Many, many people call me Mother Earth, but I find that cumbersome. You can call me Liz. I’m a new mom and right now my gig is raising a toddler and writing this blog. I have a master’s degree in Social Work and also spent several years working as a professional photographer. I contribute regularly to The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, and BLUNTmoms, and my work has been featured on Mamapedia and Bon Bon Break, among others. I was just nominated for an Iris Award as “Breakout of the Year” at the Mom 2.0 Summit.
So yeah, I’m pretty fancy.
But enough with all that, let’s get to the important stuff.
With an Irish father and Armenian mother, I enjoy pubs and can survive harsh winters. As a little guy my son Nolan resembled a baby wolverine on account of his back hair, which I attribute to my mother’s side of the family.
I spent much of my 20’s adventuring in a way that did not seem likely to lead me here. After a variety of thrilling experiences (being bitten by a stray, possibly rabid mountain dog in Peru, allowing a drunk Canadian to cut me a mullet mere days before serving as maid of honor in my friend’s wedding, and finding myself in a Turkish Bath with two elderly, topless women eager to bathe me using only Brillo pads), I’ve come out on the other side of things, ready to take all of this hard earned wisdom and pass it on to my child.
Eventually the rabies shots lost their sting, the mullet grew out, and I remembered why it is that Armenians are nervous in Turkey (it’s not on account of the genocide, it’s the bath thing). The dust settled, so to speak, and I met my husband Brian on Match.com, using the dubious strategy of searching only within a one mile radius of my house. This is a good strategy if you want to date your mailman (check!) and in my case proved fruitful in the husband search as well. This may or may not be because Brian and I quickly adopted the relationship motto of “Good Enough!”
Somewhere during the last year, after one wedding and one child, it dawned on me that I’m married to a male Donna Reed. And thank goodness for that, because my domestic skills are on par with a frat boy’s. I still enjoy ‘straight-armed drinking,’ which is pretty much what it sounds like. Invented by my college roommates, it involves locking your elbows and basically dumping beer on your face in a vague attempt to hit your mouth. (Side note: It is not a great idea to straight-arm a $15 martini, what with the wide-brimmed nature of a martini glass, sugary nature of the alcohol that sticks to your face, and most obviously THE WASTE OF FIFTEEN DOLLARS. The game is better suited to a Bud Light).
In pretty much every load of laundry I shrink one of my own sweaters to a size that is too small for even Nolan. I have never once separated darks and whites in the wash, much to Brian’s despair. I have been wearing my former maternity pants as newly branded “buffet pants,” and while I have lived in sweats for years only now do I feel that the “letting myself go” process is socially sanctioned (thank you, baby Nolan!) I do not know how to make lasagna, which yes shows a deficit in the kitchen but which also makes it all the more unbelievable that I made a child!
And here is my child, in all of his glory. Interested in baby boudoir? Nolan’s your man.