J's Birth Story; Subtitled 6 Years Ago Tonight I Was In Labor With A Hobo Ninja

      I've always thought that it would be a good idea to write down my children's birth stories.  I remember right after I had PG, I used to retell her birth story over and over to myself in my head.  The experience had left such an impression on me that I felt compelled to reiterate it to myself.  I think it was because I realized that my life now reflected a bold division of "before" and "after" and remembering the details on both sides of that wall became important.  Mentally recording that transition made it easier for me to let go of my "before" and slip into my new role.  It was a goodbye, my closing chapter on a dog-eared, well read book.
    So with that in mind, tomorrow J is turning six.  Tonight, I'll write his birth story for him (which is why I write all these posts- for my kids, should the future "them" ever want to read these silly diaries.)
     J's birth is actually the least dramatic of my three experiences.  Pg and Roo?  I could write pages and pages about the interesting events surrounding their births.  J's was much more low key.  It was basically "I went into labor, we drove to the hospital, I had a baby by the next day."  That's not to say however, that there weren't details that I'll always remember.  I'll share them with you here, starting with the first contraction (Don't leave!  It was only the first contraction that was memorable.  I won't be dragging you through every single one.  I'm nostalgic tonight, but not mean).
     The first contraction was at 7:45.  I remember standing by my bed and upon feeling my stomach seize u, grabbing the mattress and looking across the bed at the opposite nightstand where the digital clock sat.  7:45 p.m.  I wanted to mark the time, not for contractions, but because I was suddenly aware of that feeling one gets when something important is about to happen.  I knew that when we went to the hospital that we would be admitted, they wouldn't send me home, and that this was the real deal.  (The nurses unfortunately, didn't possess the same level of confidence that I had.  They made me walk around the maternity floor for an hour and then kept me in triage for another 2 hours before they admitted that I was actually in labor.  Why they gotta be like that?  Can anyone tell me?)
     I remember the drive to the hospital.  It was dark and the night air whipped around the front seat.  It felt like the exhaust from a jet engine.  We turned the AC all the way up and kept the windows down because the fresh air, hot though it may have been, felt good while I breathed through my contractions.
     We watched "TransAmerica" in triage on Mr. C's laptop.  Weird choice of movie for laboring in the hospital, but the Netflix Gods had arranged it so that was what had been mailed to us from our Netflix que. So it is that Felicity Huffman will always remind me of green curtains and hospital beds.
     At one point in the night, I got the shakes so bad that I worried that I would bite through my tongue.  I had had shakes before when I was in labor with PG and knew that it just meant that I was transitioning into a deeper phase.  I completely lost faith in my hospital care however when a young nurse came in, saw me rattling around on the bed and asked "Are you cold?  Would you like a blanket?"  And I thought "Have you not seen this before? Not only am I shaking so hard that I am literally about to explode a baby out of my body, but I am in a head to toe hormone and adrenaline rush, and you want to know if I'm cold? You think a blanket is going to help me?  What kind of medical facility is this?"

      Luckily, I wasn't so far into labor that I couldn't see the fact that I may need her in the near future, so I kept my mouth shut.  I was rewarded with an epidural (which I no longer recommend, but that's another post.)  I fell asleep and was awakened by a nurse at 5:30 a.m.  It was time to push, and at 5:48 a.m., there was this:

And that turned into this:

Which then turned to this:

Which became this:

Then this:

And finally this:

     That's you, J, on your last day of being five.  I know how excited you are to be 6, and I love that you're getting older, but I've got to be honest with you, bud.  It's hard for me to see you leave five behind.  Thank you for making it such a fun year.  I'm grateful that I logged most of your funnier moments here on the blog.  And while I can't say that I'm completely on board with your dream of becoming a Hobo Ninja, I can tell you that I believe with all my heart that if anyone could make it happen, it'd be you.

(The dream of being an unmarried father to 60 children and training them to be part of your Hobo Ninja army, however, I do forbid. Props to you for creativity, though.)

Happy Birthday, Monkey Boy!

Banana Slug Karma

When I was growing up, every year we would travel up to the top of the state and camp in the Redwoods, not far below Crescent City.  There were a few reasons why we loved these trips.  One was that we would always meet up with my cousins from Oregon, whom we didn't get to see much and who we always had fun with.  Another reason was that we used to tie inter tubes together and spend the days floating down the Jedidiah Smith River(great fun).  Another reason however, was that we loved to torment banana slugs.

It's twisted, but true.  These slimy, speckled, snot colored creatures were abundant in the Redwoods the way that lizards are abundant here in the desert. They were everywhere.  And I suppose that it was because their looks were so offensive to the eye that our torture of these mollusks didn't seem anything other than perfectly justified.

And torture them we did.

I remember venturing on the trails with my cousins, armed with a canister of salt, searching for our victims.  Upon finding one, we'd stand in a group, pour salt on it, and then watch as it bubbled and writhed.  This was fascinating to us- pure entertainment.  (Well, I don't know about "pure".   However, if it ever occurred to anyone that it was a mean or sadistic act, no one said anything out loud.)  In fact, I even bonded with my newly adopted cousin over the salting of a banana slug.  I remember taking him by the hand and leading him over to where I had found a slug on a log.  Wordlessly, because he didn't have much language yet, I held up salt and let him watch as I sprinkled it above the slug.  His eyes widened, the corner of his lips turned up, and I do believe that I had myself a little friend for the rest of that trip.  You may even say that it was a turning point in our relationship: Welcome to America, little man.  Here, we salt slugs. 

We were definitely a destructive force.  If any environmental scientists ever logged the banana slug population during the 1980's, it's possible that they puzzled over a drastic drop every July.  It's safe to say that by the time I reached my teens, I had accumulated a lot of bad juju when it came to banana slugs.

Which brings me to the ironic part of this post.

Do you recognize the shirt that John Travolta is wearing in this still from Pulp Fiction?

It's a University of Santa Cruz T-shirt.  Those ding dongs chose a banana slug as their mascot for some reason.  Do you know why we made Santa Cruz a stop on our vacation? (Well, other than the fact that I wanted to go to the boardwalk?)  Mr. C is a UCSC alumni.  Class of '94, I believe. 

So, that's right.  I married a banana slug. Karma circle complete, and God does have a sense of humor.  

Ba-dum-bum.  

You have a good night! 

Wait- I forgot that I was supposed to tell you about our vacation in Santa Cruz.  I'll tell you fast- it was fun!  One of my favorite sensory experiences ever is to be on a boardwalk, smelling the ocean and hearing the roller coasters above me.  Plus, a friend reminded me that the Santa Cruz Boardwalk was the setting for the movie Lost Boys.  So that pretty much doubles it's cool quotient right there.  

Okay.  Now you can have a good night. 

Gua-La-Dee-Da

The second stop on our vacation was Gualala, pronounced WAH LA LA.  Can you do me a favor? Try saying that word using your normal voice.  I couldn't.  Maybe it's just me and my husband, but we couldn't take that word seriously.  We'd end up stretching out the first syllable and over enunciating the "la's" at the end, so it'd come out like this:  "WaaaaaaaahLALA".  Then we tried saying it in different Muppet character voices.

It was hours of fun.

Not really.

Anyway, it turns out that the best part of Gualala is it's name.  There is not much going on there.  It's a very teeny tiny town on the coast.  Mr. C has some friends that lived close by so we visited with them.  That was nice.  Other than that, we just camped and hiked and did a lot of this:

Sitting around on the beach.  It was relaxing.  (And a bit boring, to be honest.)  The kids busied themselves by building a little shack out of driftwood on the beach.  

This impressed me.  I'm totally going to take them with me in case of a Zombie Apocalypse, since they apparently possess mad survival skills.  Who knew? 

But that's it.  Besides it's name, that is all I can write about GWAH LAAAA LAAAA!!!. (That was my Animal impersonation.  You know- from the Muppets? Oh, never mind.) 

Wait.  There is one more thing.    

Mr. C took this panoramic pic and then challenged me by saying that I wasn't "savvy" enough to figure out how to post it onto the blog. 

Well, well, well.  Look who's savvy now Mr. C, you big banana slug.  

(That's right.  I called him a banana slug.  I'll explain why on my next post about Santa Cruz.  Until then, have a good night.) 

P.S- For those of you less savvy than me, you should be able to interact with the photo above by dragging your mouse across it left and right to get a full 360 view.  Neat-o!  

Where Little Cable Cars Run Halfway to the Stars

 Well, hello!

How have you all been?  We just got back from our vacation late last night, and I've been looking forward all day to sitting down and writing about it. Not because it was extraordinarily exciting- I mean, it was great fun- but mostly because I'm needing a break from the laundry slave chains.  We camped for the last four nights and the laundry is horrendous.  Writing is a welcome distraction. 

(I just realized that I always use this blog to fish for pity about laundry.  How dull.  I vow to stop.)  

Anyhow.  

Our vacation.  It was fun.  It coincided with our wedding anniversary, and while Mr. C and I usually celebrate our anniversary sans kids, this year we took them along for a beach vacation that started off in San Fransisco.  We also camped in Gualala and Santa Cruz, but I'll leave that for another post.  Tonight I'll just share a few thoughts that I collected while touting out and about the hilly streets of San Fran. 

First, I was proud to realize that 9 years of marriage means that I am now able to read Mr. C's thoughts.  This realization came to me in the car when, after almost plowing through a full cannister of salted peanuts, I proclaimed to him, "Please stop me from eating any more of these!" and just from looking at him, I could see on his face that he was employing his imagination in all the ways that he could physically stop me from eating the rest of the peanuts.  Before I could stop him, he had reached over with a sly smile and pinched my nostrils together.  Try laughing with a mouthful of peanuts and a blocked airway.  It's painful.  

Second, I read Tina Fey's Bossypants over vacation and now I have this ongoing scenario in my head where we're best friends.  I have imaginary conversations with her about all kinds of things (No surprise that she's deeply sympathetic to my laundry situation.) 

In case you're worried about me, don't.  I do this with all the authors I like.  Anne Lamott and Mark Twain are in my circle of friends too.  Someday I'll throw a dinner party. 

Third, we had a delicious anniversary dinner with the kids in tow at The Stinky Rose, which is a garlic restaurant.  I was excited to go there because I had imagined this wonderful, warm family dinner in which we all sit calmly and bask in the love that these nine years have accumulated.  Alas, in this scenario, I had forgotten that J and Roo aren't quite at the age where they are easy and enjoyable in a restaurant.  They still require lots of reminders and distractions.  Here's an unattractive photo that Mr. C took of me at dinner- finger wagging around, mouth open mid-sentence, and I'm probably nagging someone about being careful not to spill their water glass.  

The look on Roo's face says it all: "This woman doesn't stop."

That's okay.  I had fun with them anyways, even if they probably will forever remember me this way:        

                         

Finally, Mr. C and I had both lived up in Sonoma County (before we even knew each other), so we had spent a considerable amount of time in San Francisco. We had the same thoughts about Northern California: it's a beautiful place, but we didn't like living there.  Mr. C blames it on what he calls the "hippie residue".  I just blame it on my aversion to vegetarians with too much hunter green and brown in their wardrobe.  Either way, this time in San Francisco, we really enjoyed the city.  We did all the touristy things, which strangely, we never did when we lived around there.  We took a boat out into the bay, we went to the Exploratorium, Golden Gate Park, and the Palace of Fine Arts.  We walked through China Town and around North Beach.  The kids were great, we were great, everything was great.  Mr. C took some amazing pictures- like, AMAZING pictures.  Even better than usual.  So, I'll leave you tonight with an ultimate "mom" souvenir.  Some moms scrapbook, some moms keep journals, I myself enjoy a good picture slideshow set to some cheesy music.  

And that is what I have for you here tonight.  Enjoy!

Nor Cal 2014-Medium 2 from Tacy Cauthron on Vimeo.

Why My Calling Should Be Writing Copy At Sterling-Cooper

Hi! Before we start, I have to take a moment to give three cheers for me. If I don't, my accomplishments of today will go unnoticed by the world at large (happens often with this occupation.) Anyway, 3 cheers because domestically speaking, today I kicked butt.

 I managed to, over the course of the last 7 hours:

Do multiple loads of laundry
clean the kitchen
deep clean the stove
clean 2 bathrooms
sweep and mop the tile
paint my kitchen cabinets (yes, I'm still doing that. More about that nightmare in another post)
prepare a delicious dinner for my family which included not one, but two versions of Sloppy Joes- spicy for us grown ups and non-spicy for the littles
AND 

as I type this, I have this yummy dessert in the oven from the Pioneer Woman.
That list up there is the Donald Draper equivalent of landing a big account at the office while knocking Peter Campbell down a few steps on the business ladder, nailing a girl or two in the city, and then heading home to cohost a dinner party with his wife in the suburbs.

Actually, it's more than what Donald Draper could've done, because he has his secretary and wife to do half that work for him.

(If you're totally confused right now, Mr. C and I have been watching Mad Men on Netflix all summer. I'm a bit obsessed.  You'll probably hear more from me about Mad Men before the summer is over.  It's taken over my mind.)

Anyway, that list above actually makes me cringe because it's a bit too domestic for my taste.  However, I was motivated by a Facebook friend of mine who wrote something similar on the newsfeed.  I responded with a joke about how she was making the rest of us look bad, and then I felt like a jerk because I realized I sounded like those lame people who chastise celebratory statuses because of their own insecurities.  I hate those people.  So, it's possible all my housewifery was done out of guilt.  Either way, my family got a chocolate cake out of the deal, so it's all good.

Has anyone else noticed that lately my introductions are often more than half of my post?  Geez.

Here's what I was going to share tonight:  My parents recently gave me a huge box filled with my childhood mementos, pictures, report cards, art projects, and best of all, stories that I had written.  It was so much fun going through that box.  I laughed, and sometimes I even cried.  There were so many memories of being a kid in there- little things, that I had forgotten about.

For example, here's a thank you note I wrote to my mom one Christmas after receiving a calligraphy set.

"Thank you for spending about $250."  How incredibly.....heartwarming?  Also, how rad is the Garfield stationary?

Here's the corresponding note that I wrote to my dad:

I love the banana chicken sketch on the bottom.

In the box was also an old yellowed piece of paper titled "The Herrington Herald".  It was my version of our family newspaper.  As far as I remember, there was only that one edition.  I'll just tell you a few of my favorite lines.  From the editior's note: "If you would like to place an ad in the newspaper, it will cost a penny.  If you would like to put in your own column, it costs five cents, but the Herald later on pays you."

I wonder why no one ever took me up on that bargain?

Besides a very upbeat column describing a birthday party my sisters and I threw for our Cabbage Patch kids, there is also an update on the window seat my dad was building for me in my room.  I think though, that the Lost and Found section is my favorite:  "Lost: Curling Iron, High Energy, Conair.  Last seen in Diana Herrington's hair." Diana is my mom and one of the 2 receipients of the Herald.  Apparently, subtlety is a trait I have always lacked.

And finally, I enjoy the complaint section, handwritten in as an afterthought, which reads "COMPLAINT: Sara Herrington is leaving dishes in the sink until dinner so Tacy will clean them up."
It's too bad I didn't go into the newspaper business.  At age 11, I was already adept at manipulating print media to push my own agenda.

I do regret to inform you that the very best, most embarrassing, most tears-of-laughter-inducing piece in the whole entire box has unfortunately been lost.  It was a persuasive letter I wrote to my parents when I was in the sixth grade to convince them to let them go to my first boy-girl party.  It was the crowning jewel of the whole box, and I can't believe I lost it.  I'm still hoping it turns up, and if it ever does, I"ll publish it.  For now though, I'll share that one of my arguments in the letter was that my friend was Armenian, and "how much more religious can you get?"

(My apologies for my 11 year old ignorance about Armenians, their religion, and how the morals of all that would play out at a sixth grade boy- girl party.)

(I'll also skip any Kardashian references at this time.)

Anyway, I just wanted to share all that with you.  You know what?  If you've got kids, won't you keep all those funny little pieces of their personality for them? I can not tell you how grateful I am to my parents for saving this stuff.  I felt like I had found someone I didn't know I had lost.  Up to going through the box contents, I had been remembering myself as a child being this quiet and shy bookworm.  However, in reading through everything, the kid "me" came through loud and clear.  I was actually pretty creative and a little bit funny.

I was also totally weird, but that part I remember like it was yesterday.

Oh wait!  It was.

Is.

I'll forever be weird.

You have a good night!