It may be self-indulgent, but I’m taking a week off in celebration of my birthday (May 2). Consequently, there’s no long blog to update you on anything baby-related. Actually, the only baby-related news is the fact that 36 years ago I was a baby. Who knew I was a future lover of sarcasm, wine, tattoos, and Scrabble? Who guessed I’d be an actress, singer/songwriter, avid reader, amateur photographer, vocabulary maven and blog writer? But most importantly, who imagined I’d eventually be a devoted wife and mommy? I suppose at some point, I was certain of that fact, which is why I celebrated my 36 years on this planet in the best way possible… with my husband and baby girl. And we are still celebrating, so this week’s post is less loquacious than normal. (But maybe that’s a good thing.) In the meantime, I’ve included a photo from last night’s birthday dinner!
Until next time… Peace, Love, and Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
Don’t let the title of this week’s post fool you. Consider it my very belated April Fool’s Day joke. Though Mayim Bialik and I keep in touch, I have no fabulous news of a very special Blossom and Six reunion any time soon. That said, I thought you might appreciate this hilarious pseudo-reunion that took place between me and someone else dressed as Blossom. What does this post have to do with motherhood, you ask? Well, we just might talk about it in the interview. Check out my discussion with Geeking Out‘s Kerri Doherty!
Click here to see my interview on Geeking Out!
And if you’re a fan of the show Girls, or even if you aren’t, check out our fun parody of it!
Click here to see our Girls meets Blossom parody, and witness me wearing one of my fabulously awful 90′s hats that I swore I’d never wear again!
Until next time… Peace, Love, and Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
PPS. Follow Kerri on Twitter too. She’s damn funny!
Some toys bite the dust, and Gray enjoys being in the middle of a Pug sandwich
Fair warning: This blog post is rife with pun and double entendre. It was just too easy…
My life is going to the dogs. Lately there have been some doggone frustrating moments in our house, so I’d like to “paws” and contemplate the fact that I live with five pups and a baby. (I’ve excluded my husband from this equation, since he is capable of doing laundry and cleaning up his own messes… for the most part.) I know it sounds like a reality show waiting to happen, and many of you are probably thinking, “Five dogs? What the hell is she thinking?!” Well, throw me a bone here, folks. Brad and I are animal lovers through and through, and we’ve rescued the majority of our little four-legged friends. As my husband says, “We have too much love to give, not to take in a few strays that need it.” I couldn’t agree more, though I admit it gets “ruff” from time to time. For example, there was a recent no good, very bad day during which I wound up cleaning dog vomit off our couch, while Gray simultaneously puked all over my sweater. It was no walk in the park, I promise you. I’m used to being constantly hounded by both progeny and pooch, since someone is always asking to be let out, be fed, have nap time, have play time, get water, get affection, or be left alone to slobber all over the floor. Since Gray is teething, that last one actually works surprisingly well for both baby and fur-baby… But I digress. While I cherish every moment of being mommy to all of my kids, there are some hairy moments too. Which leads me to…
I have a bone to pick. Recently, the dogs have been stealthily stealing Gray’s toys and taking them out one by one. I have my very own pillaging pups. For some odd reason, they tend to chew stuffed animal feet to bits. (Is there a doggie psychiatrist for that?) Last week, one of our hellions, who shall remain nameless, perfected her bath toy thievery. She managed to nab two out of three of Gray’s favorite tub time friends, which I feel really bad about. In fact, I’m finding that I’m more sentimental about floatable trinkets than I ought to be. Let’s be honest, they are silly little plastic pieces that are nothing to bark about, right? But I feel like I’ve failed my kid in some way, by not protecting her personal property. Each time I discover a half eaten rubber ducky in the hallway, I am filled with the sense that I’ve let my daughter down just a tiny bit. (You know, because nine-month olds are so judgmental…) While I tend to refer to my dogs in a human capacity, I realize they don’t have human thoughts. They aren’t biding their time plotting, “That little girl is taking over our mommy. Let’s jack up her stuff!” I know they have animal instincts, so a squeaky toy is impossible to resist. I also realize that there’s no way for the dogs to decipher ownership; any item that winds up in their path is pretty much fair game. Not to mention, Gray is hurling her playthings on the floor with such frequency it’s virtually impossible for me to keep up, so every room contains an adventure waiting to happen. Still, I hate that this has meant the demise of the poor tub toys. Oh, and did I mention the infamous Wubbanub monkey pacifier was massacred in a similar fashion? Now that was a serious fatality. We are still reeling from the tragedy. In fact, let’s take a moment of silence on Mr. Monkey’s behalf.
As if pacifier robbery weren’t enough, here’s another “tail” of woe for you. My husband keeps coming home to find our bathroom trash strewn across our entire downstairs. Since I spend the majority of the day upstairs with all of our rascals, and I keep very close tabs on them, we can’t figure out who the culprit is. I should probably note that I also keep our stairwell door shut, and there’s no other access. Either one of my pups has grown opposable thumbs, or I own Houdini’s canine reincarnate. I’ll leave you to speculate.
In the past, our Basset Hound (Mia) has been largely to blame for any destruction; she is our resident mischief-maker and rabble-rouser. We’ve lost many personal items to her villainous tactics. This includes, but is not limited to, baseball caps, underwear, and a headlamp. Yes, a headlamp. As in: a light which one wears on one’s forehead. Are you envisioning us spelunking through our kitchen yet? (Chalk this one up to my husband’s affinity for anything that illuminates, and imagine my reaction the first time he came around the corner sporting that wonderful gem… I nearly lost my lunch.) The death of the headlamp involves a funny story, however, which almost makes it worth having had the thing in the first place. One day, I heard a constant clicking noise that I’d never noticed before. After a few years of being in our home, I’m relatively familiar with the typical creaks and groans. This sound was definitely out of place, so I set off to sniff out the source. I immediately went to the kitchen to be sure our refrigerator wasn’t about to fall apart. Nope, all good. I listened for the air conditioning unit, in case it wasn’t engaging properly. That wasn’t it either. Suddenly, the clicking was accompanied by faint barking noises. I crept into the living room and discovered Mia coveting the (now mangled) headlamp; she was turning the light on and off with her nose. Each time her attempts were successful, she barked at it warily. She looked up at me guiltily, and I howled with laughter. That girl is a whole new breed of crazy.
Mia and the infamous headlamp!
Despite all of the recent doggie drama and disobedience, I couldn’t be happier that Gray is growing up with so much love around her. The affection of a pet is something I think every child should experience, if at all possible. Watching my daughter cuddle on the couch with all of our Pugs makes me forget every torn up pillow, muddy paw print, and wayward dog hair tumbleweed. I’ll leave you with this… Giving unconditional love is our eternal dogma.
Until next time… Peace, Love, and Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
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5 Things My Daughter has taught me in the last few weeks. Wow, so here I am reading that I’m not as abnormal as I’ve always thought I was! What I am referencing is that you too, cry over grown out of baby clothes. I would hold onto those little onsies or pink striped zebra covered sleepers for weeks after my daughter outgrew them. It was actually physically painful to donate them away! Ahhh. I’m normal. Or …maybe we’re both weird?
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Five months ago, I experienced an astounding scenario that I’ve wanted to share with you ever since. I thought about posting the story when it first happened, but time got away from me. I suppose I got caught up in seasonal posts about the autumnal landscape, comfort food recipes, and the holidays, and I just never took a moment to circle back. Now, several months later, I think it’s high time we laugh about it together.
Because this story has been brewing for a while now, it has already made the rounds amongst my family and friends. People have had varied reactions to hearing it, which tend to range from shock, to anger, to fits of giggling. I’ve felt all three at one time or another, and I am now comfortably resting in the “laughter is the best medicine” category. Suffice it to say, this is one of those experiences I will not soon forget. Without further ado, here’s my tale of a very “unique” doctor’s visit…
Back in September of last year, when Gray had just turned four months old, I decided it was a good time to find a primary physician for myself. Sure, I’ve been to the doctor a zillion times in the last year. Hell, I even went twice a week for ultrasounds in the months leading up to Gray’s birth. In fact, I’ve been such a staple at the Chiropractor and OB-Gyn offices, they are thinking of giving me my own parking space. That said, I’d not seen a primary care physician in over seven years. I don’t get sick often (except, apparently, this past January…), and when I do, I generally feel it will run its course. However, after having Gray, my husband and I came to the conclusion that we should have all of our medical practices in place, in case of an emergency. We asked for recommendations, and we chose a place we felt was appropriate. It was still fairly new for me to be getting out of the house much at that time, since Gray was still quite young yet, but I packed us both into the car and drove over for my first check up. I guess this is a good time to interject and say: I gained 40 pounds during my pregnancy. You may or may not find that to be too much, and I won’t defend it either way. Everyone is different, and I was quite happy and comfortable with my pregnancy weight. (Granted, I was equally happy and comfortable when the weight started to come off. It’s amazing what breast feeding can do to shed the pounds!) But back to the story… So I got to the doctor’s office, and they handed me a mountain of forms to fill out. You’d have thought I was buying a house. And, as we mothers know, it’s so easy to handle paperwork with an infant in your arms, isn’t it? But I digress. After spending a lifetime answering questions about illnesses and symptoms I never knew existed (and never wanted to), I was brought back to the nurse’s station. A tiny woman in her late 60’s took me over to the scale and measuring chart. Height first. I removed my shoes and stood with my back to the wall. God bless this lady– she was shorter than I am, and had trouble reaching around me to move the sliding marker into place above my head. As I stepped away, so she could read the chart, she inadvertently dropped the marker by an inch and declared me 4 ft. 11. Now, I’m no doctor, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t shrink during pregnancy. The poor lady needed to get a step stool. Or better glasses. In reality, and according to every doctor I’ve ever seen before, I’m somewhere between 5 ft. and 5 ft.1. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but when you’re short, an inch makes a significant difference. Knowing the nurse’s mistake, but not wanting to point a finger, I asked if she wouldn’t mind measuring me again. Of course, the same damn thing happened the second time around. I watched her accidentally readjust the gauge as she struggled to peer at the results. This time, however, her hand didn’t move quite as much. She conceded half an inch more, and declared me 4 ft. 11 ½. I’d like to think the fact that I’d suddenly grown half an inch taller in the last thirty seconds might have given her pause, but such was not the case. I opted to leave well enough alone and allow her to continue thinking I’m shorter than I am. I mean, what harm can that do, right? It’s not like I was at basketball tryouts, or trying to get a contract with Ford Modeling Agency. Perhaps she wanted company in her Napoleonic stature. Regardless, it was time to be weighed. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the scale… drumroll, please… 130! I was silently jumping for joy. In the four months after giving birth, I’d managed to lose 37 pounds! I was pleasantly surprised and pretty darn proud of myself. My pride and I followed the little nurse back into the exam room. She took a seat at her computer, and then we spent the next ten minutes verbally addressing every question I’d already answered on the aforementioned waiting room forms. Don’t you just love that? If I’ve already answered the questions on paper, why do I need to answer them again while you type them in? Are you afraid I lied the first time around? Regardless, we eventually got down to the height and weight section of the questionnaire, and she turned to address me. Her expression was abruptly solemn, and I started to get nervous. “You’re four foot eleven,” she stated dryly. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Outwardly, I nodded in mock agreement. “And you’re one hundred and thirty pounds,” she finished. “Ok,” I mumbled in confusion. “Is there a problem?” And her next words blew me away. “I’m obligated, by law, to tell you you’re obese.” Um… Excuse me? I stared at her with a dumbfounded look on my face, and then I started laughing awkwardly. So much for that pride. “See that little girl down there in the infant carrier?” I asked. “I just gave birth to her four months ago, and I haven’t lost all of my pregnancy weight yet.” “Yes, you look great,” my elfin friend responded. “But I’m obligated to tell you you’re obese. Would you like some brochures on that?” Brochures??? Is this lady serious? In all honesty, I’m just weird and dark enough that I immediately found the situation to be hilarious… but only because it was happening to me. If another woman had been standing in my place, I would have been profoundly angry on her behalf. I immediately thought of friends who have experienced post-partum depression, or battled weight insecurities. Not to mention, if I were four months pregnant, would she have had the audacity to say the same thing to me? I thought for a moment and asked the nurse an honest question. “How overweight am I?” She checked the chart and answered, “Point one.” I looked at her incredulously. “Let me get this straight, I’m only point one over the standard weight measurement for my height?” (In other words, if she’d measured my height properly, I wouldn’t have this story to tell…) “Yes,” she replied simply. “Are you sure you don’t want those brochures?” I smiled in a way that I reserve for overzealous mimes and lecherous men at bars. “No thank you,” I said. “I think I can handle it on my own.”
Yep. Welcome to the wonderful world of absurdity.
Until next time… Peace, Love, and Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. In retrospect, I’m slightly sad about turning those brochures down. They would have been the cherry on top of this blog post.
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
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This was too hilarious!!! I too am short. I have been 5’2″ since I was 12! I had a similar experience last Friday only the nurse made me 5’2 1/2″ I magically grew when I haven’t grown in the last 20 years! I look forward to your blog every week. I have an almost 9 month old (as well as a 5 & 7 year old) and love following along with you. Keep up the great work!
PS good luck on that 0.1 lb. I’m sure it will be SO hard. LOL!
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Ooo I’m both furious on your behalf and amused at the absolute sillyness! Honestly, the world has gone mad hasn’t it. I’m another short one here, just 5ft (or even less according to my hilarious husband!) so I know how important those inches can be. And so very thankful that they don’t routinely weigh at the doctors here
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Obligated by law? Excuse me? I’ve been obese for quite awhile (again, also, just by points!) and never been told “by law” by a doctor that I am obese! In fact, most have never mentioned a dang thing about my weight, minus the fertility office who told me if we had needed to (and we didn’t) go down the route of IVF that I needed to be under a certain BMI and told me where I was in comparison to that goal.
Again, I’m glad that you are logical and smart and didn’t flip out on the woman, but she sort-of deserves to be flipped out on if she has that poor of bedside manner with her patients.
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Don’t feel bad. The same thing happened to me with the height thing. I am 5’8 but the nurse let the thing fall and then just guessed that I was 5’4. I just laughed it off until later when the Dr gave me three shots in my arm. He then proceeded to smack me right on the arm in the same spot like ‘there you go kid’ and then he was surprised that my arm was gushing blood. I didn’t go to med school but I do know that poking holes in someone makes them bleed.
So far, 2013 has handed me a half empty glass, and I can’t wait to fill it. No, that isn’t my way of saying I’m resolving to drink more. Suffice it to say the start of the year has been less than satisfactory, bringing some serious trials and tribulations along with it… More than I can easily digest. In fact, January has been downright bitter and abysmal; a jagged little pill.
After a miserable cold that plagued week one, I figured I’d gotten the obligatory winter illness out of the way. I was convinced we were headed for greener pastures. Unfortunately, Gray developed the sniffles in week two, and a neighbor’s (mostly dead) tree fell on our house, causing quite a commotion. It scared the you-know-what out of Gray and I, and the pups scattered like candy from a busted piñata. We were resting on the couch in our TV room, nursing our congestion, when the splintering explosion occurred. The sound was so deafening, I couldn’t even tell where it was coming from. That may have been the most frightening part of the ordeal, since I couldn’t pinpoint where to run in order to get the baby out of harm’s way. Scary, yes, but I admit we were blessed on several levels. Case in point: I’d just brought the dogs in from outside, and the plummeting wood landed exactly where they’d been congregating a few moments before. I’m incredibly relieved to say they are all safe. I’m grateful Gray and I are in one piece too… the trunk struck the roof directly above where we were sitting, but landed in such a way that it avoided breaking through the window next to us. It slid until it reached our bathroom window instead. The tree narrowly missed taking out our gas main as well, which could have been a serious issue. Ultimately, it took part of our roof, a section of fence, our bathroom window, a chunk of our air conditioning unit, and my nerves down with it. I now dream about projectile branches and will clearly never pursue a career as an arborist. But it could have been worse, so I’m thanking my proverbial lucky stars. As a side note, the law states that neighbors aren’t responsible for trees that fall and damage (or cause injury on) your property, unless you’ve previously discussed the removal of said tree. Ugh. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make a habit of touring my neighbor’s lawn, and telling him how to handle his yard work. It’s pretty disappointing to be forced to make an insurance claim, and dish out our deductible, for something that could have been avoided had our neighbor taken better care of his trees. Please let this be a lesson to you all. If you are concerned about a tree hovering too close to your house, or you fear it might be dead or diseased, I encourage you to write a (friendly) letter to your neighbor about it. Have the letter delivered via certified mail, and keep a copy for your records. That way, if anything happens, you can prove they neglected to act upon your request. Sadly, the onus is on you, and that’s the only recourse you might have… which we learned the hard way!
Once we got past the tree debacle, I thought we were in the clear. I really did. But week three gifted me with an upper respiratory infection and Mastitis. Mastitis! Seriously? I’ve been breast feeding for eight months already, and I get Mastitis now? Evidently my immune system is loudly declaring its incompetence. That double whammy had me bedridden for a week. I’m still getting over it all, and I’m hacking like a 90-year old smoker with a cat infestation. Mastitis can present as flu-like symptoms, so I spent a week battling a high fever, aches, chills, vomiting, you name it. Miss Gray was as accommodating as she could be, but let’s be honest… at eight months old, it’s tough to lie on a couch for days on end. She wanted to play “search and destroy,” while I wanted to play “let’s make-believe we’re Rip Van Winkle.” My husband wound up taking a few days off from work to assist me, which allowed me some healing time. Thank God. Unfortunately, Gray and Brad are now sick too, so we’re all working diligently on getting rid of this crud. These days, the family that sneezes together, stays together. Mucus be gone!
Sounds like a rough January, huh? Much to my dismay, the tale isn’t over yet… As if the overabundance of germs weren’t enough to deal with, Nashville was hit with a tornado last Wednesday. This was accompanied by winds that were over 100 miles per hour. Mother Nature clearly has it out for us! The storm happened to fall on a night when I still had a fever, so everything is a bit of a blur for me, but Brad woke me up in the wee hours to seek shelter. When you wind up with a mattress over your head at 3 am, with sirens blaring in the background, you can either blame a night of really bad drinking or a tornado. Thankfully, we didn’t wind up in Oz, and none of the five trees that uprooted in our neighbor’s yard that night wandered into ours this time around. However, the power pole across the street from us snapped in half, downing lines all over and knocking out our electricity for about 36 hours. It was freezing in our house, which is fun when you’re already shivering from a fever. Did I mention there was no cable or Internet for five days? Joy.
So c’mon, universe, what’s with the doom and gloom? I know these are interesting stories to tell Gray down the road, but enough already! I’m waiting for some good old fashioned fun, and some happier, healthier days. Not to jinx it, but 2013 can only get better, right? Here’s hoping your year has been less eventful than ours so far!
Until next time… Peace, Love, & Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
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Hi there! I too, have been sick with the crud, so to speak, my husband says since December…I feel like I have had better days but mostly coughing and sneezing and a sore throat. I had mastitis with one of my younger kids. I have 4, and my youngest is 5…I do remember it hurts like nothing you can even remotely describe and they want you to keep nursing, really!?!?! I would want a January do-over if I were you, too! Love your pups, I have 1 Pug and she has been the best, most loyal dog I have ever had.
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Jenna, I feel your pain. In our family of 4, soon to be 5, we’ve had colds/fevers/crud since Thanksgiving. It’s a never-ending, vicious cycle and I want off the merry-go-round, now! I have been sick twice in the last 4 weeks and my eldest now has it. We thought we’d conquered all our illnesses as well, but given the cold here in the Northeast and being hold up indoors, it’s nearly impossible to shed the germs. We got about a foot and a half of snow thanks to Nemo this past weekend, but we didn’t lose power, thank the good Lord. Top it off, last week while I was battling my cold and my daughter was just beginning hers my husband was away on business for 4 days. Thankfully my little one has been a trooper and she’s the only “healthy” one of the lot so far. I’d like a January do-over as well. You think if enough of us petition for this we can make it so?? Here’s hoping!
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Good day, Jenna. I first wrote to you on jenna@jennavonoy.com and then just read about all the your events. Around me here in Moscow, too many people are sick too. I wish you a speedy recovery! Things will get better. If you have time, read my post at the post;) Thanks
Pavel, Moscow -
oh, jenna, i’m so sorry! hope all of you are feeling much better now!
Some twenty-odd years after Blossom has ended, I still get asked the following question: “Do you still wear those hats?” The caustic side of me desperately wants to reply, “Yes, at all times, including while I’m showering and sleeping. In fact, when I gave birth to my daughter…” The kinder side of me prevails, however, and I generally respond, “Nope, I’ve been out of that phase for a while now.” In retrospect, it is still amazing to think that we started such a huge trend way back when. Who’d have thought it? People often inquire how the fad began in the first place. The wardrobe department can certainly be credited for the spread of floppy hats with flowers on them, but in general, Blossom’s history with hats began courtesy of yours truly. I only have myself to blame for every silly chapeau-wearing photo from my adolescence! (Not to worry, I’ve included a collage below, so you may laugh along…) The backstory goes like this: When I went to my first audition for Blossom, I wore a wide-brimmed, purple, felt hat with buttons down the front. When I got called back a week or so later for a second audition, they requested that I wear the hat again… and so began the character trait that dominated my teenage years. This is why you’ll rarely see me sporting anything other than a winter knit or baseball cap these days. In some ways, I suppose my former stint as a sit-com ‘’fashionista’’ will always come back to haunt and taunt me. Despite some meager attempts to distance myself from the aforementioned accessory, I do admit to owning some wonderfully playful pieces that I don every now and again when I’m feeling particularly feisty. I’m sometimes surprised by the sudden inkling to dig them out of my closet. But what really surprises me is the number of hats my daughter already owns! At eight months old, her wardrobe is replete with hats of every color and style. She has a beret, a bonnet handmade by my mom, a fuzzy owl hat (which I admit to having a matching adult version of), and, in honor of my past, several flowered hats reminiscent of my old ones. I should probably mention that the latter pieces were gifted to her by friends and family; perpetuating the trend wasn’t really on my radar. In fact, I initially shied away from having her dress in flowered hats at all, for obvious reasons. Ultimately, nostalgia reigned. Truthfully, she looks so darn cute in them I just can’t help myself! In a sense, Gray has renewed my appreciation for hats. That’s not to suggest I’m living vicariously through her; don’t go expecting me to unearth some secret “Six“ stash any time soon. But suffice it to say, I enjoy seeing her in them, so I’m vowing to refrain from transferring my aversion over to her. I mean, who doesn’t love a cherubic little baby in a hat? Which brings me to…
I’ve recently discovered that not everyone finds babies and hats to be compatible. “How is that possible?” you might ask. Well, evidently it’s the source of some contention for a few folks out there. Here’s an example. We were in Los Angeles a few months ago, and weren’t terribly fond of the hotel coffee. Early one morning, we went on an excursion to find a cup elsewhere. (I’m aware no one walks in LA, but we decided to defy the odds.) We walked to the nearest Starbucks, which was only a few blocks away. It was a slightly balmy morning, so I figured I ought to cover Gray’s head. I put her owl hat on (pictured above), and we set out on our caffeine quest. As we arrived at the café, I noticed two boys in their late twenties sitting outside. They were deep in what I imagine to have been a stunningly important and esoteric conversation. Insert eye rolling here. Anyhow, as we passed by, one of them looked up and said, “Poor kid. I’ve never understood the stupid people who put hats on their babies. They just look so ridiculous in them.” Really??? You’re going to say that in front of us? While I’m typically quick with the witty comebacks, this was not my finest hour. I wound up saying nothing and ignoring them. No sense in starting a 6 AM brawl in front of the coffee shop, right? Now, I understand that the owl hat may not be appreciated by each and every social group out there, but you have to admit that comment was downright rude. Of course, this statement was also coming from the dolt who was wearing a wool trench coat, scarf and gloves in sixty-degree California weather. It might have been breezy enough to cover a baby’s head, but no self-respecting adult would be bundled up for the Adirondacks. I digress. I’m just saying… Don’t hate the hat-wearer (or the parent thereof), hate the hat! On that note, I suppose I should cut myself a little slack and apply that to my Blossom hat phase as well. It may not make my list of favorite trends, but I should let myself off the hook for contributing to it. In the meantime, until my daughter is old enough to put silly hats on her own child’s head, I’m going to enjoy every moment of this!
Until next time… Peace, Love, & Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
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Awww yes! I admit I’m well addicted to pretty little hats. Now we’re on girly number 3, the number of cute baby hats (and bigger!) in this house has risen to epic proportions. I just can’t help myself, just too cute. Current faves are also owls! I suppose the temperate English climate helps me justify having so many! Love the photos, those hats were amazing, Gray’s too, suddenly feeling the need to find Thea a flowery one, just gorgeous!
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Hi Jenna, your blog is entertaining and witty, and I really enjoy it. I empathize with your story, and I would be furious if some guy made a comment like that around me. Babies wearing hats are great, and I think most people would agree! Keep up the good work.
I realize it’s January now, and you’ve probably taken down your holiday lights. You’ve stowed the stockings, eaten all of the cookies, and put away the gifts. But in my house, the Christmas spirit is still alive and well. Christmas has not left the building. Our tree is still whiling away the hours in our living room, and it isn’t because I’m lazy or haven’t found time to return everything to the attic. I just wanted to wake up to it for one more week, to enjoy the season a bit longer, to absorb the hope and happiness it brings. Christmastime has always been truly magical for me. I believe it isn’t just a time of year; it’s a state of being. Regardless of your spiritual upbringing, it’s a season for togetherness, joy, peace, and goodwill. It’s a time to treasure those you love, in a profoundly meaningful way… especially your children. There’s no other season that incites wonder quite like Christmas, and seeing it through the eyes of my daughter for the first time was nothing short of miraculous. We have begun the holiday memories she will think back on fondly one day. It inspires me to reminisce about my own special Christmas moments, especially those shared with my siblings: penning wish lists for Santa, trudging through snow to choose the “jolliest” tree we could find, hanging stockings on our mantle, putting our boots out in celebration of the German holiday of Saint Nicholas (the boots would get filled with nuts, fruit and other goodies), baking cookies and over-decorating them, festooning our tree in the ornaments we’ve collected each year since we were born, and dancing maniacally to the Nutcracker Suite. I miss the winter wonderland of our East Coast upbringing: ice skating on the pond behind the home in which we were raised, watching snowflakes blanket the ground like frosting (it just begged for snowmen and snow angels to be made), sledding down our driveway in makeshift toboggans, and warming up in front of the fire with mugs of mulled cider. Those were the days! But it isn’t all of the ‘’deck the halls’’ and ‘’fa-la-la’’ that made my spirit bright. Most importantly, the holiday season meant time spent with my family. It meant hunkering down out of the bitter cold and playing board games, while Burl Ives sang “A Holly Jolly Christmas” in the background. It meant attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and listening to my dad’s beautiful voice resonate from the choir. It was the joy of finding the perfect gift for my sister or brothers, and the glee of watching them unwrap it. Even in adulthood, I find the Christmas magic hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s still in my heart, though its style has morphed a bit. Now I get to celebrate with my own little family, embracing long-held traditions while creating new ones with my husband and daughter. I thought it might be fun to share some of them with you. I warn you, if you are feeling a bit of “bah humbug,” and want Christmas to just go away already, this may not be the blog for you… I’ll begin with our “infamous Christmas tape.”
This particular blog installment happens to coincide with my once-a-month contribution for People.com. You can read the rest of this week’s post by visiting my blog there… Please also check back here next Friday, for an exclusive Cradle Chronicles post! In the meantime, if you haven’t read last week’s “My Rockin’ Roasted Cherry Tomatoes,” you’ll find it if you scroll down or check out my archives!
Until next time… Peace, Love, & Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
Attempting to capture a good family Christmas photo is often as farfetched as trying to lasso the moon. Not to mention, both seem to require some commitment of insanity. Needless to say, we tried it anyway… capturing the photo, not lassoing the moon, just to be clear.
One of my best friends recently began a photography business, and she’s doing a fantastic job. She especially enjoys photographing children, so I foresee many modeling sessions in Gray’s future. My child is going to grow up thinking weekly photo shoots are the norm, and that mommy is a closet wardrobe stylist. I might be raising a future Abercrombie & Fitch model, which is a bit terrifying. Nonetheless, just getting the family Christmas photo behind us was a production worthy of Broadway. My friend had chosen a nearby park as our location, and said the best light would be present at around 3:30 in the afternoon. This, of course, is generally Gray’s naptime, so we were already running on empty when we arrived. As we rounded the corner of the greenway and spotted the parking lot, Gray began what some might refer to as a minor temper tantrum. I prefer to call it a melodramatic interpretive car seat dance. Whenever possible, I find it’s fun to come up with new and creative ways to address her foul moods… Or least lend them an artistic edge. It somehow makes them slightly less awful in my own head, and I’m sticking with it. Anyhow, the giant crocodile tears were already flowing when I opened the car door, and the whining was reaching a fever pitch. Hell hath no fury like a kid who has missed her naptime! But an amazing thing happened when she saw the camera; she turned on the charm and started hamming it up. God help me, this child is definitely mine. We wound up getting some great shots before the sun went down, and I think we might even have a few that all three of us are smiling in, impossible though that may sound! However, in going over all of the pictures, it’s some of the silly outtakes that make me smile the most. They are a reminder of the adventure… Sometimes the fun isn’t in the arrival at a destination, it’s the journey to get there.
Thought you might appreciate some samples, courtesy of Lila McCann Photography!
Until next time… Peace, Love, & Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
My family and I are taking a much needed break this week! In lieu of my typically long-winded post, I hope a photo will suffice. Wishing you and yours a fantastic and fun-filled holiday season… See you in 2013!!
Until next time… Peace, Love, & Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
Back when I was on Blossom, I had the honor of working with the inimitable Bill Bixby. He was a powerhouse, a consummate professional, a clever and artful director, and a loving man. He became like a grandfather to me, and when cancer took his life I was devastated to the core. While many of my memories of him have faded over time, there are several that still resonate. The strongest of those is a flashback of Bill delivering one of his favorite quotes, “Life is too short to drink cheap wine.” Those words have hit me from time to time over the last few years, as I’ve recognized my own habit of holding onto the “good stuff” until I have an obvious excuse to use it. It’s as if I’m saving up for a rainy day. My favorite example of this is actually from May 2, 2010.
It happened to be my thirty-third birthday, and my husband woke me up while it was still dark out. “Honey, I’m sorry to get you up so early…” he began. I felt a stir of excitement as I opened my eyes, fully expecting some wonderful birthday surprise such as breakfast in bed or an out of town trip. No such luck. “The house is flooding,” he continued urgently, “and we need to move all of our stuff up to the second floor.” Ah,yes… the perfect way to begin a new year of my life. As I set my foot down onto our bedroom carpet, the water squished beneath my toes. The floods of Nashville were upon us, and our entire downstairs was under an inch of water. It was an adventurous day spent transporting all of our belongings, tearing up carpet, and wringing out soggy keepsakes. And we were the lucky ones. We had friends and neighbors who lost their homes that day, so I’m in no way complaining about a lost carpet or getting my hands a little dirty. That said it made for an interesting birthday celebration. The restaurant where we’d originally made reservations was closed due to flooding, as was every other restaurant we tried. We wound up creating our own in-house fun instead. As we carted bottles of wine up the steps that I’d been collecting for more than a decade, moving them to higher and drier ground, I got to thinking about how I’d been saving them for some ceremonious moment or the aforementioned rainy day. And that’s when I realized: this IS the rainy day! Damned if my birthday/the flood scenario didn’t meet both of my qualifying criteria! Brad and I drank well that evening, savoring sips of Chateau Margaux as we mopped the floor. We stood there in our soaked sweats and galoshes and we drank the good wine. It was a memorable time, to say the least! But it dawns on me that I need to create those moments a bit more frequently. I mean, I’ve got dozens of bottles still waiting to be imbibed… allowing them to spoil would be a tragedy! For some background, I’ve always been a wine enthusiast. Having grown up in a very European household, I was taught to appreciate the delight of a gorgeous glass of vino along with the food it is destined to accompany. Accordingly, when I was in my twenties, I began to collect high-end bottles each time I traveled. I purchased a variety of stunning choices from France, Italy and Napa Valley. I even turned one room of my house into a wine bar, so that I could properly store and classify everything. Now that I’m a bit older, I am more conservative with money. Expensive wines aren’t currently a priority on our list of financial expenditures. There are just too many practical things that take precedence. But, as it happens, that doesn’t much matter. You see, when I was younger, I always maintained the notion that I should store my purchases for the future. And while I opened a few fancy bottles here and there, I watched as the bulk of them collected dust. I just kept telling myself I’d spent too much money to “waste” them on a run of the mill dinner at home. Consequently, I now have a house full of elegant options waiting to be consumed. They are wines that I wouldn’t otherwise spend the money on. The irony, of course, is that wine doesn’t last forever. If we wait too long to drink my collection, all of that money goes down the drain… quite literally. So what are we waiting for? The other night, I got to thinking about that lovely phrase Bill used to say, and I decided to alter my view of what denotes a “special occasion.” Gray learned to roll over in her crib today? Let’s celebrate with that Eric Kent Syrah we’ve been drooling over. Brad did exceptionally well at work this month? Let’s pop the cork on that Barolo we brought back from Piedmont. This new way of thinking is working quite well for us, as you can imagine. In fact, I’m nursing a glass of Bordeaux as I write this! We’ve discovered that many of the wines are at the tail end of their best drinking years anyway, so I figure that’s enough of a reason to continue our wonderful wine marathon. And I have even more appreciation for them now than I had when I bought them, because now I get to share them with my husband.
My “saving it for a rainy day” mantra doesn’t seem to end with wine. I’ve found it extends to all things I deem valuable or extravagant. For instance, I’ve been eyeing a dress in my closet for several months now. It’s one of the nicer ones I own, and I finally fit back into it after losing my pregnancy weight. I’ve been waiting for, and looking forward to, the perfect opportunity to wear it. Every time my husband and I go out to dinner, I gaze at it fondly and think, “It’s just too nice to wear out tonight. What if it winds up with baby spit up down the front of it?” I’ve talked myself out of it a thousand times. But what’s the worst thing that could happen~ I spill marinara sauce on my lap? That’s what stain remover is for, and why the dry cleaner exists. Even if the gown winds up dying at the hands of some catastrophic dinner debacle, doesn’t that mean it served its purpose and was worn with love? I swear, one of these nights I’m going to show up in it at my own dining room table. I can see it now: hamburgers, French fries, and my expensive dress. It will be my way of defying my own absurd rules.
I guess my purpose in sharing all of this is the following: why not find a way to make every day a special occasion? Pour the expensive wine. Break out the wedding china for a weekend breakfast with your husband and kids. So what if a dish breaks. How special can they really be, if all they do is sit in the cabinet? I’m realizing that the simple moments we share as a family are some of the most important and treasured. These are the people I want to serve meals to on the special dishes. These are the people I want to wear my nice dress for.
This Thanksgiving, I sent up a big nod of thanks to Bill Bixby, as we set out the good china and opened one of our best bottles of wine. All of it was done in honor of the incalculable love and blessings bestowed upon us each and every day. And sometimes that’s all the excuse that’s needed…
Until next time… Peace, Love, and Dirty Diapers,
Jenna von Oy
PS. Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter!
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Love the post! But I have a random question, what type of flowers are in the vase? They are beautiful, a simple elegance.
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I think they are called Starflower pincushions (Scabiosa Stellata).
Love your blog by the way and congrats on being a first time mommy! It’s the best feeling in the world, my baby girl Audrey was born in late january
Happy Birthday!