The time I had a baby 20 minutes after getting to the hospital

Until 7 weeks ago, I thought those stories of women giving birth on the side of the road on their way to the hospital were kind of eyeroll-worthy. Come on, ladies: it takes goddamn FOREVER to have a baby. Unless they live a day’s drive away from the hospital, how long did these idiots wait to get into the car to make their way to the land of epidurals and medical professionals that they couldn’t make it?!

And then I came within 20 minutes of that happening to me.

Seriously, guys. I was one minor traffic jam away from giving birth in a dirty Prius on Beverly Boulevard.

And now I can tell you definitively that the problem these poor side-of-the-road mothers faced wasn’t that they were too dumb to get their pregnant asses out the door in a timely fashion, but rather that they simply didn’t understand that some babies have no interest in following protocol. Because no one really expects to go from “hmm, is that a contraction?” to “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THIS KID IS COMING OUT OF ME LIKE RIGHT NOW” in just a few short hours. No one!

Ironically, I actually spent a great deal of my pregnancy worrying about getting to the hospital, but I was more concerned about enduring too many contractions in the car than actually giving birth on the road. Midway through the pregnancy, I moved from the westside of LA to the suburbs about 25 miles away, and I elected to keep my doctor rather than pick someone new in the middle of the game. Thanks to the horrors of LA traffic, this meant that it would take me anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes to reach the hospital, and with each passing week I got more and more nervous about being subjected to a tortuous hours-long journey to the hospital while I timed contractions and counted down the minutes till I could get an epidural. I vowed early on that I would make sure to leave for the hospital at the first inklings of true labor in order to minimize that issue.

But alas, like those side-of-the-roaders, I made the mistake of assuming that labor takes a long time, even the second time around, and neglected to consider that a “leave for the hospital early on in the labor process” plan is irrelevant when you don’t know how long labor is actually going to take. So when I started feeling contractions around midnight on March 19th, I didn’t immediately leap into action. I told my husband to get a few hours of sleep while he had the chance, called my mom to warn her that we’d be dropping Bubba off sometime in the morning, and took my sweet time getting myself ready. I packed my bag. I took a shower. I made sure to take one last selfie to document my belly at its peak:

The timestamp on that photo is 2:32 am. By that time, the contractions were getting pretty painful and I realized I was inching closer to realizing my fear of having to withstand a bunch of heinous pain on the car ride, so I woke up my husband and told him it was go time. “We’ll have a baby by noon!” I told him psuedo-cheerfully as I tried not to pain-vomit on his face, still naively thinking I had hours of labor ahead of me. At 3:15, we dropped Bubba off at Grandma’s, at which point I further demonstrated my idiotic lack of urgency by spending ten minutes cuddling with Bubba and getting him settled in. Sure, the contractions were getting closer and closer together and I felt like I just might die from the horrendous pain, but I still thought we had plenty of time because LABOR TAKES FOREVER EVEN WHEN IT’S “FAST,” RIGHT?!

Three hours or so after feeling the first contraction, we were on our way to the hospital. Thankfully, since it was the middle of the night and not rush hour, we made it to the hospital in record time and my husband only had to listen to me threaten to smash my face into the dashboard for thirty minutes or so (have I mentioned that labor is painful?). I walked through the hospital doors at 3:57am and immediately told everyone in my path that I wanted an epidural, including several people who I do not think actually worked for the hospital in any capacity whatsoever. I was in a lot of pain and each contraction felt exponentially worse than the last, but as the nurse walked me into a room, I breathed a huge sigh of a relief, knowing I wouldn’t be in pain much longer because surely one of those 100 people I’d begged for an epidural would deliver!

As soon as we arrived in the room, the nurse examined me and announced that I was dilated to 6 centimeters, and this is when things went a bit off the rails. A resident joined the crew and assured me that the doctor was on her way and that she would call the anesthesiologist as soon as I was fully examined and checked in, but not two minutes later, I was screaming — like, bloody murder, no shame, no dignity, all out SCREAMING — that I was in pain and needed drugs. And then two minutes later, the same thing. And one minute after that. And again. And again. And in between each contraction, I was telling the nurse, “it’s so much pressure! SO. MUCH. PRESSURE.”

At the mention of all the pressure, the nurse decided to take another gander at my progress and was surprised to discover that said “pressure” was in fact my baby being born. Like, RIGHT THEN.

Even though I had just been at 6cm 10 minutes prior.

And my doctor hadn’t arrived.

And I hadn’t even filled out the check-in paperwork.

And there was obviously no time for drugs.

And it really did hurt a lot.

I will never forget the look on the poor resident’s face when the nurse told her there would be no time to get me the drugs I was begging for; the sweet women had been making a valiant effort to get the anesthesiologist to hurry up and appeared to be as terrified as I was to learn that not only would she be delivering this baby herself since my doctor still hadn’t arrived, but that she’d be doing it while I screamed in her face about how badly it hurt.

And just like that, with me in denial and screaming for drugs till the very end, I officially became a mom of two. Graffin Thomas Wachter busted out of my loins at 4:17am on March 19, still in the amniotic sac, 6 pounds 2 ounces, 19.5 inches long, and super cute (in a scrunched up smushed-face newborn kind of way):

I had never given so much as a passing thought to the possibility of a drug-free birth, and I truly cannot overstate how painful it was and how I will never, ever, ever do that again. But I must say that I feel pretty bad-ass for having done it, no matter how unintentional. And it goes without saying that it was absolutely worth every second of torture:

But seriously: never again!

The Time a Crazed Lunatic Tried to Break into My House

Prior to last week, the scariest thing that had ever happened to me was the time some random nutjob held a knife to my throat on the train in New York, and that really wasn’t that scary. It was alarming and certainly shook me up at the time, but I never even had time to feel truly threatened — it was a crowded train and the the whole incident lasted about six seconds before some fellow passengers hopped up to my defense. It was almost comically un-dramatic: the dude just walked away and I got off at the next stop as if nothing had happened. Ah, New York.

What happened last Wednesday blew that experience out of the water.

Now, as you may or may not know, I live in a part of Los Angeles that you might consider sketchy-adjacent. My immediate neighborhood is full of nice families and well-kept homes, but I wouldn’t advise taking a stroll over to the 7/11 down the road after dark, and you might want to roll up your windows and lock your car doors as you head towards the freeway on-ramp a mile away. We also hear a disturbingly high number of police sirens screaming by our nearest major cross-street every day, which I suppose does raise a few red flags about the overall safety of this area. That said, I’ve lived here for nearly three years and I’ve never felt un-safe in my home or while out walking the dog, taking Bubba to daycare around the corner, or jogging by myself (even past the aforementioned 7/11…in the daylight hours, anyway).

So when someone knocked on the door last Wednesday evening, my dear husband didn’t even bother to take a gander out the window to see whether it was a salesperson or a neighbor or a crazed lunatic — he just went ahead and opened the door like any normal person would do.

Big mistake!

It was indeed a Certified Crazed Lunatic, and he proceeded to attempt to BARGE INTO THE HOUSE.

Fortunately, my strapping husband was able to slam the door in his face before he could make his way into our home, and the Crazed Lunatic turned tail and headed back down our driveway.

Unfortunately, I was in the other room at the time and wasn’t privy to what had just transpired — all I’d heard was a knock at the door, followed by my husband opening and shutting the door without communicating with whomever had knocked. Equally unfortunate is that my wonderful, handsome, brilliant spouse can be kind of an idiot when it comes to communication, so when I asked him who was at the door, he failed to convey the fact that A CRAZED LUNATIC HAD JUST TRIED TO ENTER OUR HOME; instead, he just said something vague about the person being a weirdo. Not understanding that A CRAZED LUNATIC HAD JUST TRIED TO ENTER OUR HOME, I assumed he meant that the man was confused, or that my brilliant/idiotic husband just hadn’t understood what the guy wanted…so I opened the door a crack and inquired, “hey, did you need something?”

Big mistake #2!

Crazed Lunatic took my query as an invitation to come back up to our door and again attempt to enter our humble abode, and it was at this point that TFW finally decided to inform me that THE CRAZED LUNATIC HAD ACTUALLY TRIED TO ENTER OUR HOME a few moments prior. Luckily, I had the door closed and locked by the time he made his way back to the door, but the Crazed Lunatic wasn’t going to let that stop him! He began a valiant effort to enter our home by banging on the door, rattling the knob so hard I thought for sure it would fly off, and shouting incoherently.

Obviously, it was time to call the police. I dialed 911 and frantically explained that someone was trying to break into my house and had in fact almost made his way in, and that I was very very frightened and had a baby in the house and to PLEASE HURRY because who knows what this maniac is capable of?

The dispatcher was not impressed. Despite the fact that she could HEAR the man hollering and certainly should have picked up on the obvious fear in my voice, she was in no hurry to send any officers out. She asked me about fives times whether I knew the man, and at one point asked (in the most condescending sneer she could muster) if it was my landlord and I just didn’t want to let him in.

Yes, really.

I was eventually able to convince her that this was indeed a CRAZED LUNATIC to whom I had no relation and that he was indeed still attempting to ENTER MY HOME, and she assured me that police were on the way. I stayed on the line with her to keep her apprised of the situation, and after about ten minutes I reported that the shouting and banging and rattling had suddenly stopped. I assumed the Crazed Lunatic had decided to depart, but I certainly wasn’t about to peer out the window and confirm, so I stayed put in the back room where my darling husband (now helpfully wielding a kitchen knife!) and I were hiding and continued to ask my sassy dispatcher when the hell the cops would be arriving.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the dispatcher told me that the police had arrived and that I should go let them in. HOORAY! SAVED AT LAST! I raced to the front door and threw it open.

Big mistake #3!

The police were not there, but the Crazed Lunatic sure was. He had passed out (he looked dead, actually) and was slumped against the door, meaning he pretty much FELL INTO MY HOUSE when I opened the door. It was, without a doubt, the most terrifying thing I have ever seen in my entire life. I’ve included an artist’s rendering of this horrific moment below so you can really visualize the moment:

Don’t ask why my legs are so misshapen. And yes, the Crazed Lunatic did have fingers in real life. Also, rest assured that this drawing is not to scale (I’m pretty sure I’m more than just a few inches taller than my doorknob, and the CL was definitely taller than 4′ himself). Everything else depicted here is 100% accurate, at least according to how I remember the scene unfolding (he totally had X’s instead of eyeballs).

I screamed and slammed that door shut as if my life depended on it, although the fact that he was clearly incapacitated as opposed to, say, standing there with a gun waiting to murder me, was admittedly a relief. “The police are NOT here,” I corrected the dispatcher. “But the intruder still is, and he’s passed out on my doorstep.”

Thankfully, the Crazed Lunatic remained passed out until the police actually did arrive (another five minutes later!), at which point he resumed his hollering until the police led him away. Once he was gone, I spoke briefly with the police, who helpfully laughed at the situation (“ah, drunk lunatics trying to break into people’s homes! HILARIOUS!”) and told me that the guy lived around the corner and that they’d dealt with him before. They collected my info and were gone within 90 seconds of arriving, long before I had a chance to put my thoughts together and ask them a few key questions, like, say, if this individual is known to be violent and whether I need to now live in fear that he’s going to come back.

If you’ve made it this far (and I do apologize for the lengthy account; at least you got to see an awesome drawing in the middle!), allow me to reward you by sharing what I learned from this exhilarating adventure:

1. If you think landlines are useless, you’re wrong. Had I called 911 from a landline instead of from my cell phone, I could have cut out the first 2 minutes of my interaction with the dispatcher when she made me repeat my address sixty-five times. We got a landline installed the next day.
2. If your 911 dispatcher tells you to open the door because the police are there, don’t be an idiot like me. Look out the damn window and confirm, especially if said dispatcher had previously tried to convince you that the intruder might really just be your landlord, even though your landlord is a different gender and race entirely.
3. Have a little talk with your husband and reiterate the importance of taking a quick peek out the window before opening the door. You know, just in case.
4. If you know that your husband is prone to leaving out pertinent details when relaying a story…don’t open the door a second time. Just…don’t.

I hope you’ve all learned something from this cautionary tale. May your days be free of Crazed Lunatics and your nights devoid of police sirens!

Hell Looks a Lot Like L.A.

Although I grew up in a suburb of Los Angeles, I spent my young adulthood living in San Diego. That’s where I (briefly…sort of) went to college, and TFW and I lived there together for the first five years of our relationship. If you’ve never been to San Diego, it can be summed up in two words: THE BEST. Seriously, nothing can beat it. The weather is phenomenal, the beaches are gorgeous, I swear people are nicer there (probably because they live in the best city ever), and it’s big enough to offer plenty to do but not so big that you feel like you’re drowning in a sea of humans, pollution, and traffic.

Despite San Diego’s obvious superiority, after several years there I began to yearn to return to LA. Not because of LA’s charms (it doesn’t have any), but because my entire family lives here and it was becoming a serious hassle to drive back and forth all the time. Since I have such a big family, TFW and I were making that heinous trek up the 5 freeway at least once a month to attend a birthday party, wedding, or graduation (a journey that could take as little as 2 hours in ideal circumstances — like if we departed at 2am — or as many as 4 if the traffic gods frowned upon us; the latter was sadly far more typical), and we were missing out on all kinds of little things that weren’t worth the drive (spur of the moment family dinners, little league games, American Idol viewing parties…). Plus, I was eager to pop out a kid in the near future, and I wanted my family close by for all that excitement! (Also for babysitting purposes.)

So when TFW got a job offer in LA back in 2010, we jumped at the chance to relocate. We had just two weeks to move, so we spent an afternoon looking at approximately four potential abodes and picked the one that would let us move in the fastest: an apartment near UCLA with a parking spot the size of a shoebox and windows that all faced concrete walls (seriously, all of them). It was also located right in the middle of one of the most congested areas of Los Angeles — day or night, it took an average of 20 minutes to get from our shoebox-sized parking spot to the freeway on-ramp less than two miles away. My parents lived just 25 miles away, but it would still take us 45 minutes to get there on a good day! And the rent was outrageous: $500 more per month than we were paying in San Diego, and our San Diego condo had more space and featured windows that actually allowed you to see things.

We lasted nine months in that apartment and then found the perfect house to rent: twice the size of the apartment, a big yard, 8 miles closer to my parents’ house, and best of all, TFW’s office was less than a mile away! He’d be able to walk or skateboard to work and we’d only need one car! Sure, the rent was even worse than what we were paying for the concrete-surrounded apartment, but them’s the breaks in LA. We moved with high hopes that our new digs would make us love this godforsaken city a bit more.

After living here for a few months, we quickly discovered that while it was a hell of a lot better than the apartment, this house has some serious issues. For one, the neighborhood is a tad…sketchy. The immediate surrounding few blocks are charming and home-y, but I wouldn’t recommend walking more than a half mile in any direction after dark. The traffic is just as bad over here. There’s no parking anywhere, ever (just going to Target is a chore). And the house has the worst insulation I’ve ever experienced: I’ve literally never been hotter in my life than I am inside this house on any given afternoon between June and October. It absorbs the heat and actively spits it back out at you; I’m not even sure how it’s possible, but it is consistently 10-15 degrees hotter inside than out. It’s hot enough inside to make you sick, but the thought of leaving the house and dealing with traffic and parking is enough to bring a person to tears (or is it just me?).

And after just 10 months in this house, TFW got laid off from that lovely one-mile-away job, rendering that benefit moot. His new job is 45 minutes away, meaning we’re living in this hellhole of a house in a random part of town for no reason whatsoever. Every single day, I ask TFW if he’s gotten fired yet so we can look for jobs in San Diego and get the hell outta dodge. Sadly, he’s still gainfully employed, so I’m left to moan about the traffic and the heat while my poor son runs around in nothing but a diaper because it’s literally too hot for clothes:

I kick myself daily for ever thinking I needed to move to LA. I’ll take a monthly four hour drive to visit family over the daily nightmares of LA life any day!

Have I mentioned it’s hotter than hell in here?

I don’t even know how to finish this post. I’m delirious from heat.

Send ice cream.

Jinxed!

As I mentioned earlier this month, despite a distinct lack of athletic talent and in spite of the fact that I do not particularly enjoy the activity, I have been training to run a marathon. I’ve made a number of jokes about how absurd it was for me to think I could achieve this ridiculous goal, including this ominous gem I posted to Facebook in March:

The truth is, though, despite my self-deprecation (I really do suck at running) and my repeated insistence that I hate running, I’ve actually been looking forward to the marathon. A lot. While I don’t always have a great time while I’m running (what is this elusive “runner’s high” I keep hearing about, and how do I get in on that action? I guess running faster than a turtle’s pace would be a good start), I do love the feeling of accomplishment at the end of a run, and I have to admit that being so active is great for my mood and confidence (although not so much for my hair, which is permanently smooshed into a greasy, frizzy ponytail).

If only I’d spent more time talking about that and less time joking that I longed for a broken ankle, perhaps the universe wouldn’t have felt the need to call my bluff by causing me to SLIP IN A POTHOLE AND SPRAIN MY ANKLE BAD ENOUGH THAT THE DOCTOR SAYS IT IS UNLIKELY I’LL BE ABLE TO RUN AGAIN FOR “MANY WEEKS.”

And the marathon is six weeks away.

I was nine miles into a 17-mile torture test training run on Saturday morning, and I was feeling FANTASTIC — my pace was the best it’s ever been (at least 10% faster than a turtle), I wasn’t fatigued, no nagging aches or pains — when I stumbled (literally) upon some loose gravel, skidded a couple inches, and slipped into a pothole. I knew immediately that my ankle (which was already a little weak and sore just from the training in general) was not going to be too pleased with that little endeavor, but I shook it off and tried to keep going.

(Have I mentioned that I am a stubborn individual, often to my own detriment?)

I made it two more miles before deciding I better call my husband to come retrieve me so I could rest up and run again the next day.

HA!

By nightfall I could barely walk. The swelling and pain (and the worry about all my training going to waste) kept me up all night, and I finally headed for Urgent Care on Sunday morning. The doctor did some poking, prodding, and testing, and proclaimed it sprained. I still had hope at this point — sprain, shmrain, right? Sprains aren’t serious! — until he said the dreaded words: “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I don’t think you’ll be running a marathon any time soon.”

I cried.

I know it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of life — there will be other marathons, although unfortunately I’ll have to wait till the fall since no one schedules marathons in the summer! — but it’s such a letdown. All that training, which I didn’t even enjoy, for naught! It’s not like I looked forward to the runs every day and relished pounding the pavement; no, those runs were HARD WORK. It’s as if I spent the last three months working an extra job in my spare time to save up for something fabulous, and then had my paycheck stolen.

And the worst part is, since I’m not running all the time now, I have no justification for eating whatever I want and drinking sugary fountain Dr Pepper nearly every day! (Remember, when you run — no matter the duration, pace, or intensity — the law dictates that you can eat whatever you want with no guilt whatsoever. IT’S THE LAW.)

So screw you, city of Pasadena, for not maintaining your stupid, shitty roads. And you too, nature and water and earthquakes or whatever causes potholes to form. And every driver who has driven on that road and contributed to its state of disrepair, too. And also the “austism speaks” group for taking over the Rose Bowl, where I had intended to run that day, thus forcing me to run on the surrounding pothole-ridden streets instead*. I HATE YOU ALL.

However, Bubba has been enjoying saying his favorite word while I ice my ankle:

COLD! COLD! COLD! OOOOOOH! COLD!

*Obviously, I wish no actual harm upon them; I’m sure they’re a lovely group and I hope their event went swimmingly. Still, though: you needed the ENTIRE Rose Bowl area for your fundraiser? THE WHOLE THING? Other people couldn’t use the area for their own activities at the same time? Grrr…

My Son, The Large Black Man

Prior to having my son, I had never called anyone Bubba in my life. In fact, I can only think of two people named Bubba in the entire world, and one is a fictional character. Bubba #1 is Forrest Gump’s shrimp-loving compatriot, and the other is Bubba Crosby, a former second-tier outfielder for the Yankees who once refused to acknowledge the twins and I when we saw him after a game at Dodger Stadium.

this is the non-fictional Bubba, and he’s a jerkface.

The decision to call my son Bubba was entirely unconscious — I certainly didn’t plan it out or anything. It just came out accidentally when the nurse handed him to me immediately following his birth (I think I was trying to say “Hi, buddy,” but I was just really exhausted from, ya know, giving birth). Once I said it, though, that was it. That was his nickname. No turning back! So I’ve been calling the dear lad “Bubba” almost exclusively for the last 16 months, save for more formal situations (I’m sane enough to use his real name when meeting new people or visiting the doctor), and I really haven’t given much thought to it — it’s just a cute little nickname.

Right?

Maybe not.

The other day I dropped him off at daycare as usual, and as I tried to depart, Bubba was being so dang cute with his bye-bye waving that I just had to stop and give him one more kiss. He was sitting on the lap of the daycare owner, who, like literally everyone else in our immediate neighborhood, is black. (This information is important.) I gave my son one final smooch and then bid him adieu:

“Bye-bye, Bubba! Mama loves you!”

And my neighbor laughed so hard she almost dropped my son.

“Did you just call him ‘Bubba’?!” She asked (she was amused, not horrified).

When I answered in the affirmative, she hit me with this hot piece of knowledge: apparently, “Bubba” is a term for a large black man. Not an adorable white baby. She assured me that it wasn’t offensive — she just found it comical — but I was a tad embarrassed. I knew it was a silly little nickname, but had I actually spent the last 16 months sounding like some kind of racist fool?

this is not a large black man.

Naturally, I did some research later that day. First, I’d like to report that Wikipedia agrees with me: Bubba is just an awesome nickname and there are no racial connotations (ok, I added the part about it being awesome). I will concede that the entry goes on to note that “at times it may be used as a term of endearment (or in an insulting sense) for a person, especially a man, who is either overweight or seemingly powerful large body frame,” but still: nothing in there about race.

Next, I did a Google search. Most of the results were Forrest Gump-related, but did you know that there is apparently a famous golfer named Bubba Watson? Who knew! And there’s a radio personality who calls himself Bubba The Love Sponge. Plus, it’s also the nickname of our own 42nd president Bill Clinton (how had I never heard that?)!

Nothing about large black men, even on page 2 of the results! (I can’t vouch for anything beyond that; this was a half-assed research project.) I even tried googling “is bubba offensive,” but all that came up were some reports of the aforementioned golfer acting like a douche.

Research completed, I feel fairly satisfied that I can continue to call my kid Bubba without people assuming I’m referring to a large black man. I’m sure there will come a day when I’ll have to stop calling him that (most likely the day he learns the words “Mom, that name is stupid and I have a perfectly good name; please stop being a moron”), but for now, he’s Bubba.

But if you’ve been reading this blog thinking it was about a large black man all along…I’m sorry to disappoint you.

Wordless Wednesday: Baby It’s Cold Outside

It’s been FRIGID here in LA lately.

And by that, of course, I mean that it’s been 60 degrees. That’s the HIGH TEMP, you guys!

Leaving the house without various hats, hoodies, and blankies is out of the question.

Blistering Heat, Freezing Cold, and Hurricane Sandy

The hubbins and I have lived in our rental house here in LA for about 20 months now, and while I’m not a licensed contractor, I feel confident when I say that I have determined with 99% certainty that my house is constructed out of nothing more than old 1950’s typewriter paper and Elmer’s glue. I cannot even begin to estimate how many times we have bemoaned the lack of insulation up in this bitch — in the summer, it’s a minimum of 15 degrees hotter inside than out (and it gets plenty hot outside); in the winter, I swear I’ve seen frost develop on the inside of our pathetic excuses for windows (which appear to be made out of that plastic film you use to make Shrinky Dinks).

And have I mentioned that we have neither central air nor heat?

During the seemingly infinite heat waves, our “air conditioning” consists of opened windows, a few strategically aimed fans, and tears (they really cool you down when the fans hit your face!). For those icy cold LA winters (shut up), we do have heat, but since the only two furnaces in the house are located in the most ridiculous locations possible — each one faces a bathroom (WHY!?), which is just delightful when you get up in the middle of the night to pee but absolutely useless while you shiver in bed down the hall — it’s not much better during the “cold” months.

No Fair!

Despite having grown up in Los Angeles, last year was the first time I made it to the LA County Fair. I was almost 7 months pregnant and IT. WAS. GLORIOUS. Do you have any idea how good fried food tastes when you’re pregnant and don’t give a shit about how fattening it is?!

Behold:

Tragically, I didn’t get a photo of the epic mound of funnel cake I consumed (probably because I inhaled it before TFW could retrieve the camera), but believe me: ’twas divine.

Food aside, I also enjoyed the sights and sounds of the fair (petting zoo! Weird exhibits! Games that can’t be won!). The whole day, I kept pointing to things and exclaiming “when we come next year, the baby will love that!” or “will the baby be old enough for a bite of this next year?” I’ve literally been looking forward to taking the baby to the fair since we walked through the gates last year.

We planned to go last weekend, but the heat was so unbearable we decided to put it off until this weekend and hope the weather would be marginally better. We were cutting it close, since it was shutting down after the weekend, but we figured it’d be worth the wait even if it was just a few degrees cooler.

Well. WE BLEW IT.

Pro Tip for Traveling With a Newborn: Don’t Do It

When Ryan was 8 weeks old, the hubbins and I faced a major dilemma. After looking for a new job for a couple of months, TFW was offered a position that sounded just about perfect: great people, fun environment, an industry he loves, yada yada yada.

So what’s the problem, you ask? The company was in Seattle…and we live in Los Angeles.

Despite my usual resistance to change (I’ve been known to experience a mini panic attack upon learning that dinner plans must be altered) and the fact that I lived my whole life in Southern California, I wasn’t necessarily adverse to moving. He needed a new job and this was a good one, and luckily my job can be done from virtually anywhere as long as I have internet access. And aside from my family, I don’t have many (i.e. any) friends in LA, so it’s not like I’d be measurably more lonely up there. Surprisingly enough to myself and to all who have ever had to put up with me, I was totally open-minded about the whole situation.

(Keep in mind, the baby was only 8 weeks old at this time and I wasn’t getting much sleep. I think my usual defenses were just down due to the fatigue.)

However, I’d never even been north of San Francisco, and TFW had experienced Seattle for a grand total of about 4 hours during the interview process (we won’t count the time he spent in the airport, although he did note that the Qdoba was delicious). Obviously, no matter how great the job seemed and how uncharacteristically flexible I was being, we needed to check out the city before agreeing to uproot our entire lives to move there. The company needed an answer within a week, so we did what any rational people would do: we booked a last minute flight and packed our 8-week-old infant up for a whirlwind 36-hour trip to Seattle.