Topless with Baby: Dedicated to the fight against Breast Cancer

Appearing on StyleSegment.com today

I love the name of maternity lines because a good majority of them remind me of porn, like HotMilk, Fierce Mama, and Boobs. At what feels like the most unattractive point in a woman’s journey into motherhood the retail world like to remind you of how you got there.

Truthfully, I need a sense of humor. After all I am currently pregnant with my third baby in four years. Maternity clothes are sort of like toddler clothes, they get worn and washed and still have snot stains on them. I have also had a bad habit of giving away my maternity clothes every time I get my figure back, only to lose it again to my husband’s commando sperm.

The irony is that being mommy, at least for me, is not at all sexy. Even though half of Kentucky may have seen my boobs when it came time to breastfeed I was embarrassed!

When I was a teenager growing up in Kentucky, I was what you might call a Catholic schoolgirl gone wild. There was little to do in Fern Creek accept bowling and lake rides on whomever’s boat was handy.

My best friend Beth would opt to flash her well-known derriere to the fishermen and I would join in with my assets that were definitely not my flat butt. The goal was to see how many old men we could get to fall out of their boats.

When my little girls became painfully hard with mother’s milk much to my husband’s delight they were like torture devices strapped to my chest that wouldn’t fit comfortable in any ‘boulder holder.’ When it came time to put them to use my daughter was so small and frail that she was suffocating when I tried to put to use what my crash course in parenthood and breastfeeding with toy dolls taught me.

My husband wanted to give our little girl Lyra nothing, but nature’s gift so he took to preaching to me about how to properly insert my huge raspberry nipple. Back then I could only get this to work when I could escape to the car to peacefully wrestle my boob into her mouth after squirting her in the eye numerous times.

Because she put up such a fight and screamed at the whole process, breastfeeding in public was not possible. I couldn’t manage to use a Hooter Hider either because I couldn’t see what I was doing and would end up trying to hide my entire head under it just to hide myself from the world.
I ended up spending most of my time hooked up to a milking machine that deflated my buxom bosom. After six months I was done after my daughter bit me and laughed. My boobs were so sore from being hooked up to a machine I bleeding into the suction cups.

A year later my son was came along and changed the whole boobie-exposing experience. His attachment to my chest quickly turned him into my personal bra. You wouldn’t have guessed he was born with a short little serpent tongue, sometimes called ‘tongue tied.’ I refused to cut any part of him and there was no need. He had such enthusiasm for the boob he easily learned to hold on via suction. Here is where my topless adventures began again.

My son Luca wouldn’t take a bottle unless it was my milk. He even slept using my boob as a pillow like a blanket or favorite toy. So when he was three-months old I took him with me to New York when I covered Spring Fashion Week 2011. He had been inside me the previous season in February when I attended the runway shows for the first time in my glorified Mama-Jamas. It was cold and I couldn’t fully button a single coat that I had brought with me. My belly stuck out as if I was trying to smuggle a watermelon into the shows.

This time I was hoping to have a drink of free champagne, didn’t I deserve it? I brought my sister with me as my nanny and booked a room at the Empire Hotel across from Lincoln Center, the new home for Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. My enthusiasm for the trip got a little out of hand the night before the flight at Pittsburgh’s Fashion Story event. I woke with a gallon of tainted milk in my chest. I had to drain myself of the vodka-infused mixture before taking off with my little guy.

I would like to suggest to the retail maternity world to make more pockets in clothes. I have never needed pockets more than I need them now. I tend to stick every contraption I can into my bra including my son’s favorite pacifier that is shaped like a hotdog nipple. In my rush to the airport I lost the pacifier and forgot to put my garment bag into my suitcase with all my well planned clothes.

The result: I had to run through the airport with a baby stuck to my breasts. During the entire plan ride I remained exposed for fear my son’s high pitched screams would scare the pilot. In New York, we all endured the worst taxi ride of all our lives. They just don’t make cabs equipped for car seats in the back, but that wasn’t the problem. My son hated the noise and just wanted to nestle into my boobs for comfort and fear.

My sister spent most of the trip in our room away from the bustling parties and urban noises letting my son sleep on her boobs and listening to the whistling tunes of Brother Bones, a 1920s vaudeville singer.

During my breaks from shows she would bring my son over for his feedings and so I could expose my working mammary glands for the likes of Anna Wintour. When I was looking for a quiet place to sit I found her at Avery Hall tucked away enjoying tea or coffee. If I had a twitter account back them I should have sent out a message “Anna Wintour saw my boobies!”

Breastfeeding is liberating at the same time constraining. Because my son doesn’t put up a fuss about being my nipple cover I often even forget my boobs are even exposed until someone says “Umm, Miss you’re falling out.” Oops I did it again.

The Accidental Mom: My 9-11: How I changed my life on that day

The Accidental Mom: My 9-11: How I changed my life on that day: September 11, 2011 There are ghosts haunting the streets of NYC this weekend and although I have tried to avoid reliving the sadness, loss...

My 9-11: How I changed my life on that day

September 11, 2011

There are ghosts haunting the streets of NYC this weekend and although I have tried to avoid reliving the sadness, loss, and anger Sept 11th moved in me there are some aspects of those emotions that are the origins of my current happiness.

In 2001 I graduated from NYU with a Masters in Journalism. I was renting a room in a three bedroom out in Prospect Park, Brooklyn with some friends. On Sept 10th I was leaving Kentucky for NYC but decided to go to Pittsburgh instead for a friend' mom's funeral. I was getting ready for a funeral the morning the planes hit our hearts.

At the time I was still with Daren, an English-Israeli, who had taken me to Israel and warned me that America was not immune to terrorists. He was always going on about how safe Americans perceived their country to be and that was dangerous. The state of Israel and the Palestinians were a subject of much debate between us, with him conceding that I really had no basis for believing him since I never knew terror.

Daren had the television on that morning and yelled upstairs of our house in the South Side of Pittsburgh that a plan hit the World Trade Center. It must have been a small plane I dismissed. I came down stairs in time to see the second plane and it hit me that this deliberate. I knew people working the buildings, but I told myself it was fine the damage wool deb under control.

When the first building fell I was already to attend a funeral and I screamed as did the TV reporter. Somehow I got in the car and drove to the funeral, listening as the second one fell. When I arrived my girlfriend saw me in tears and had no idea why. She was focused on her mother laying the coffin. I grabbed another friend and told her what happened. I got a call from a girlfriend in Kentucky that there was a plane over Pittsburgh. We left the funeral home for a restaurant, but no one stayed.

Sarah and I went back to my house which was on the same side of the three rivers. We watched the horror unfold on TV and something changed in me at the same time. I was living on the edge in NY, in an apartment where I had to keep the lights on at night to scare away the roaches. I was with a man that I suspected was committing fraud among other unmentionable discrepancies. It was my mid-twenties and I had made a hobby of collecting lovers for lack of love in my relationship, or for myself.

I drove back to New York a couple of days later. I had a convertible BMW from Daren and I drove with the top down smelling the soot in the air as I approached Manhattan. I was the only one on the road; it was eerie like out of a horror movie. It was night when I arrived and Downtown NY from Jersey looked like hell really was a place on earth. The search lights shown and smoldering smoke curled endlessly in the sky.

There was a bone-shaking stillness in the air as I drove through Manhattan. There were places that looked like it had snowed with fake snow. There was fear and morning in the air for sure, but there was also something else, something that reminded me of Jerusalem. I had been there with Daren when I was the only non-Israeli passport holder to come off the place from NYC. There seemed to be monthly if not weekly terrorist attacks.

In the holy city there was a wicked and haunting feeling everywhere. Ghosts definitely roamed the stones and sands. It was the same when I went to Ground Zero. I did not help besides giving out food to highway security workers who had stopped me to search my trunk. I wore my Stetson and boots as a show of American support. It made the cops smile.

I stood not a block away from the wreckage of the World Trade Center looking at the beams that resembled crosses. Coincidentally, many of my fellow reporters showed up at the same spot. We acknowledged each other but were speechless; everyone was silent, standing there as if attending a funeral. NY is normally a loud and bustling place, but not then. Then it was so quiet except for the sound of the workers and searches.

In DUMBO where I use to live before the roach room rental there was a bar called the Bar Between the Bridges. Here all the welders and workers from the bridges use to hang out after work, and then there was me. I spent the next few days interviewing them and recording their stories from Ground Zero. Welders from all over America had come to dismantle the wreckage so there were a lot of people to talk to. Normally, this bunch of people reveled in telling stories, but not this time. It was like they had come back from war. Many of them described bodies and debris that hit a chord inside them that had taken the eagerness out of their rants.

There were people that my friends knew had perished or were unreachable at the time. Fortunately, the people I knew in the towers had escaped or had not made it to work yet.

I came back to Pittsburgh after that and never listened to the tapes again. I still haven't. After so much pain I had to block it out, however, something broke down inside me that day and the world turned beneath my feet. I wanted my family; I wanted a family of my own in a safe place where we weren't targets for death. It was a humbling feeling and I wanted humble things, not the dreams NY breeds, but the ones that seem so far above my capabilities. The life my friends had in Kentucky, married with kids, a car, a boat, a yard.

Obtaining this dream did not come easy. It took me two more years to leave Daren and I am still fighting the fraud accounts because unbeknown to me he had involved my name. I drank a lot talking to the stars. I daydreamed about having a loving husband and being faithful to him, simple things.

Looking back I felt I wasn't fit to be a mom, I couldn't sacrifice enough of myself for them. I had no idea how to be a wife and a mom. I didn't feel strong enough to be the kind of woman I had seen so many of my friends become.
My first step was to make the decision to only date men I would marry. Getting knocked up was not a part of my plan, but I have always been lousy with life-planning.

I find it curious that I am back in NY, ten years later covering Fashion Week while I am pregnant with my THIRD baby. A lot really has changed. I don't have a yard yet, but I do have an amazing husband who loves me and calls me "mermaid" because he use to find me sleeping in the bathtub after I drank too much wine.

Tears have been coming very easy lately because I am reminded in odd moments of the people who perished and the terror that filled our lives, especially the people of New York who ran for their lives. It could be my hormones, but I know that there is a part of me that is shared with all Americans who cried that day.

Today my heart is with the families who have lost part of their heart in the fall of the World Trade Center and the battles that followed. It changed everyone's life and for me it gave birth to a need to love. Becoming mommy heals your soul when you feel it been broken.

A Fashion Story in Honor of this Friday's Event

September 8, 2011

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 .

Beach Day Care at the Jersey Shore

First published on www.StyleSegment.com

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.

Grace, Glamour and Girl Talk with New Zealand Designer Rebecca Taylor

- first published in Maniac Magazine May 2011

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.

Cirque du Soleil and the Evolution of Life in My Womb

Accidental Mama Goes to the Circus

by Sarah Lolley

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!