October 5th

Tomorrow is October 5th. This is a weird day for me; it was a strange day last year, but in a different way.

The first time I got pregnant, I took a test on a lark. It was our first month trying and I didn't expect the little stick to turn positive. But it did. It was faint, but definitely there, popping up almost immediately to my surprise/horror/bliss. I didn't tell PS. I was scared to for some reason; I wanted to wait until the next day, after I took another test, one with a darker line.

We went out that night. Late as usual, PS drove like a maniac to try and make the movie we were going to see. I wanted to tell him to slow down, that I was carrying something precious, but I didn't. I sat through a late dinner with friends, conscious not to order my usual coffee. I got a hot chocolate and sipped, my secret making the drink all the more delicious.

The next morning, I woke early (this was back in the pre-baby days, so early meant nine a.m. Now, obviously, that is what we consider sleeping in) and crept downstairs like a kid on Christmas morning. The line was much darker this time. There was no denying it - I was pregnant.

I sat on the couch, heart racing, trying to figure out the best way to tell PS. I wasn't sure what his reaction would be - he had barely gotten used to the idea of us trying to conceive; we'd been told by my stupid OB that it might take us years to get pregnant. My body had apparently pulled a fast one on us. Literally and figuratively.

Inspiration struck. I looked online and searched to see what an embryo looked like at about 4 weeks pregnant (if you're wondering, the answer is not much). I found a good image of what was inside me, printed it out, and wrote the following:

Daddy,

I may not look like much right now, but I hope that by Oct. 5th of next year, I'll be a whole lot cuter.

Love,

Your kid

I slipped it onto his computer screen - the first place he always visited in the morning, sometimes even before the bathroom - and waited.

PS woke up, went into the office, and I pretended to sleep. My heart was beating so loudly that I imagined my poor little embie feeling like she was at a Metallica concert.

After a few long moments, he walked back in the room holding the sheet of paper. "Is this serious?" he said, his face a bit white.

"Yeah," I said.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

We looked at each other. There was fear in his eyes, as I'm sure there were in mine. But it was happy fear, if that is possible. And then we went downstairs and ate a bagel.

That baby never happened. I thought about her a lot (I felt sure it was a girl) last year, but Bug was on his way, and I felt like I was cheating on them both by feeling any particular way about things. And now that Bug is Bug, and not just a concept or a foreign creature kicking away at my insides, I feel even stranger and sadder about this unknown, lost little creature. I wouldn't have Bug if that life had happened. But I still loved her. I missed her for so long. And I want to honor that in some way. I don't want to think about the loss itself or rehash all that negativity. Especially as I could not imagine a happier ending than my little perfect Bug, asleep in his crib upstairs.

So I just think about that morning, a lifetime ago, when Oct. 5 had a mystical, frightening, thrilling meaning. That vivid, visceral memory. That memory is worth remembering.

It may not be an Oscar, but...

She may not be as prestigious as Emmy, Oscar or Tony, but the Recovering Actress has garnered at least one award - an Honest Scrap.


According to my friend Meghan, to whom I owe the honor of being nominated:

"This award is given to blogs that write honestly and from the depth of their soul, according to her blog.


There are a couple of rules to accepting the award. Firstly is to pass the award on to 7 other bloggers, and secondly to list 10 honest and hopefully interesting things about yourself."

Aw, man, now I have to pick 7 people to nominate?? That is a lot of pressure. Honestly, a few months ago, I probably wouldn't have known seven other bloggers. But this blogosphere thing is powerful. Once you enter its tangled web, you start "meeting" other likeminded individuals. Well, meeting isn't really the right word; while some of the following bloggers are friends of mine in the flesh, others I only know through their words. Still, it's odd how reading a few blog entries can make you feel instantly, powerfully connected to certain individuals. Makes me wonder how we all survived without blogs. Do people really get lonely anymore? Seems that no matter what ails you, there's someone out there who gets it. Get me?

Anyway, enough rambling. My Honest Scrap nominations are....(drumroll, drumroll....):

1. Katie, of K-Tell
2. Mrs. Satto, of I Want a Station Wagon
3. Nova, of One of the Lucky Ones
4. Newt, of My Dear Gherkin
5. The Not Drowning Mother, of Not Drowning, Mothering
6. EVF, of The Mama's Experience Initiative
7. Bonnie, of Just Peachy Baby Blog

And an honorary Scrap goes to Brooke of Mommy in Chief, whose blog I love but who was already nominated by the same lovely lady who nominated me, and I'm not sure you're supposed to double-nominate.

All these blogs are so much better than mine, it's ridiculous. So check 'em out. Go on, now.

And now, to fulfill my contractual obligations for this award, 10 (somewhat) interesting and honest things about The Recovering Actress:

1. My favorite comfort food dish is rice and ketchup. You can stop gagging now. It's actually quite good, despite what PS will tell you (for the record, the man has never tried said dish; I'm only allowed to make it when he is out of town or misses dinner because of a shoot). The trick is to use arborio or sushi rice, so you get a nice gummy texture. Add some Heinz and some fat free cheese and viola. That chick in Julie and Julia has nothing on me.

2. I have another blog. But I'm not telling what it is.

3. I lived in London for 3 separate summers throughout high school and college and 6 months straight during college, all to study theater. I wanted to be in the Royal Shakespeare Company. Sadly, these days, I don't think I could handle iambic pentameter better than your average 10th grader.

4. I love washing dishes. I find it incredibly therapeutic. Needless to say, my husband takes full advantage of this.

5. I get sick about 10 times a year. Especially when I go on airplanes. I should probably wear one of those SARS masks but I don't to look like a dork.

6. I hate composing lists like this. I can never think of anything that interesting about myself. Instead I just think of the things I would tell someone in an informational interview. Like when they ask you what your biggest flaw is and you say "Oh, I guess you could say my biggest flaw is that I am such a perfectionist..."

7. I am "challenged" when it come to spacial relations. This makes parking and driving a bit hazardous for me. Or, to be honest (as that is the point of this arduous exercise), it is hazardous for those parked next to me or driving near me.

8. I am addicted to Carmex. Like really addicted, not like joking-about-my-addiction-to-acting addicted. If I leave the house and realize I don't have a tube on me I break out in a cold sweat. When this happens, I need to drive to the closest drugstore and replenish my stash. And I sometimes drive haphazardly when my lips feel chapped. See above, Item #7.

9. I often worry that I am lacking any creativity or talent and missed my true calling as an accountant. Then I remember that I was in Remedial Math for most of high school. So that makes me feel better about not going down that road.

10. Until I had my son, I honestly didn't think I could ever love a baby as much as my dog.

And I will leave you with that. Good night and good luck.

A Parent is Born

Around the end of my first trimester, I was in the midst of my daily scouring-the-casting-notices ritual when I saw it: a posting about a reality web series seeking newly pregnant women. Heart racing, I clicked "submit", sending my photo and resume through the Interweb and into the hands of some unknown casting director who would now know about my pregnancy before some of my closest friends.

Why did I do it? I was never a fan of reality television; I felt it had essentially ruined the entertainment industry, stealing precious jobs away from struggling actors and bringing the likes of Speidi into the public eye. (And to that public, I say, really? Speidi? Really?) Plus, I was uncomfortable with being myself in front of cameras. Give me a script, no problem; but to reveal my often pitiful life to a bunch of people who could edit and manipulate it in any way they chose? No thank you.

Then there was the fact that I wasn't out of my first trimester yet. So much could still go wrong. I'd effectively be inviting fate to smack me upside the head.

But still, for some bizarre psychological reason I will probably never decipher, I submitted.

Several phone calls, video submissions and interviews later, we were chosen to be the couple featured in a new series for Pampers, called A Parent is Born. For better or worse, we welcomed (well, welcomed may not be the best word; PS does not share my love of being in front of the camera) a crew into our lives for the final 5 months of our pregnancy.

There were times when I didn't want them around. Like when I was puffy and bloated and massive at the "maternity photo shoot" they'd scheduled. Or when I was in the middle of my baby shower and was pulled aside to do an interview. Or the day after my mom went into emergency surgery and we had to film a "labor class" episode. And it was definitely not the most pleasant thing in the world to have a camera in my face during some relatively intense contractions.

But in the end, the series saved me.

They were there at my 18-week ultrasound, causing enough commotion to drive away the fear knawing at my insides. An actress to the end, I put on a brave and happy face when the doctor put his magic wand to my belly, despite the fact that I felt sure there would be no heartbeat. But something weird happened - in the midst of the act, I started believing it. Stanislavsky would be so proud.

They were there to force me into taking photos when I felt absolutely disgusting, providing me with the only evidence (and beautiful evidence, at that) I have that my son was once inside of my belly.

They were there to distract me when I was worried my mom would not only miss my baby's birth, but miss his entire life.

They were there to record the day that my child came into the world, and to record all the craziness leading up to that day, so that I will never forget the journey PS and I took to get him here.

Most importantly, they were there to force me to embrace my pregnancy, to believe that it might actually result in a healthy child. Would I have been able to do that without a camera in my face? Maybe.

But I certainly wouldn't have looked as good doing it as those editors made me to look.

Alanis would have loved this...

One thing you'll learn about me if you keep reading this blog is that there is little I am unwilling to do for money. Yes, dear Bloggie, the Recovering Actress is indeed a whore. (Incidentally... every time I see that word, I hear it pronounced in my mind as hoooo-wer. You can thank one of my worthless college boyfriends for that. He thought it was hilarious to say "hoooo-wer". He also didn't shower very often. I didn't have great taste in men in my youth.)

Not a REAL whore. I just don't think there's anything wrong with selling out. Probably why I didn't fit in very well at drama school. Most of my peers would scoff at the thought of earning a living through commercials or soaps. Dressed in black, they would sigh a Chekhovian sigh and explain that this would "bastardize their art". Meanwhile, I was frantically reading books with titles like How to Market Yourself as an Actor and looking longingly at the girls on my television hawking tampons. (My biggest regret in life is never getting to be the Tampax Girl. I was *this* close to being a Clean 'N Clear girl, but Tampax? No such luck.)

I loved theater. Totally, head over heels in love. So why did I move to LA to pursue a career in television and movies? Because there is no money in theater. Duh.

Therefore, Bloggie, you should not be surprised to see the ads that suddenly appear to the lefthand side of you. Of course I signed up for AdSense. Now that I am a writer, I need to find the literary equivalent of acting in soaps. If I can make a few bucks while I blog, what's the harm? Bug needs a college fund, after all.

But here's the rub: I think the universe is punishing me for my greed.

The ads on the left are all mommy-related, for obvious reasons. However, nearly all of them are for breastfeeding supplies, breastfeeding support, and so on.

As it is clearly stated in a previous post ("Nursing Old Wounds"), my relationship with breastfeeding is rather dysfunctional. The last thing I'd want to do is alienate any other formula-feeding moms who come to this blog, as we get innundated with breast-is-best messages everywhere we turn, especially parenting sites. And do you think these advertisers would appreciate the fact that I'm writing a book questioning society's recent love affair with nursing?

Irony. Gotta love it.

Mommyproofing

Bug has become a creepy-crawly bug. Good times.

True, his frustration level (which has always been at Def-Con 5; my child is the only one I know of who started throwing full-on tantrums at the tender age of 2 weeks) has diminished considerably since he's achieved mobility. But MY frustration level has increased exponentially.

I watch him closely. Really, I do. You wouldn't think a 30-inch long human could cover great distances in a matter of seconds, but he can, and he does. Great distances that are somehow always hazardous. My house has become one treacherous playground for a baby. Dog food bowl? Delicious. Dog's water bowl? A perfect wading pool. Sharp edge on my lower kitchen cabinet that they make no childproofing aid to fit? Great place to bang one's head.

So, we made trips to Home Depot, Babies R Us, some overpriced specialty stores. PS spent hours setting up various safety devices to protect our offspring's precious fingers, limbs and gorgeous kissable head. We thought we had it covered.

But no matter what we do, he finds a way around it.

I'm beginning to think that I'm the one who needs proofing. I mean hell, I at least need proof that I'm not abusing my kid, since he's walking around with several juicy battle scars. Today he managed to get a rather Harry Potter-esque lightening bolt cut on his upper forehead (a wound sustained while attempting to chase my poor bewildered dog over the barricade I'd set up around said dog's food). But I'm not Voldemort, I'm his mom, and I should protect him from harm.

Problem is... I am a klutz. Accident prone. If there's a ball or other piece of sporting equipment within a yard radius of me, I will be hit in the head. (PS didn't believe me when I informed him of this at the start of our relationship, until one day we were walking hand in hand in the park when I was conked in the noggin with an Ultimate Frisbee.) We can't buy nice glassware in our house because inevitably, I will break it. And I once broke my ankle running for chocolate during intermission of a play.

What does this have to do with Bug? Well, not that I am one of those women who sees her child as an extension of herself (god help us all... the last thing this world needs is another me), but at this point, when Bug hurts, I hurt. When he falls, I fail. Following this logic, anything that happens to him is directly related to me. His poor little fate is interlocked with Calamity Jane.

The economy isn't good enough for us to sell our current house, but if we could... I would move to a place with no stairs. No sharp corners.

Come to think of it... I wonder if any abandoned mental institutions are on the market? Padded walls sound awfully appealing right about now.

An expensive side effect of aging

Today, I got my first traffic violation ticket. EVER.

Now, this is not to say that I've never gotten stopped for traffic violations. I was on a first-name basis with several Chicago and LA cops. But I always managed to talk my way out of an actual citation. Using a potent combination of deference, puppy dog eyes, and youthful flirtation, I would end most traffic stops with a wink and smile rather than a hefty fine or traffic court.

This was pre-baby, pre-thirties, however. Somehow my big doe eyes don't work as well surrounded by crows feet and wrinkles, or accented by the bags that permanently reside there from months of crappy sleep. Youthful flirtation just looks pitiful when you're wearing a t-shirt splattered with spit-up and unflattering jeans. I tried the deference, but I was actually driving home from a dentist appointment where I'd gotten three cavities filled, so the novocaine made me sound like I had a speech impediment (plus I may have been drooling a bit), and I think the cop was too busy trying to discern if I was an escaped mental patient to even listen to my apologetic ranting.

Needless to say, I am now proud owner of a court date and the promise of online traffic school. PS got himself a speeding ticket recently, and he's been suffering through the aforementioned traffic school. I've been making fun of him. A lot. Payback is a bitch, I guess.

If the point of traffic citations is to teach the driver a lesson, then my officer can consider his job well done. I have indeed learned a lesson, although it's not what my ticket says ("failure to disobey signs" - yep, it wasn't even something sexy like speeding. I was pulled over in my mommobile for going straight where it said "right turn only"). My lesson is this: find some other way to get out of tickets. Looks don't do it anymore, so it's time to try some other tactic. Maybe Bug? I bet if he had been in the car I would've gotten out of it. No one can resist a cute baby. Or a cute crying baby.

I am not above using my child as a way to get out of tickets. So sue me. Or at least cite me. Sigh.

Melon. Choly.

I'm craving melon today. Probably because it is farking HOT in Los Angeles. Like, inner thighs sticking together, mascara melting, sweat soaking those little baby hairs on the back of your neck HOT. And when it gets this hot, all I want to eat is cool, hydrating, sweet melon.

But instead, I ate greasy Mexican food.

Now I feel sick, which is not helping my massive attack of Sunday Night Blues. These are a leftover affliction from years of putting off homework until the last possible moment. Do you remember how awful Sunday night felt in high school? So much went down on the weekends - relationships were forged, explored and broken in those blissful, crazily-full 48 hours. Then Sunday evening would creep up on you with its bitter aftertaste, forcing you to finish that paper or cram for your stupid math test.

For some reason, Sunday nights have kept on casting their pall on my mood, despite me being over 30 and years away from any kind of schoolwork. They just bum me out.

If I'm being completely honest with myself, though, these nasty feelings are coming from a deeper place than my stomach.

Because here's the truth: I'm lonely.

This is partly geographical. My oldest and dearest friends are mostly on the east coast and in Chicago. But I'm used to that. It's the newer friends I'm worrying about these days, the ones I've made since The Bug came onto the scene.

Miles don't matter when it comes to friendship. I think the great divide, the true distance, is parenthood.

Those with kids, those without kids. Those who are working parents, and those who stay home. Those who push, those who sit back and let their kids develop in their own time. Those who participate in certain activities, those who choose others. Those who breastfeed, those whose life's work is a book which could be interpreted as belittling their choice to do so (even though I swear that is in no way my intention). These things divide us.

I've always been somewhat of an introvert, a trait that years of acting training has helped me hide. One on one, you'd never know it; but put me in a group, especially a group of my peers, and I immediately feel the urge to flee. Sometimes if I can't separate physically, I separate emotionally - my faithful defense mechanism. If I prove myself "different" or "other" then it will be no surprise (read: it will hurt less) when I'm rejected from whatever pseudo-sorority I'm dealing with.

At this point in my life, the pseudo-sorority is the local mommy circuit, which is really just high school all over again. Don't get me wrong, I really respect and like many of these women. I just don't know where I fit in. I've always had trouble with female friendship; I hate the cliquey nature that seems inherent to any gaggle of women, whether it be 4th graders or new moms. But I need a network, a community, of some sort. Because, the sad, Sunday fact is, I am lonely.

Or maybe it's just the Mexican food talking. Tal vez?