would turn less dramatic, but there are no breaks for the wicked. Since a couple of the brides that I played bridesmaid to didn’t get the chance to give me a bachelorette party they gave me a baby shower. Sarah, also a fellow accidental mom, hosted an open bar, co-ed party for me on the deck of the Firehouse Lounge on a sweaty June afternoon. What was even better was that many of my old flames, happy to see me happy, came to toast my little traveler in my belly. Since Patrick and I had just signed our closing papers for the house so we had a lot to celebrate. It was the end of June and we thought we had a month to get the nursery ready.
That evening, a few hours after the guests left, I finally laid down in the warmth of my life that seemed to be coming together when a tidal wave gushed from between my legs. “Oh snap!”
Patrick was at the new house painting and didn’t answer his cell phone so I called my dad who immediately came over. When Patrick finally answered I yelled at him, “What have I told you about keeping your phone close! My baby could drown! My water broke!” I was already sounding like a wife.
My dad arrived not long after Patrick.
“Where is your overnight bag? Let’s go,” said my dad.
“What overnight bag? I got a box,” I replied looking around at boxes. The movers were scheduled to come the next day.
We drove to the hospital in a hot thunderous storm. I was leaking so much water I was worried about the baby. I had never done this before and we hadn’t even completed our child care classes!
When we got there the nurses told us we had to first go to triage and they didn’t have any delivery beds open. At this point I was not an ideal patient. When a nurse told me they needed to examine me to make sure I really broke my water I replied with showing her the puddle I was sitting in. Although Patrick is an anesthesiologist he became worried as I started to shiver with pain and I still didn’t have an epidural. After discovering my monitor was hooked up wrong and my contractions were threw the roof I was six centimeters dilated and still no delivery room. My father and Patrick began freaking out at the nurses like two doctors.
The next thing I remember is being wheeled in the delivery room with my legs spread to God staring up at big bright lights that resembled an alien invasion. Then a nurse burst into the room and demanded that the delivering doctor quickly come to another room.
“Breath through the next contractions and I will be right back,” said the doctor to me.
“What, how do I do that?!” I cried out.
“Don’t do anything I will be right back,” Patrick said to me. “I need to get a different lens for my camera.”
“Don’t you leave me!” I screamed to no avail.
I laid there looking at the lights feeling the unforgivable urge to push. The only one in the room was the nurse holding my legs apart when the baby started pushing herself out. The nurse started freaking out and calling for a doctor. Guess who came out from behind the curtains - my dad.
“Glove me up,” he declared like a superhero. “I delivered 500 babies at CharityHospital in New Orleans.”
If I could have fainted I would have. Thankfully, a team of doctors and nurses ran through the door and relieved my father of his heroism. In two pushes a little screaming human popped out of my vagina.
After the circus left our room and I could close my legs again, Patrick and I huddled around our daughter, who was just five and half pounds. We hadn’t agreed on much so far, but we had quite easily agreed on a name for our daughter – Lyra. The name is taken from the stars and has musical meaning in Romanian.
It was exactly a year to the day that we met. On that stormy night Patrick and I held each other in that little hospital bed exhausted from a year of magical and dramatic beginnings. Little did we know that the real challenges of our accidental parenthood was about to begin- and it would clutter baby puke and diapers across America and Europe.
