My kid is wearing underpants!

Would you like to know what the best thing about this whole experience is? Neither Josh nor I can take any bit of the credit. Well, unless you want to give us credit for not doing anything–not pushing, not nagging, not begging, not bribing. We did nothing. Jude did it all on his own.

Honestly. One morning the kid woke up and told me he wanted to use the potty. And he did. And then we called Josh to tell him the great news. And then Josh came home with some fancy underpants for the boy. And! It’s been great ever since. He had all of two accidents during the first two days. Just two. That’s it.

I tell you, there isn’t much that matches up to the feeling of putting away a stack of cloth diapers–for good.

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

Anyone who has been reading this “Friday Firsts” series should know by now that I have a horrible memory. Knowing that, I give you the story of my first time shaving. All dates are approximate.

Though I lack the beautiful olive-colored skin of the Italian folk, I swear to you, readers, my paternal great-grandparents came over on the boat from Italy. And while God did not bestow upon me some of the coveted attributes of the Italian people, he was gracious enough to bless me with copious amounts of dark hair on my legs.

Can you feel the sarcasm dripping from that last sentence? Well? Can you?

(I think) It was the summer after my fourth-grade year, and finally sick of sporting a forest on my legs, I grabbed one of my mom’s razors while I was in the tub and chopped through the brush (I said brush, people) as best I could. Finally unashamed of my legs, I threw on a pair of shorts and headed outside.

I had a great time playing with the neighborhood kids…until my sister joined us, noticed my smooth-as-a-baby’s-ass legs and sold me out to my mother. Nice. Thanks.

My mom’s wasn’t thrilled with me, even though I told her that it wasn’t my fault! The razor had fallen into the really, really, REALLY(?) murky water and just kind of, well, shaved a bit of my leg on its own. At that point, well, what could I do? I couldn’t walk around missing a patch of hair on my legs, could I? I *had* to even them out, and since I couldn’t regrow my hair at will, I had to shave it all off.

Made sense to me. Mom, well…not so much.

How about you? Was your first time shaving traumatic?

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

I’ve given my mother quite a few gray hairs over the years. Drinking, partying… you get me. However, if there is one thing I didn’t give my mother grief about, it was make-up. Honestly, she got lucky. I was an athlete from a young age and rarely found the time or saw a need to pile crap on my face that would likely be sweated of in a matter of minutes. So, mom dodged having to deal with the “BUT EVERYONE IS WEARING BLUE EYESHADOW!!!!” argument, and I grew up plain-faced and lacking an understanding of how to apply simple make-up basics like foundation.

In high school, I occasionally purchased some concealer or powder; if I was feeling especially daring, I would try applying eyeliner. Their use was always short-lived. For the most part, and for better or worse (depends on who you ask), I’ve made it more than 27 years without having a make-up routine. At this point in my life, well… let’s just say that I occasionally wear chapstick.

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

Most days, I feel like a child who has been wrongfully cast for the “Adult Woman” character in a play I know nothing about. I question myself and seek approval for my actions. Often times I get thrown off kilter when I’m hit with the reality that HolyShitI’mMarriedWithASon. I don’t know if this week’s “first” really applies, but I’ll give it my best shot.

One sunny weekend, during my junior year of high school, I took a road trip to the lovely state of Connecticut to visit some trumpet player from some ska band I had recently met. I had never driven out of state on my own by that point, and I was really, really nervous. I didn’t know how highways “worked,” and got very confused when I came to an exit for “Middletown” just an hour into my three-hour trip. After figuring out that–Hey! Maybe there’s a Middletown in, uhm, where am I? Oh yeah! New York, too–I made it to my destination unscathed.

The “feeling grown up” part of the story happened on the drive home. It was a beautiful, warm day. The sky was clear and I had *finally* figured out how to use the cruise control on my car. I had the windows down, the music turned way up, and the sunroof open, and I finally felt in charge of myself, of my car, and of the highway.

How about you? When did that “grown up” feeling hit?

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

You know those refrigerator boxes? They’re large and fun to play in? Well, the only difference between our first apartment and one of those boxes is that our apartment had heat. Oh. Also, those cardboard boxes are bigger.

Josh moved to PA in 2002, and we moved into the above-referenced tiny apartment within about three weeks of his arrival. The apartment was an “efficiency-style” apartment–that meant that the living room and teeny tiny kitchen ran into one another. A doorway to the left of the refrigerator opened up to a small bedroom, and from there you could enter our (also teeny tiny) bathroom. We had one closet. One small closet.

The apartment had it’s pros to go along with the con of it barely being big enough for one adult, let alone two. It only cost us $350/month in rent, and that included heat. We lived about a mile from our college, and if either one of us had been more health-conscious or earth-friendly at the time, we would have walked to class/work much more often than we did. Living where we did put us about a mile or two away from where the Naked Redhead was living, and on occasion (okay, on ONE occasion), she and I went running together. On the flip side, we drank together often.

Readers, what was your first apartment like? Was it small? Huge? Did you love it or hate it?

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

However, since it has been all hot-buttony over here with all my talk about vaccinations (read this and this), I point you to one of our previous cross-over blog exchanges on the topic of circumcision. Or better put, intactness.

• and other times post on circumcision

Red’s post on circumcision (apparently) hasn’t been moved over to her new site yet, but believe me when I tell you, she came around to my way of thinking… eventually. (=

Also, I invite you to take some time exploring the Crossover Blog archive both here and on Red’s site.

Happy weekend everyone!

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

Would you believe me if I told you that before conceiving Jude, I never once got scared that I was (unexpectedly) pregnant? No? It’s the truth! In the months leading up to Jude’s actual conception, there were a few months where I thought I might be pregnant, but they weren’t pregnancy scares–they were pregnancy hopefuls.

But let me tell you… you know what *is* scary? When you realize, even after many months of planning and trying, that HOLY SHIT, YOU’RE PREGNANT! And, A BABY’S GOING TO COME OUT OF WHERE? And, WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S GOING TO BE A FULL-SIZED BABY? And, HAVE I MENTIONED, HOLY SHIT?!?!?

There were a few times during my pregnancy when I stopped, looked at Josh, and said, “You know. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.” Each time, that statement was met with silence and an understanding look. As the weeks ticked by and we got closer and closer to Jude’s arrival, I often was overwhelmed with the thought that there was a baby in my belly, and soon I was going to have to care for him. And then I would throw up a little bit in my mouth.

So, while I was lucky to escape the traditional “pregnancy scare” that many, many women deal with, I still had to deal with 41 weeks and 3 days of sheer terror at the thought of A BABY IS GOING TO COME OUT OF MY VAGINA. HOLY SHIT.

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

Because I cannot, for the life of, remember my very first date, for today’s “Friday Firsts,” I offer you a series of short summaries of various first dates from my past. Ahem.

First date with that guy from the gym: I think we went out to dinner. Can’t remember where. I do remember that he refused to let me pay for anything. Nice, but kind of annoying. Duration of “relationship”: about two dates.

First date with that guy from my Psychology class in college: Putt-putt and ice cream. Loser pays (that would be me). Guy spent entire night talking about how smart he was. Showed no mercy in putt-putt. Duration of “relationship”: again, about two dates.

First date with that horn player in that one obscure ska band: I don’t think we ever went on a date. Once we went to a Greek place and got a falafel sandwich. Duration of “relationship”: two years of hopeless pathetic-ness on my part. Probably about five seconds on his.

First date with that guy who said I was a horrible lay: Who the fuck cares? That guy was a dick face.

First date with Josh, my amazing husband, and the love of my life: One weekend in late April 2002. We talked and got to know one another, we went out for dinner, we played pool at the Arena in Moosic, PA. Duration of relationship: Nearly seven years. More specifically, 2283 days.

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

(Read about Red’s first over at The Naked Redhead.)

I remember him vividly. I had just woken up from having a biopsy done in the hospital, and it seemed like some force threw him into my recovery bed. I grabbed him around the next and pulled his dark body close to mine. Then, as I sucked on one of his oversized ears, I fell back to sleep.

His name was Sammy, and we went everywhere together. I loved him so, so much. I still do, actually. Lucky for me, he’s tucked safe and sound inside one of the Rubbermaid bins that are sitting inside my closet.

Huh? Oh! No…I don’t have a person stuffed in a Rubbermaid bin! Silly people of the internets. I’m talking about Sammy… my stuffed dog? The one I got when I had my kidneys biopsied when I was little? I never mentioned him before? Oh. Sorry for the confusion.

You know, if you asked me to write about my first love seven or eight years ago, I might talk about some trumpet player in some ska band. If you asked me to write about my first love ten years ago, I would talk about a wrestler/football player/meatball who was my bestfriend back then. If you asked me to write about my first love twelve years ago, I might mention a boy I met while playing softball in Virginia Beach. (Useless trivia: all three guys had the same first name. Also, they were all losers. Weird how that happened). In each instance, I would have been wrong. I would unknowingly have been telling a lie.

Josh is my first love. He’s the first guy who, after the initial excitement and passion wore off, brought new excitement and passion into my life. He’s the only guy who, after almost seven years, still makes my heart flutter when he comes home at night. He’s the only person who has ever loved me fully; not only in spite of my shortcoming and quirks, but *because* of my shortcomings and quirks. He’s my first love and my only love. The only love I’ll ever need.

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!

(Read about Red’s “first” over at The Naked Redhead)

While Red operates under a fairly thick veil of anonymity over at The Naked Redhead, I make no effort to hide my identity. Because of this, and because I know that my Pop reads this blog, I hesitate to go into any detail about my, uhm, first time.

That said, what little I can tell you, surely speaks for itself.

Ahem:

I was about 17, and when the deed had been done, he looked at me and said, “That was the worst sex I’ve ever had.”

True story.

Want more? Check out the Crossover Blog archive!