“Paper or plastic?”

I was in the grocery store yesterday, as I am on most Mondays. I was staring at the ridiculous magazine headlines near the check-out {just before purchasing two of these fine publications}. I was tired. I mentally calculated when I would have time for a shower later in the afternoon between school pick-ups, karate and dinner prep.

And I wondered if, just a day before, it had really happened. Had I been up on a stage? With my name in a program?

“Ma’am, do you have your Price Plus card?”

Had I been all dressed up? Blinded by the lights of the stage? Had I really heard the words of my own writing come out of my mouth, through that microphone and into the audience of hundreds before me?

“Any coupons today?”

What a difference a day makes.

I don’t expect that I’ll ever forget what a great experience it was to be part of the Listen to Your Mother show in New York. It was really a thrill to share a stage with such a wonderful group of people — some professional writers and performers, and some not {ahem} — who brought such a huge array of motherhood stories to life. Every one of them impressed me more than I can say.

Let me tell you a few truths about the whole thing.

• I was terrified. Really terrified. Like, I-might-pass-out kind of terrified.

• I was stressed out. In true Murphy’s Law fashion, my son was projectile vomiting the whole night before, which kind of limits one’s babysitting options. And I was convinced that I would be the next one taken down by this virus, just in time to take the stage. {Thankfully, this didn’t happen.}

• And, for the record, how many maternity dresses do you think one would have to try on at 35 weeks pregnant to find something that looks decent-ish enough to wear on a stage? Does 25 sound about right to you? OK, good.

But, all that aside, everything — somehow — came together. I was lucky to have family and friends give up their own Mother’s Day plans to come and support me. And you know you have amazing friends when they offer to babysit your sick kids so that your husband can come and see the show.

I felt guilty about spending Mother’s Day largely away from my kids. Yet, it was still somehow so fitting to be exactly where I was. I was doing something completely for me, yet it was something absolutely drawn from the essence of my daily motherhood grind. So even though my kids weren’t in the theater, they were up there with me on that stage — in my mind and on those pages from which I read. They were the reason I could do this.

I’m told there will be a YouTube link available at some point and, depending on how much of a Mack truck I look like, I may or may not share it with you when I get it. So, here is the written version of the piece I read. For the full effect, picture me overheating with fear and wondering if I’m actually about to faint.

But I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

Yep, it happened.

“No, no coupons today. Paper bags, please. And add these two magazines to the total.”

_____________

Welcome to the Circus 

Dear Child #3 {and, yes, we’ll get you a proper name},

I thought it might be helpful if we had a little chat before your June arrival.  I want to make sure you understand the lay of the land around here.  Because it’s probably pretty traumatic to be thrust into the world unexpectedly.  A world of chaos and strange customs.  A world inexplicably ruled a little more by Taylor Swift every day.

It’s hard enough for me to understand this place, and I’ve been here a while — so it must be completely unsettling for you.  Like suddenly joining the circus. Without even signing up for an audition.

So let’s think of this as your Circus Orientation Guide so that everything seems just a little less freakshow when you get here.

Let me introduce the main players to you.

There’s me – I’m the ringmaster.  The one who keeps the show running.  The one who attempts to contain all scheduling delays to under an hour. The multi-tasker who is just one flaming juggling pin shy of a domestic inferno. You may know me better as the person you often hear screaming “Get in the car, get in the car, get IN THE CAR, I’M LEAVING — GET. IN. THE CAR!”  That, incidentally, is nothing to worry about.  Just standard operating procedure around here.

And your dad.  When not pushing the limits of a gripping Home Depot addiction, he is the guy up on the high wire of our act — without a net — maintaining a sense of calm that keeps a certain ringmaster from throwing herself into the tiger’s cage. He astounds me every day with his solid footing and roll-with-the-punches mentality. And yet, this man never fails to delight the masses with his quirks and his laughter. He is the showstopper. Armed with extraneous power tools.

Let’s move on to the Clown Car.  Or, better said: Great news — you also have two siblings waiting to meet you!

Your big brother just turned six.  Currently Clown-in-Chief, he takes his leadership role seriously. He is a student of detail and a sensitive little soul. But he also has other aspirations.  For example, he is currently on track to break the world record for Number of Consecutive Questions Asked in a Six Year Period.  In addition, he can teach you all about the fine art of debate. I think his method, once published and with proper agency representation, will gain a loyal following.  The working title is Wearing Down Your Mother Through Endless Rebuttals: One Boy’s Journey From No. Anyway, he is really excited to have you around — as long as you’re a boy.

You also have a big sister, the clown apprentice.  She will be four this summer.  But she thinks she’s 12, so don’t say anything.  This is the girl who will grow up to tell all the jokes and charm the crowds. And because she has zero regard for her personal safety and would be well-served by wearing a helmet at all times, we are considering her for the human-shot-out-of-the cannon act.  Or, based on her table manners, she may soon headline the plate-spinning portion of the show. She is also really excited to have you around — as long as you’re a girl.

Back to me, though.  Because I’m the one you’ll be hanging out with the most in the beginning.

Just to be clear, I’m far from perfect.

For instance, I curse too much.  I know this because a sailor once told me during Fleet Week that I have a bad mouth. Also, I had very high hair in the 80s.  I miss living in Manhattan sometimes but I carry its residual pent-up road rage around the suburbs with me.  I am deathly afraid of craft stores and am 100% lacking the DIY gene, so you shouldn’t expect any sort of popsicle stick building or rainy-day diorama creations from me.

But, on the flip side: I make a mean red sauce, have been known to tell a good story now and then, and I am uniquely qualified to teach you – in 21 years – how to responsibly conquer a roulette table.

And here’s the truth about running this circus: There was actually a time when I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be a mother.  Until I was.

And then, after your brother was born, I knew I had to have a second child.

And then I wasn’t sure about a third.  Until I was.

And then I knew I wasn’t finished — even with my imperfect parenting, a high rate of baking disasters and a broad cynicism of class moms.  I knew we needed you.

And you’ll be here before I know it.

So, welcome to the circus, baby. It’s the show of a lifetime and the best gig, by far, I’ve ever had. What some call madness under the big top, or three rings of crazy, we simply call the “home” command in the minivan navigation system.

Now, all that’s left is whether to buy the pink or the blue baby unicycle.

Dear Restoration Hardware:

As a consumer goods company, I have to imagine you value market feedback about your products.

I recently received the latest edition of your Baby & Child catalog.

My, it is stunning. So chic and luxe.

And, after turning each super-fabulous page that made the paper stock of my holiday cards feel like unadulterated sandpaper accented with flecks of glass, I do have a few questions for you.

• First and foremost, how do you feel about your employees drinking on the job? I ask because it’s clear — after looking at your prices and then making an optometry appointment to have my prescription checked — that your marketing team is probably hitting the bottle. Big time. Possibly with a side of hallucinogenics.

• I’m also curious about where, exactly, you conduct your focus groups. Is it in a hermetically sealed luxury pod in Beverly Hills? Or perhaps at the Spelling Mansion? Or on the set of The Real Housewives franchise?

But of course I can’t look away. It’s like a car crash. Made of custom tufted silks.

And so I’ll admit, I did have my eye on a few specific items that I’d like to discuss with you.

Let’s start with this nursery. I am, after all, only about a month away from the arrival of my third child and on the hunt for some fresh ideas.

{Image courtesy: Restoration Hardware}

This was an eye-opener for me. All this time, I thought that my taste was more of the sensible/everyday/shabby chic {minus the chic}, but I see that I have been overlooking the Royal Infant/Salute to Will and Kate theme. Very interesting, indeed. Just a few questions, though:

• Now, do you find it odd that this crib costs more than the monthly rent on my first Manhattan apartment? No? Maybe it’s just me.
• If my kid’s personal butler is away on vacation when my order arrives, will you help us set it up? Or is concierge service extra?
• Why not add a clothing line to the mix? I, for one, am dying to see how a babe living in such a nursery would be dressed. I’m guessing that the onesies I bought in bulk at Target last week might not cut it and may, in fact, burst into flames upon entry of such a room.
• That’s genuine lead crystal on the sconces, right? Yep, the ones within the reach of a toddler standing up in the crib. Those. I was just trying to figure out the depth of the flesh wound my child might encounter from those pesky glass-to-skin punctures.

Moving on to the lighting department. So many choices!

{Image courtesy: Restoration Hardware}

Personally, I find this line to be a relief. Because, first of all, I was really worried about having the proper formal lighting scheme under which my young children can see which variety of Goldfish they are eating. It’s also critical for tea parties to have as much crystal as humanly possible in the room. And — bonus! — it works well with my son wielding ninja swords all over the house.

Again, just a few follow-up questions before I proceed with my order:

• Can I place these on hold long enough to speak with my insurance company about putting additional personal liability coverage on our homeowners policy?
• How is the child in the photo adjusting to the clear lack of furniture in her room? I mean, does she know that her parents blew all their cash on light fixtures and that’s why she has to sit on a pillow and store her books on the floor? She looks like she’s taking it in stride, although the padded walls give me pause. Is she OK? Or is she writing in that journal about what will prove to be years of pent-up resentment? Maybe just keep an eye on her.

Finally, thank you for resolving a major issue that has been pressing on my mind: What furnishings can I buy to help my kids relax?

{Image courtesy: Restoration Hardware}

Well, now I am breathing a huge sigh of relief. Were it not for your Vintage Cigar Leather Sofa, my kids would have to suffer the indignities of sitting on adult-sized furniture to unwind after a long day of playing. Where else would they plan their world travels like this young gentleman? I mean, I can’t just have them sitting on the floor while watching Disney, Jr.

Plus, the leather is ideal — I can just brush off most food and drink stains — not to mention blend in anything that a stray marker may leave behind. Truly, this is a lifesaver. And, priced at just under $2,000, the practicality of it really hits home. How the hell have we been getting by without this?

Last night, I finished thumbing through your catalog. But I must say that this been an education — not only in decor, but in home equity loans as well. I can only hope that you will begin issuing seasonal editions so that I have new decor aspirations at my fingertips on a rolling basis throughout the year.

Finally, let me offer my congratulations. Your latest line manages to make Pottery Barn Kids look reasonable and prudent, with bargain basement pricing. That’s no small feat.

Thanks in advance for addressing my concerns. If you start manufacturing strollers that will surely outperform my 2010 car, please put me on your mailing list straight away.

I must be the first to know.

Only six more days until I stand up on a stage in Manhattan and read a piece of my writing to hundreds of strangers.

Here are some things you will not find me saying about this upcoming experience:

• No big deal — just your typical Sunday.
• I’m not terrified. At all.
• I have tons of flattering wardrobe options to choose from at 35 weeks pregnant.

Because, the truth is, I have several questions in the category of Reasons Why Getting On Stage Will Be Terrifying:

• What if I completely freeze when I’m up there?
• What if my jokes fall flat?
• What if I go into labor? On stage?

Anything is possible.

But one thing is certain: I am honored and thrilled to be in this year’s NYC cast of Listen to Your Mother.

This is one of 24 Listen to Your Mother shows taking place across the country this year, giving Mother’s Day a microphone and featuring writers and performers telling their own tales of motherhood. Having been in rehearsals with my fellow cast members, I can tell you that our stories range from the funny, to the sweet, to the downright heartbreaking. Some of us are mothers. Some are not. And, together, we’ve got the goods on the complexity, diversity and humor of motherhood.

What? You want to come and see the show in New York on Sunday at 5pm? Excellent! We’ll be at Symphony Space on 95th & Broadway. Even the marquee says so.

You want to bring your mom? Great! It will be forever known as That Year You Took Her To See That Fabulous Show for Mother’s Day. Sure, you’re setting the gift bar high for the future, but it will be worth it {said the perhaps-not-totally-objective cast member}.

Oh — you want to ditch your mom after brunch? OK, I guess that works too — I’m not getting involved, but just give her a nice gift first.

Ohhhh — you want to ditch your kids for the evening, after opening the gifts they made by hand for you and enjoying the five-course brunch they prepared? Psssst — I can help. {Note: The show’s content is not suitable for young children anyway, so you’re not technically “ditching them” as much as you’ll be “supporting me.” It’s all in the semantics.}

You want to know if I go into labor on stage? Fine, but please tell my husband to narrow down his list of baby names already. And if you know a good anesthesiologist, feel free to bring him/her to the show as your +1.

There are two ways to make all of this happen:

1) Enter to win a free pair of tickets that I’m giving away, courtesy of the show’s producers. Just leave a comment on this post between now and Wednesday at midnight (ET).

2) If you don’t win the freebies, you can buy tickets here. 

I hope to see you there! I’ll the one with the giant belly trying to sneak some snacks onto the stage.

Giveaway small print: One entry per person. Contest open to U.S. residents age 18 and over. Entries close on Wednesday, May 8 at midnight. Winner will be randomly selected via Random.org and announced here. If winner does not respond within twenty-four hours, a new winner will be selected. I was not compensated for this post or for promoting this giveaway. All opinions are my own {as always}.

Swish, whooosh, whooooooooosh. 

Whispery yet distinct. In hushed but urgent tones.

Hoooo. Shwah. Yeeeeeeah.

A shadow quickly runs by, caught just a fleeting moment out of the corner of my eye. A blur.

And then he comes into my field of vision. And he is focused. He is ready.

For combat.

He is my son, the ninja.

And today he turns six.

On his last birthday, ninja mania did not rule my house. It was all about pirates and “Aaaaargh” and treasure chests and gold doubloons. That was a welcome break from the previous two years of intense Thomas the Train devotion — which was approaching card-carrying cult member status. I never thought I’d miss Thomas because, honestly, I think he’s annoying and sort of a whiner. But a few weeks ago, my son was going through some of his old trains and, to my total astonishment, he held up an old favorite and asked the unthinkable.

“What is the name of this train?”

I blinked audibly.

“That’s PERCY! You remember Percy!”

Faint signs of recognition hinted in his eyes: “Yeah, sort of.”

I almost feared that he was having a neurological episode of sorts.

“He’s the mail car. Thomas’ best friend. REMEMBER?”

I thought I was having an out-of-body experience. This child, two years ago, would have taken a fucking bullet for Percy. And now, he shrugged off the wimpy green #6 train and set him aside with little to no interest.

“Do you think that ninjas always train with swords?”

And in that moment, he looked so big to me. Had I not been trapped in that wave of nostalgia, I may have taken the opportunity to finally purge my home of the 7,894-piece Thomas collection. {But then you know that would guarantee this next baby would be a boy. And then I’d be here in two years, writing about how stupid I was to ditch everything from the bloody Island of Sodor.}

These days, my son seems so busy. Not because I fill his days with activities, but because his mind is always racing. Always storytelling. Always asking to know more. Always assuming the Playtime Rules Management role over his sister.

“You can be a princess but take this sword back to your castle. I’ll be the ninja who defends your kingdom. Don’t call me by my name. Call me Sensei.”

He is a creature of routine and does best knowing what comes next and when. But he is also thrilled with the intrigue of surprises.

He is equal parts ornery and sweet, and I see him trying his best to balance that out. Some days he does better than others.

He is serious and hysterically silly. Methodical and also carefree.

He’s not too old to hug me without reservation yet. Not too old to have me wipe away his tears. I know this will change someday. But not today.

But other things changed. Like the birthday party dynamics. For example, I heard this for the first time:

“No girls. Just boys at my party. Except my sister. And you. And if the baby in your belly is a girl, she can come too.”

And I changed things up this year, too.

In a break with tradition, I have opted to embrace my baking shortcomings and not stress myself the hell out over making a memorable birthday cake. One that, in exchange for a few Pinterest-worthy moments, would take incremental years off of my life. Simply put, I don’t think my 33rd week of pregnancy is conducive to such an endeavor. Mostly because I would eat more frosting than I would apply to the finished product.

{And also, a ninja cake is way outside of my wheelhouse.}

And so I made a phone call this week that was nothing short of spectacularly freeing.

“Hello, Shop Rite? I’d like to order a birthday cake. Yeah, with ninjas.”

Swish. Whoooosh. Heeeyaaaah.

No sign of Thomas the Train anywhere.

This boy. Long and lean and less of a baby by the day. And yet, still only six.

Happy Birthday to my first child, who taught me how to be a mom.

I couldn’t possibly love him more.

You know when you get all boastful and high-horsey about something and then you totally live to regret it? Or how about those times when you completely underestimate your adversary’s capacity for revenge?

Anyone? Bueller?

Well. It happened to me. And, as most well-intentioned-but-poorly-executed things in my life go, it started on Facebook.

Yeah, I recently bragged on Facebook about my medal-worthy performance at Target.

It went like this:

• I went in to return some items.
• I completed the return.
• And then: I walked the fuck out. Without buying another single item.

Yes, that’s right. I left Target in the black.

I KNOW. RIGHT?

{Brief applause break.}

I felt victorious. Invincible. It was clear that my life’s work in the retail sector was done.

But my joy was premature. Naive, even. Because, about a week later, Target had the last laugh.

It happened in the baby aisle, unexpectedly. I wasn’t there to shop for my unborn child. I was just looking for something very specific that I, uh, can’t seem to recall at the moment. Because, hell no, I was not just browsing aimlessly — that would be reckless.

But then, it began — the pull of Target. Before I knew what was happening, I was standing in the middle of the newborn supplies. This seemed harmless enough at first. I mean, it couldn’t hurt to have a quick look. After all, I’m about seven-ish weeks away from delivery and, while I have two children already, there are probably a few key supplies that might need replenishing or updating.

And that’s when things started to get weird. At first it appeared to be a straightforward case of simple Parental Amnesia. I realized that I didn’t even know what I needed. We hadn’t even looked in the attic to see what gear and clothing we still owned. Did I have the essentials? OMG, what are the essentials? I couldn’t remember but my options seemed to be displayed in an enticing array in front of me.

Out of nowhere, there was a sleek red empty Target cart right there in the aisle. It was in mint condition. All wheels intact and functioning. Very clean surfaces. All it was missing was the requisite 46 lb coating of hand sanitizer. Like a zombie, I abandoned the smaller, hand-held shopping basket.

I. Need. To. Buy. Things.

Many. Things.

What was going on? I was supposed to be in control. I was the woman who pulled off the Return-and-Run move just a week earlier. I wasn’t sure what was happ — oooohhhhh, look at those new bouncy seats. So much more compact than the one we had before.

But still, the rational side of my brain, though diminishing by the minute, tried to prevail. It pressed me to ask myself: Where the hell was all of our baby gear at home?

And then, like a bad flashback, I remembered what probably happened to everything: The Fordeville Garage Sale of 2010. The one where we made half-assed family planning decisions in the driveway at 6am, all in the name of profiteering.

“Should we sell the bouncy seat?”

“I don’t know. Do you think we’ll have another kid?”

“No clue. I haven’t even had coffee yet but someone wants to buy any and all baby gear we have. Should we keep it?”

“Uh, well, what are your thoughts on a third child?”

“Don’t know.”

“Me neither. But I hate clutter. Let’s sell what we can and deal with it another day.”

It can be said that, at times, we lack a certain finesse for long-term planning.

Back in the present day at Target, in front of my shiny red cart, I held my hand over my mouth and gasped audibly at the memory reeling back at me, while staring at 637 varieties of pacifiers in front of me.

What is that in my cart? Oh, well, it’s just a Target circular with the words SPRING BABY SALE all over the front.

I knew then that I was in an epic battle. It was Me Versus Target.

Every fiber of my being told me that, with our third child, we really don’t need much. Not like the first two times when we had checklists and tons of baby items. No, no. This time, there were probably about five things we needed to purchase — and would probably do so en route to the hospital.

But it was abundantly clear that Target was fucking with me. Like a Jedi mind trick on steroids.

Target is bigger than me.

Bigger than all of us.

You can’t play Target, people.

Target always wins.

Surely I don’t need most of this stuff. Although, everything has seemingly become smaller, slicker and more efficient in the four years since I was last pregnant. Wow. And, look, there’s the friendliest Target employee I’ve ever met, standing squarely in front of me. She claimed to be there for assistance but it seemed more like she was trying to prevent my escape.

I was overwhelmed with choices. With pre-emptive retail guilt. And, most importantly, with the aroma of the in-store Starbucks near the check-out lines.

And ultimately, that is where I went — with my impeccable cart and my nearly-personalized circular — to clear my head with a mind-crushing dose of caffeine. I needed a safe haven in which to regroup. I clasped my latte and slowly began to feel like myself again.

In the end, I held my ground. Mostly. My cart wasn’t empty when I left by any stretch, but it wasn’t a newborn supply overdose either.

But we all know that this was just one battle in the bigger war. Target is on to me and they won’t rest until they recoup the cash from my previously returned item.

I see their stalky emails. BABY SALE EXTENDED. BABY SALE SUPER DOUBLE EXTENDED. DO NOT EVEN TRY TO DELETE THIS EMAIL OR UNSUBSCRIBE.

I see their mascot dog with the bullseye on TV and wonder if some rabid version of him is outside my door.

It’s on, Target.

And the sad truth is, I’ll be back.

{Tip: Don’t ever sell all of your baby stuff at a garage sale unless you’ve really thought it through first. Or until you’ve had some coffee. Just saying.}

* * *

In other news, I survived my first published Q&A session as part of my participation in the upcoming production of Listen to Your Mother. As you might expect, my answers are full of deep thoughts and meaningful insights. {You all know better than to believe that, right?}

So, it has been a while since I wrote a new post and here’s the simple reason: Spring Break sucked the life out of me.

Did I travel? No.

Did I take on some huge endeavor? Nope.

I was home, with my two kids. And now I need a 12-day nap or a free evaluation at a sleep clinic.

I figured I’d be back on track and writing something on Monday after I finally dropped my kids back off at school. That went well. Because, upon entering the pre-school parking lot yesterday, I found it odd that I was first in the line for drop-off.

I’m never first. Never.

At that moment, in slow motion, my mind began to piece together the reality of what nary an SUV nor mini van in sight meant. Just then, the sweet school admin poked her head outside and I saw her mouth forming these words — as if out of a horror movie:

“No school today, remember?”

I saw her lips moving but I failed to comprehend what she was saying. Was this my native language? What the hell was she talking about? We just had. a. whole. week. off.

“Really? No school?” 

This was all I could muster. Probably because it’s hard to form words with your bottom jaw on the parking lot.

“Really! It’s Easter Monday! See you tomorrow!” 

She was so chipper that I hated to hate her in that moment. I mean, the injustice of it  all. I’m seven months pregnant and was actually motivated — and dressed — to go work out, against the gravitational pull of both the Earth and my secret Easter candy stash. That’s how desperate I was to break the routine of Spring Break.

“Uhhhhhhh. Right.”

Clearly this shock & awe attack stripped me of any elegant verbal skills.

Easter Monday? Is this like the Boxing Day of Easter? Or Cyber Cadbury Egg Monday? Had I known we were officially prolonging the holiday, I would have used the opportunity to repeat Sunday’s performance of solid dark chocolate for breakfast. Now I am behind by like 7,000 extended holiday calories {but working on it}.

Anyway, I’m 99% sure that now Spring Break is over. And I haven’t felt this wiped out from a week off since, well, Spring Break 1994. That was the year when my parents finally let me go away with a few hundred of my closest senior classmates.

For my first three years of college, my parents decided that they would go on vacation during Spring Break and have me come home, where I was put in charge of my sisters {who were, at the time, in high school and elementary school}. It’s pretty clear, in retrospect, my parents  didn’t realize the implications of this approach:

1) Anywhere between five and 25 of my college pals were “assisting” me in “watching” my siblings on any given night.

2) My friends and I were setting statewide recycling records in the form of empty beer can piles that could be seen from space.

And so, once I was found out, my parents decided that letting me go to the Caribbean for senior year Spring Break couldn’t be any worse than the antics I’d been hosting at their house for the past three years.

Cue Spring Break 1994. Looking back on it, clearly there were some obvious points of comparison to the past ten days I experienced at home with my kids.

• Organ Failure: In 1994, I wasn’t sure my liver would survive Spring Break intact. Last week, I wasn’t sure my ears or mind would survive Spring Break intact.
• Spinning Wheels: In 1994, it was roulette all week. Last week, it was Chutes & Ladders. Over and over.
• Hours of Operation: In 1994, I went to bed at 6am. Last week, I was up at 6am.
• Ear Worms: In 1994, the sounds of Ace of Bass were inescapable and made me insane. Last week, ditto Taylor Swift.
• Wardrobe: In 1994, it was bikinis and tank tops. Last week, yoga pants and maternity wear.
• Nutrition: In 1994, I was basically carb loading. Last week, I was basically carb loading. With a side of carbs.

Lastly, the turnaround of my academic ambitions shouldn’t go unnoticed. In 1994, I do recall missing, uh, a few classes upon my return from Spring Break. And yesterday, there I was, all lined up with my daughter and her backpack — a whole damn day early for the re-opening of the school.

I’ve evolved, I guess.

But I still need a nap to recover from Spring Break.

During pregnancy, there’s a whole host of resources you can seek out about your unborn child’s development. They really run the gamut. You have the casual, woman-to-woman-insider-advice. You have the straightforward medical stuff. And you also have the more alarmist and stiff guides to pregnancy that would have you wearing a Hazmat suit to get a pedicure.

I’ve noticed a disturbing common trend in several of these resources. Not the constant reminders about how your body will morph into an unrecognizable expanding vehicle of life. No, I’m talking about how they measure the size of your unborn child each week by comparing it to a piece of food.

For example, in the last four weeks, my kid has been — respectively — the size of a mango, an ear of corn, an average rutabaga, an English hothouse cucumber and a head a cauliflower.

What the fuck kind of buffet do these writers frequent?

An average rutabaga? Incredibly helpful.

English hothouse cucumber? Where do I find one of these? HOW BIG IS MY KID? I have no idea. And isn’t this starting to sound racy?

I guess I’m not foodie enough to grasp my child’s development. And I suspect I’m not alone.

Also, what kind of marketing jackass decides on these vegetable representations? Am I supposed to be excited about a head of cauliflower?  “Ohmygod, I cannot wait until my little garden salad is born.”

No, my kid sounds shriveled up and smelly. Oh God, there goes my pregnancy gag reflex.

If you want to get my attention about the size of my child each week, try this: Compare him/her to a highly appealing dessert item instead.

Let’s compare models.

Week 23

THEIR WAY

“Your baby is more than 11 inches long and weighs more than a pound (about as much as a large mango).”

MY WAY

 “This week, your child is the size of a magical, zero-calorie double fudge scoop of ice cream wedged between two rich, freshly-baked chocolate, chocolate chip cookies.”

Week 24

THEIR WAY

“Since he’s almost a foot long (picture an ear of corn), he cuts a pretty lean figure at this point.”

MY WAY

“Good news/bad news: You are what you eat! Your adorable kid has taken on the size and shape of that chocolate eclair you doubled down on at the Italian bakery this weekend.”

Week 25

THEIR WAY

“Her weight — a pound and a half — isn’t much more than an average rutabaga, but she’s beginning to exchange her long, lean look for some baby fat.”

MY WAY

“Your sweet unborn baby now resembles a masterfully crafted portion of tiramisu. Have you had your gestational diabetes test yet? Yes, you with the blog over there and the relentless sweet tooth.”

Week 26

THEIR WAY

“He now weighs about a pound and two-thirds and measures 14 inches (an English hothouse cucumber) from head to heel.”

MY WAY

“Holy shit, your kid resembles a pile of churros. If you are not excited about this baby now, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Week 27

THEIR WAY

“This week, your baby weighs almost 2 pounds (like a head of cauliflower) and is about 14 1/2 inches long with her legs extended.”

MY WAY

“This week, your baby is the size of that giant bowl of rice pudding you had a few nights ago. Actually, that’s not true — we all know that bowl of rice pudding was more in line with the size of a toddler.”

Doesn’t my way sound much more relatable? I know it makes me feel more connected to my child. And to my full panel maternity yoga pants.

I think one thing is clear: When I’m looking for a follow-up project to I Just Want to Pee Alone (You’ve bought your copy, right? See how I slid that in there?), I have a clear future in pregnancy guide authorship. Or tri-state dessert reviews.

In the meantime, I have a lot to look forward to. I’m about to hit Week 28 — when my child will weigh as much as a Chinese cabbage. I mean, an extra-large pound cake with chocolate frosting.

Ohmygod, guess what? Turns out that it’s totally possible to type while pinned under a pile of laundry that can be seen from space. I didn’t think it was — I figured I’d suffocate down here — but I’m pretty psyched to have found this air pocket.

That’s pretty much how post-vacation adjustment to real life goes.

I’m not complaining. I’m so glad we got away. But I do think that there is a clear and compelling business opportunity to help people slowly acclimate back to reality. It would entail someone unpacking your bags, cleaning the clothes, reintroducing you to the basics of driving and then cooking a few initial starter meals. For an additional fee, the Deluxe Surrender to Reality Package would also include Hazmat removal of the contents of the fridge and putting the kids through a medically-approved sugar detox program. Homework help would be billed on a per-assignment basis.

Yes, my kids are disoriented back at home and totally confused by the concept of structure. And sleep. And protein.

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{Sorry, I was trapped under the unlaundered socks and briefly lost the oxygen supply to my brain.}

Of course, it’s nice to be back in my own bed. And, hell, I’m lucky that, with this weekend’s snowy temperatures, I barely had to adjust from the Orlando climate we experienced. But still, Disney is a tough place to come down from. I thought I was doing pretty well but then I realized it’s a process and I have to be patient.

It’s important to recognize the signs of Post-Disney Adjustment Disorder:

• You wait outside your house for the monorail to pick you up.
• You continue to attempt to use your room key as currency.
• You call any outings going “off property.”
• You try to use your Fast Pass to get to the front of the school pick-up line.
• You are continually disappointed that your meals are not in the shape of a mouse’s head.
• You look for a “wait time” sign over the grocery store check-out lines.
• You are shell shocked that nobody has wished you a “magical day.”
• You look for the nearest Stroller Parking sign.
• You assume that trash on the floor is going to magically disappear.
• You steel yourself for the inevitable Rascal scooter running over your foot.

But don’t worry, we’re doing OK. I’m back to SUV road rage and excessive profanity, which are comforting signs. And my kids have finally stopped asking which characters are showing up to breakfast. Probably when they realized that Non-Caffeinated Pregnant Mom was other-worldly enough, and possibly material for a horror movie.

If someone could just send about 784 dryer sheets down to me in the basement — along with a plate of Mickey waffles — I’ll be all set.

So we’re back from Florida. I have some highlights to share with you, but not just yet. For now, let me just say this: If you’re ever concerned about global warming and want a surefire way to lower your hometown’s average temperature by 20 degrees or so, give me a call. My family and I will bring a localized Arctic Blast right to you. Just a little short-term cold pattern to last the length of our stay. Really, give us a try.

But in the meantime, I have to tell you that clearly I should go away more often. Because crazy exciting things happened while I was gone.

First, I got a fabulous phone call. It happened while I waiting in an endless line to have my kids meet Ariel. Or maybe it was my husband who really wanted to meet Ariel. Whatever. The point is that this call delivered the great news that I’ve been selected to join this year’s New York cast of Listen to Your Mother.

How exciting is that? I auditioned a few weeks ago and basically chalked it up to a good experience, since I was pretty sure they didn’t want to cast someone who looked like she might vomit from nervousness. Not exactly a crowd-pleasing vibe.

But, somehow, I was selected. I went to my first rehearsal last night and I’m so thrilled to be joining this fabulous group of writers. And while I’m perfectly comfortable on my couch in my yoga pants behind the keyboard, reading my work in front of a live audience is going to be a first for me. I will probably pass out. Or hyperventilate. Or go into labor {since the show is just a few weeks shy of my due date}. If you want to see for yourself how this pans out, you can buy your tickets here.

Something else equally exciting happened while I was freezing in Florida and wondering why Ariel was only wearing a seashell bra in a borderline-frost climate.

I had my writing published.

In a book.

This book.

The one that is, as I type this, sitting at #1 in the Amazon Humor/Parenting & Families category and #4 in Overall Humor.

{For the record, that’s ahead of Mindy Kaling and Chelsea Handler’s books. Now we have to set our sights on knocking Sarah Silverman and Tina Fey out of the #1 and #2 spots.}

Wait. What?

Yes. The amazing powerhouse Jen of People I Want to Punch in the Throat gathered 30+ bloggers for an anthology of fabulous parenting essays.

Here’s a full list of my hilarious partners in crime:

Insane in the Mom Brain
The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva
Baby Sideburns
Rants From Mommyland
You Know it Happens at Your House Too
The Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess
My Life and Kids
Bad Parenting Moments
Let Me Start By Saying
Frugalista Blog
Suburban Snapshots
Ninja Mom
Four Plus an Angel
Honest Mom
Binkies and Briefcases
Naps Happen
Kelley’s Break Room
Toulouse & Tonic
HouseTalkN
Hollow Tree Ventures
Snarkfest
Mom’s New Stage
Nurse Mommy Laughs
The Dose of Reality
The Mom of the Year
Life on Peanut Layne
Momaical
Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine
Confessions of a Cornfed Girl
I Love Them Most When They’re Sleeping
Random Handprints
RachRiot
You’re My Favorite Today
Funny is Family
My Real Life

Again, I’m so thrilled to be included.  These ladies are funny and irreverent and setting the blogosphere on fire.

What’s that, you ask? Where can you buy this book? How can you help us outsell Tina Fey and Sarah Silverman?

Ah, I happen to have that information handy.

For the Kindle version, you can find it here.

iTunes folks, head over here.

Old school print copy, here you go.

I mean, you can’t expect me to tell you about Disney World after all that, right? Because there clearly aren’t enough Mickey waffles on Walt Disney’s personal grill to compete with this other news right now. I am still waiting for it to sink in myself.

Then we can go back to half-nude Ariel and the like.