Scene: Minivan pulls up to daycare. Mom unloads a preschooler and a baby. Preschooler looks at storm drainage ravine.
KID: Mommy, when it rains, that fills with water like a river.
MOM: Yup.
KID: If I fell in, I would float away!
MOM: Yup. That’s why we stay away from the edge, right?
KID: Yes, Mama, I be careful. <approaches mother, grabs her leg in a vice grip> If I fell in and floated away, I’d be lonely and just so sad all the time.
MOM: <touched that her child is so sweet and loves her so much> Oh, sweetie, I’d be sad, too! So let’s be careful!
KID: I’d cry a lot. I’d just miss Grandma so much!!!
MOM:
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Magic time machine
Like many people in this age of cell phones, I don’t wear a watch.
So I was more than a little taken aback a few nights ago when I announced to Drew it was time for bed and he held his finger up to me – wait a minute, mom – and looked at his (bare) wrist and said “Nope! My watch says it’s time for one more show!”
Since then, this magical watch has informed Drew that it is also not time for a bath, poop goes in pull ups and not the potty, and dinner should be chocolate and not ravioli. So, well, ok, the watch may have been ok on that last one.
This is the sort of thing no parenting book can preare you for. There are chapters on hitting and biting, on nutrition and discipline, but no one can tell you how to counter the imaginary watch that is your childs id come to life.
So first I had my own watch.
“Well, Mommy’s watch says you have to eat grapes and not puzzle pieces for a snack.”
How did that go over? Not so great. Apparently I didn’t sell it enough, because he pointed out, quite reasonably, that I was not wearing a watch.
Taking a page from his book, when the Watch told him that it was time to go to the playground despite the cold rain, I mentioned to him that I didn’t see a watch. That was met with the Look. The look that says You stupid, stupid grown up. You think you know so much, but you are really clueless. and “Mommy. My watch is a KID watch. You can’t see it.”
Umm, ok.
So now we are just going with “yeah, I know your watch says you need a different sippy cup, but until your watch can get you one, seems like you are out of luck.” I am not getting ahead with this approach, but I am at least holding ground.
Secretly, I love the watch. And I love the kids imagination. But don’t tell him that. I don’t want to go to the playground today. It’s like 40 degrees!
So I was more than a little taken aback a few nights ago when I announced to Drew it was time for bed and he held his finger up to me – wait a minute, mom – and looked at his (bare) wrist and said “Nope! My watch says it’s time for one more show!”
Since then, this magical watch has informed Drew that it is also not time for a bath, poop goes in pull ups and not the potty, and dinner should be chocolate and not ravioli. So, well, ok, the watch may have been ok on that last one.
This is the sort of thing no parenting book can preare you for. There are chapters on hitting and biting, on nutrition and discipline, but no one can tell you how to counter the imaginary watch that is your childs id come to life.
So first I had my own watch.
“Well, Mommy’s watch says you have to eat grapes and not puzzle pieces for a snack.”
How did that go over? Not so great. Apparently I didn’t sell it enough, because he pointed out, quite reasonably, that I was not wearing a watch.
Taking a page from his book, when the Watch told him that it was time to go to the playground despite the cold rain, I mentioned to him that I didn’t see a watch. That was met with the Look. The look that says You stupid, stupid grown up. You think you know so much, but you are really clueless. and “Mommy. My watch is a KID watch. You can’t see it.”
Umm, ok.
So now we are just going with “yeah, I know your watch says you need a different sippy cup, but until your watch can get you one, seems like you are out of luck.” I am not getting ahead with this approach, but I am at least holding ground.
Secretly, I love the watch. And I love the kids imagination. But don’t tell him that. I don’t want to go to the playground today. It’s like 40 degrees!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
memories
Isn’t it funny how the most commonplace things can suddenly take you back to another place or time? The weather here has been cool, and after a summer of the house hermetically sealed in air conditioned comfort, it has been nice to open all the windows and let the fresh air in. We have all the windows open, and today as I was leaving the guest room, the little gust of air from the window made the door sound a certain hollow way as I closed it, and I was suddenly transported back in time to my father’s mother’s house. The door just shut the exact same way. Weird. I felt like a little kid. My grandmothers house was just a place of love. Noschool, only the books we wanted to read, those little boxes of cereal for breakfast with raisin toast and, honestly, whatever else you wanted Grandmother (never GrandMA!) to make for you. Aunts and uncles in and out of the house, the obligitory single afternoon at “Other Grandma’s” house (after which we were relieved to return to her house!), and little bowls of Hershey kisses everywhere. My whole family seemed happier. Now that I have my own inlaws and have a more adult perspective of the relationship my mother had with my fathers parents, I am sure that the adult visits were somewhat less carefree than mine, but they did a great job of hiding all of that from us kids.
I miss my grandmother. She would have loved to see her great grandkids, and I am so, so sorry that she never got to. My son is named after her husband and my dad. I remember being enveloped in hugs of Estee Lauder perfume, her always bright red fingernails (a lady always has her nails done!) and her smile. Many times I’d catch her watching us play, with a fantastic smile on her face – she was always just so happy, as she said, to have her house noisy again.
So I cherish the moments when I flash back to something that reminds me of her, that might make me feel like she’s still here. I feel a tug of pain, but then a relief that I can still feel that way – something more than just a 2 dimensional memory.
I miss my grandmother. She would have loved to see her great grandkids, and I am so, so sorry that she never got to. My son is named after her husband and my dad. I remember being enveloped in hugs of Estee Lauder perfume, her always bright red fingernails (a lady always has her nails done!) and her smile. Many times I’d catch her watching us play, with a fantastic smile on her face – she was always just so happy, as she said, to have her house noisy again.
So I cherish the moments when I flash back to something that reminds me of her, that might make me feel like she’s still here. I feel a tug of pain, but then a relief that I can still feel that way – something more than just a 2 dimensional memory.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Selfless
I suffered from a vicious stomach bug this weekend. Ugh. I’ll spare you details. Because I am nice like that. :P
Drew was mostly very accomodating about the fact that I was essentially out of service for a full day. I nested in my bed, Cliff brought me the baby when he needed to eat, and I slept. Occasionally, I’d wake up to find Drew playing very quietly next to me, or find that he had left me a stuffed Darth Vader on my pillow or tucked a toy in next to me, in case I woke up and was bored.
When I woke up in the late afternoon, feeling a bit better, I saw that he was playing at the foot of my bed.
ME: How you doing, kiddo?
DREW: Mama, do you think some M an’ M’s woudl make your tummy feel better?
ME: No, sweetie. It’s nice of you to think of me, but I don’t think I want any M&M’s right now.
DREW: Well, then, maybe I could have them.
Selfless, that one.
Drew was mostly very accomodating about the fact that I was essentially out of service for a full day. I nested in my bed, Cliff brought me the baby when he needed to eat, and I slept. Occasionally, I’d wake up to find Drew playing very quietly next to me, or find that he had left me a stuffed Darth Vader on my pillow or tucked a toy in next to me, in case I woke up and was bored.
When I woke up in the late afternoon, feeling a bit better, I saw that he was playing at the foot of my bed.
ME: How you doing, kiddo?
DREW: Mama, do you think some M an’ M’s woudl make your tummy feel better?
ME: No, sweetie. It’s nice of you to think of me, but I don’t think I want any M&M’s right now.
DREW: Well, then, maybe I could have them.
Selfless, that one.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Let's make a deal
When Cliff and I were in Morocco last year, we bought a gorgeous rug for our foyer. Because that’s what you do in Morocco. I had read up on all the places we were going, and everything I read about Morocco talked about the shopping — more to the point, the bargaining process. The price they give you is not the real price, it’s all about negotiation. I was not happy to hear that. I am not much of a bargainer. I once bought a (lovely, kitchy, delightfully tacky!) bust of Elvis from a flea market. I asked the lady the price, it seemed fair enough in comparison to how very much I wanted a bust of Elvis (having been thus far eluded by my Dream Art — an actual black velvet Elvis painting), and I wrote her a check. She about passed out on the spot to have received her first offer. But that, to me, is the way things should work. I have a Thing that I want to sell. I think it is worth X dollars. If you want to buy the Thing and think it is worth X dollars, buy it. If you think it is not worth X dollars, walk away. So nice, so tidy.
In any case, centuries of custom in Africa do not agree, and bargaining is where it’s at. I was lucky to be with Cliff, an avowed bargainer who, as a salesman, really knows the ins and outs and can drive a deal home. Yay. We got a pretty rug, and we paid more than a fair price for it.
I think, though, that now I could have procured an even better deal. If I were in Morocco today, I wager I could bring home an even nicer rug for damn near free of charge. Why my sudden increased confidence in my negotiating abilities?
I have a THREE year old. :|
My life is now nothing but a series of negotiations. He wants 40 colored Goldfishies right before dinner? How about 5? He counters with 30. I offer 10, but in his favorite bowl that I then have to wash, not in a plastic baggie. He proposes 25, and he won’t throw himself on the floor of the kitchen and lay there for a half hour, motionless and silent, in protest against my Goldfish Tyranny. We reach an agreement – a reasonable 15 Goldfishies, in a plastic baggie, with one screeching wail of “Mooooooore Goooldfishieeeeeesssss!!!!”, but no floor collapse.
And the deal is done.
In any case, centuries of custom in Africa do not agree, and bargaining is where it’s at. I was lucky to be with Cliff, an avowed bargainer who, as a salesman, really knows the ins and outs and can drive a deal home. Yay. We got a pretty rug, and we paid more than a fair price for it.
I think, though, that now I could have procured an even better deal. If I were in Morocco today, I wager I could bring home an even nicer rug for damn near free of charge. Why my sudden increased confidence in my negotiating abilities?
I have a THREE year old. :|
My life is now nothing but a series of negotiations. He wants 40 colored Goldfishies right before dinner? How about 5? He counters with 30. I offer 10, but in his favorite bowl that I then have to wash, not in a plastic baggie. He proposes 25, and he won’t throw himself on the floor of the kitchen and lay there for a half hour, motionless and silent, in protest against my Goldfish Tyranny. We reach an agreement – a reasonable 15 Goldfishies, in a plastic baggie, with one screeching wail of “Mooooooore Goooldfishieeeeeesssss!!!!”, but no floor collapse.
And the deal is done.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Looks like I was right to be concerned
When Drew was first born, I was terribly terribly concerned that he was a boy. I thought “Geez, it’s cute, but what the hell am I supposed to DO with it?” Coming from a family of all girls except for Dad, I felt a little like someone who had grown up with a dog but was suddenly handed a goldfish.
In one particularly distressing moment, I was opening some mail shortly after Drew had arrived. There was a nice greeting card in a blue envelope – a congratulations card! On the front flap of the card was a little sketch of a crib, covered in blankets like a little tent with a hand drawn sign that said “No girlz alowed!”. I think I cried for a half hour. That was my greatest fear – that’s what I was terrified of. Being shut out of some all boys club, only by MY boy. Not scared I wouldn’t love him enough, but that I would love him SO, SO much, but someday he would look at me and see just a girl. Now, of course, I realize how silly that all was, that he will never see me as a girl, I will just always be Mommy. And I can’t imagine my life as anything other than a mom to my rough and tumble boys, full of match box cars and dinosaurs.
But I was in the bookstore yesterday (Ahhh………the pleasant oasis of a half hour at the bookstore!) and I stopped by the parenting section, just to browse. I noticed a large segment of books dedicated to raising boys. Bringing Up Boys. The Wonder of Boys. Raising Boys. Raising Boys To Be Like Jesus. (!?!?!?!) Raising Cain (What is with the religious theme?) Don’t Screw This Up Or He’ll Be A Serial Killer.
Ok. I made the last one up. But here I had spent the first three months of Drew’s life convincing myself that all my concerns about him being a boy and my implied culpability at being to blame if he grew up to be a crazyperson were all just silly worried rantings of a post partum mind! The parenting section of the local Barnes and Noble seems to have a differing opinion. The authors of these books seem, based on breezy glances at the back covers, to believe that it IS something different to raise a boy, and that it WILL be my fault when, as a teen, he is either so absurdly hyper masculine that he joins a high school biker gang and holds up local liquor stores or conversely demands tickets to every traveling musical production that hits town and refuses to leave the house without his Little Orphan Annie wig and patent leather Mary Janes. Either way, IT’S ALL MY FAULT.
Meh. As I turned to leave, the weight of my two precious boys future perched squarely on my shoulders, I noticed they also had a similar section for girls. Relief! If I was struggling to find balance between motorcycles and Playbills, then my girl mom friends had to worry about Heidi Fleiss versus Heidi Klum. And I stopped being worried. I don’t really suppose there IS much difference, not really. I don’t need to know how to raise Boys. I need to know how to raise Drew and Zachary. And as it happens, the only experts on that are them.
In one particularly distressing moment, I was opening some mail shortly after Drew had arrived. There was a nice greeting card in a blue envelope – a congratulations card! On the front flap of the card was a little sketch of a crib, covered in blankets like a little tent with a hand drawn sign that said “No girlz alowed!”. I think I cried for a half hour. That was my greatest fear – that’s what I was terrified of. Being shut out of some all boys club, only by MY boy. Not scared I wouldn’t love him enough, but that I would love him SO, SO much, but someday he would look at me and see just a girl. Now, of course, I realize how silly that all was, that he will never see me as a girl, I will just always be Mommy. And I can’t imagine my life as anything other than a mom to my rough and tumble boys, full of match box cars and dinosaurs.
But I was in the bookstore yesterday (Ahhh………the pleasant oasis of a half hour at the bookstore!) and I stopped by the parenting section, just to browse. I noticed a large segment of books dedicated to raising boys. Bringing Up Boys. The Wonder of Boys. Raising Boys. Raising Boys To Be Like Jesus. (!?!?!?!) Raising Cain (What is with the religious theme?) Don’t Screw This Up Or He’ll Be A Serial Killer.
Ok. I made the last one up. But here I had spent the first three months of Drew’s life convincing myself that all my concerns about him being a boy and my implied culpability at being to blame if he grew up to be a crazyperson were all just silly worried rantings of a post partum mind! The parenting section of the local Barnes and Noble seems to have a differing opinion. The authors of these books seem, based on breezy glances at the back covers, to believe that it IS something different to raise a boy, and that it WILL be my fault when, as a teen, he is either so absurdly hyper masculine that he joins a high school biker gang and holds up local liquor stores or conversely demands tickets to every traveling musical production that hits town and refuses to leave the house without his Little Orphan Annie wig and patent leather Mary Janes. Either way, IT’S ALL MY FAULT.
Meh. As I turned to leave, the weight of my two precious boys future perched squarely on my shoulders, I noticed they also had a similar section for girls. Relief! If I was struggling to find balance between motorcycles and Playbills, then my girl mom friends had to worry about Heidi Fleiss versus Heidi Klum. And I stopped being worried. I don’t really suppose there IS much difference, not really. I don’t need to know how to raise Boys. I need to know how to raise Drew and Zachary. And as it happens, the only experts on that are them.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Drew robot
Drew wore this box around the house all day Saturday. He told me he was Drew Robot (complete with robot voice). Drew Robot has been an off and on inhabitant of our house for some time, but it’s the first time he had an outfit. I admit to only adding the eye and arm holes after a couple of hours. I wanted to see how long he’d walk around the house, blind and armless, bumping into walls and furniture. The second time I caught the lamp (my gorgeous, tacky, gypsy beaded lamp) right before it crashed to the floor I decided the eye hole was a good idea. There were a couple of cry worthy bumps – primarily because he’d put his robot box on my bed, and then crawl into it and try to move around. The cardboard would start to slip, and he’d careen out of control off the bed into the wall or the nightstand or whatever else was in his way. Not that it slowed him down one bit – just a kiss on the booboo, a mechanical “tank yew, mommy!”, and he was back in the box. After the eye and arm holes were taken care of and a strict No Robots On Mommy’s Bed policy was enacted, it was just good times for all. I did refuse to make robot boxes for Zachary or the dog. It just seemed best.
And I have started to think about Halloween. A smaller box (the head) stacked on a larger box (the body)? Covered in tin foil? Clothes dryer ductwork for arms and legs? Hello?!?!?!?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Where being a dork in high school finally pays off. Kind of. I think.
Last night Cliff arranged a get together for my friends at a local restaurant and arcade type place for my birthday. Dinner was fun, and I got a turtle ice cream cake. Not too shabby. Once we had kids (and certainly since we had two!) time spent with friends out of the house is in short supply, and I had a really great time catching up and eating hot food, without having to get up to refill a sippy cup or grab another fork or share my plate with anyone. Even though Cliff did steal my last bite of cheese stick.
My game of choice at the ol’ arcade is trivia. I know, I know. Hello, bookworm/dork/geek/nerd/total tool. Nevertheless, I suck at everything else, and I enjoy trading my tickets for value-inflated crappy trinkets I would never, ever buy outside of that situation. As a cursory nod to maturity, I now trade them for crap I can give to my kids. Mostly because I can no longer get away with fake tattoos and glitter hair gel.
There were six slots at the trivia game. Five were full – three with some sort of family group, and a couple that was about as drunk as could possibly be seemly at 6pm on a Sunday evening. The guy was your average frat boy, plus 10 years. But still sporting the backwards baseball cap. In other words, kind of a douchebag, you could tell just by looking at him. But you knew he had played his drunken charm for all it was worth – he had that weird sense of entitlement about him. He had clearly been dominating the game up to that point, and when I took a seat, he called out to me “Are you ready to play?”
Well, yeah. I sat down didn’t I? I said “yeah, sure I am”. I thought he was just being polite and making sure I was in the game before the time limit to join in had passed. Apparently not. He leaned further forward and asked again, louder “Yeah, but are you ready to PLAY?” Oh sure, DrunkMan. It’s on.
I totally kicked his ass. It was awesome, and I am a geek enough to admit I enjoyed each and every time I got an answer right and heard his groan of defeat. After one game, he leaned over to his ladyfriend and drunk-whispered that he wanted to leave and do something else, that he didn’t like losing. After two games, he stood up, ripped off her string of tickets*, and told me “I don’t like playing with you. You are smarter than me. Do you know how that makes me feel?” and took off. I suppose I was supposed to…………….what? Coddle his ego and lose so that he could impress his way into LadyFriends drawers? Sorry, dude. My payoff for being a total wallflower dweeb from the ages of 13 until, well…..STILL NOW while you no doubt played big man on campus and had, you know, DATES comes now. Boo-yah!
So there’s your lesson, kids. Read a bunch of books, skip those keggers, and one day in your mid thirties you, too, can kick some drunk guys ass at video trivia. Do you really need a better reason to do well in school?
*My advice to the scantily clad LadyFriend? Bail, honey. And bail fast. No dude who would reach across you and rip off your tickets and walk away with them can be any good for you. :P
My game of choice at the ol’ arcade is trivia. I know, I know. Hello, bookworm/dork/geek/nerd/total tool. Nevertheless, I suck at everything else, and I enjoy trading my tickets for value-inflated crappy trinkets I would never, ever buy outside of that situation. As a cursory nod to maturity, I now trade them for crap I can give to my kids. Mostly because I can no longer get away with fake tattoos and glitter hair gel.
There were six slots at the trivia game. Five were full – three with some sort of family group, and a couple that was about as drunk as could possibly be seemly at 6pm on a Sunday evening. The guy was your average frat boy, plus 10 years. But still sporting the backwards baseball cap. In other words, kind of a douchebag, you could tell just by looking at him. But you knew he had played his drunken charm for all it was worth – he had that weird sense of entitlement about him. He had clearly been dominating the game up to that point, and when I took a seat, he called out to me “Are you ready to play?”
Well, yeah. I sat down didn’t I? I said “yeah, sure I am”. I thought he was just being polite and making sure I was in the game before the time limit to join in had passed. Apparently not. He leaned further forward and asked again, louder “Yeah, but are you ready to PLAY?” Oh sure, DrunkMan. It’s on.
I totally kicked his ass. It was awesome, and I am a geek enough to admit I enjoyed each and every time I got an answer right and heard his groan of defeat. After one game, he leaned over to his ladyfriend and drunk-whispered that he wanted to leave and do something else, that he didn’t like losing. After two games, he stood up, ripped off her string of tickets*, and told me “I don’t like playing with you. You are smarter than me. Do you know how that makes me feel?” and took off. I suppose I was supposed to…………….what? Coddle his ego and lose so that he could impress his way into LadyFriends drawers? Sorry, dude. My payoff for being a total wallflower dweeb from the ages of 13 until, well…..STILL NOW while you no doubt played big man on campus and had, you know, DATES comes now. Boo-yah!
So there’s your lesson, kids. Read a bunch of books, skip those keggers, and one day in your mid thirties you, too, can kick some drunk guys ass at video trivia. Do you really need a better reason to do well in school?
*My advice to the scantily clad LadyFriend? Bail, honey. And bail fast. No dude who would reach across you and rip off your tickets and walk away with them can be any good for you. :P
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
My old room was.......
My old room was messy. Thats’ what everyone who ever saw my old room would say. My room now, too, for that matter. I describe my room currently as “cluttered but not dirty”. My teenager room, though……..yeah, dirty works. Piles of clothes and shoes and papers and the detrius of high school and part time jobs and drama and angst. It was a particularly noxious shade of purple, with darker, even purple-er baseboards. I loved that color. It was like being inside a marshmallow peep, and it gave my parents indigestion, which made it even more appealing. I had a drafting table as a desk, just because I thought that was cool. In reality, it was a horrible desk functionally, with no drawers or places to put things, covered in magazines and old homework and makeup. My bed was a twin (OH! the indignity! I thought at the time a full would be so much more promising, wink-wink), and generally covered with clothes that had to be shoved down to the foot of the bed when it was time to sleep. That was it for furniture. No drawers. For some reason, my family was vehemently anti-dresser drawer, or at least it seemed so to me. There was no manifesto against them or anything, but not even my parents had dressers. My sisters and I had one at one time when we shared a room, but it did not end up in my room when we separated. Cindy would have wanted the drawer, as she was unfailingly neat and organized and tidy, and I would have wanted it and been denied on the basis of doubts I was capable of putting it to good use. I can hear my mother now “you don’t put your clothes in the closet, what makes you think you will put them in a drawer?”. I am sure it sounded totally unfair at the time, but since I currently have both dresser drawers AND piles of clothes all over the room, I forgive her in retrospect. There wasn’t room in there anyway, really.
I had one window, which I never snuck out of. I snuck a boy or two in, but I never left. Somehow my thought process led me to believe that if I were caught with a boy in my room it would be Bad, no doubt, but if I was just missing and they didn’t know where I was……..well, I’d not only have to pay for whatever it was I’d been off doing and also the wrath of the worried parent. Thanks, but no thanks. I was in enough trouble for the things I really did, I was in no mood to get in trouble for all The Things That Might Have Happened. Of course, I say that with ease because I never did get caught with a boy in my room. And no, mom, I won’t tell you who.
I had one window, which I never snuck out of. I snuck a boy or two in, but I never left. Somehow my thought process led me to believe that if I were caught with a boy in my room it would be Bad, no doubt, but if I was just missing and they didn’t know where I was……..well, I’d not only have to pay for whatever it was I’d been off doing and also the wrath of the worried parent. Thanks, but no thanks. I was in enough trouble for the things I really did, I was in no mood to get in trouble for all The Things That Might Have Happened. Of course, I say that with ease because I never did get caught with a boy in my room. And no, mom, I won’t tell you who.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Bag Lady
Six. A half dozen.
That’s the MINIMUM number of bags it takes me to get out of the house in the morning.
Breastpump, Drew’s daycare gear, Zachary’s daycare gear, laptop bag, my lunch, Zachary’s bottles. I stopped carrying a purse a long time ago, or it might be seven. I am not including the baby carrier (complete with baby), nor the random one off things like food for daycare parties, extra clothes for splash day, or items for show and tell. That is insane. I am loaded down like a pack mule, and I watch my husband leave for work in the morning with ………………….KEYS. And maybe a coffee. (COFFEE!?!?!?!?)
I have done all that I can to pare down what I take along, but I can genuinely say that I need every bag I have. I’d like to think that someday I will be able to shed a bag or two, but I know full well that the diaper bag will give way to a bag of cleats and shin guards for soccer practice, the breast pump will morph into the kids school bags, the kids will need their own lunches, and so on and so forth. I can do almost any job in the world one handed, and I can carry a totally unseemly number of grocery bags into the house at one time. Is it any wonder my back is killing me?
When you see commericals and talk shows that talk about the modern working mother, struggling to juggle a bunch of different balls, don’t be fooled. They aren’t balls. They are BAGS.
That’s the MINIMUM number of bags it takes me to get out of the house in the morning.
Breastpump, Drew’s daycare gear, Zachary’s daycare gear, laptop bag, my lunch, Zachary’s bottles. I stopped carrying a purse a long time ago, or it might be seven. I am not including the baby carrier (complete with baby), nor the random one off things like food for daycare parties, extra clothes for splash day, or items for show and tell. That is insane. I am loaded down like a pack mule, and I watch my husband leave for work in the morning with ………………….KEYS. And maybe a coffee. (COFFEE!?!?!?!?)
I have done all that I can to pare down what I take along, but I can genuinely say that I need every bag I have. I’d like to think that someday I will be able to shed a bag or two, but I know full well that the diaper bag will give way to a bag of cleats and shin guards for soccer practice, the breast pump will morph into the kids school bags, the kids will need their own lunches, and so on and so forth. I can do almost any job in the world one handed, and I can carry a totally unseemly number of grocery bags into the house at one time. Is it any wonder my back is killing me?
When you see commericals and talk shows that talk about the modern working mother, struggling to juggle a bunch of different balls, don’t be fooled. They aren’t balls. They are BAGS.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Zachary
Our honeymoon is over and it is back to Real Life. I have to go back to work tomorrow, and our little days of one on one cuddles come to an end. I will miss that so much.
You have grown SO much since we brought you home, a wee little (well, not SO little!) thing who never cried, just mewled like a cat when he was hungry, whose eyes we delighted in seeing open because it happened so rarely. Now you are really coming into your personality – you babble and talk happily all the time and the smiles and giggles are plentiful. You are such a happy little man. We prop you up in the corner of the couch and you hang out, watching your big brother’s shenanigans and occasionally getting sucked in my the mesmerizing twirl of the ceiling fan. You sleep wonderfully. I am trying not to get too cocky about that, since your brother was a great sleeper till I went back to work, too. We will see, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep in mind that Mommy likes to sleep foe 6 or so hours in a row. She likes it a LOT.
You are going to your big brothers school, and the same ladies who watched him as a baby will have and love you. I know you will be well cared for, but I will worry and fret and think of you every second anyway.
I am going to miss you so much. Your leg chub, the little fat rolls under your baby chin, your gummy smile and laugh, your milky baby smell.
You have grown SO much since we brought you home, a wee little (well, not SO little!) thing who never cried, just mewled like a cat when he was hungry, whose eyes we delighted in seeing open because it happened so rarely. Now you are really coming into your personality – you babble and talk happily all the time and the smiles and giggles are plentiful. You are such a happy little man. We prop you up in the corner of the couch and you hang out, watching your big brother’s shenanigans and occasionally getting sucked in my the mesmerizing twirl of the ceiling fan. You sleep wonderfully. I am trying not to get too cocky about that, since your brother was a great sleeper till I went back to work, too. We will see, but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep in mind that Mommy likes to sleep foe 6 or so hours in a row. She likes it a LOT.
You are going to your big brothers school, and the same ladies who watched him as a baby will have and love you. I know you will be well cared for, but I will worry and fret and think of you every second anyway.
I am going to miss you so much. Your leg chub, the little fat rolls under your baby chin, your gummy smile and laugh, your milky baby smell.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Buyer Beware
If, perchance, you have a GIANT FUCKING SNAKE, it would behoove you to warn prospective buyers that come to look at your house “Hey, just so you know, behind the door in bedroom number three there is a GIANT FUCKING SNAKE”. This way, you avoid the possibility that someone is going to have a massive coronary in the door way of bedroom number three, and possibly be devoured by the GIANT FUCKING SNAKE before you realize they never came back downstairs.
Just, you know, FYI.
Just, you know, FYI.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Are kids psychic?
How do they know the ONE behavior that will drive you up the frigging wall.
I do a good job with most of the behavior stuff. I’d go so far as to say I am a really patient parent. I keep my cool, I stay calm, I’m not a shouter or a hitter or a name caller. I can address the behavior without targeting the child, I try and understand that most of these foibles are perfectly developmentally appropriate and respond accordingly. Hitting, throwing things, general defiance…………..I’m pretty much ok with those. I can redirect, I can take toys away, I can put him in timeout for egregious offenses. What can I not handle without going crosseyed and seeing RED?
Spitting. OhSweetBabyJesus, SPITTING. Not even spitting-spitting, just blowing raspberries spitting, but it make me absolutley bonkers. I’d rather he just haul off and smack me in the head, honestly. Because that I can at last handle calmly. Sometimes it’s innocent and he’s playing, and I can blow it off, even while secretly being totally grossed out. Because toddlers are, well, excessively MOIST, and while a grown up can stick his tongue out and blow relatively dryly, a toddler raspberry is as best a little like a summer rainshower. At worst, you feel like you are on the front row at a Gallagher show. Only it’s SPIT, the worlds most revolting substance. Even writing this, I am grossed out by the spit in my own mouth. I have not shared a beverage with another person (even my husband!) since middle school. I can’t even eat lollypops or hard candy or gum – it’s just swallowing flavored spit! EEWWWWW!!
So, with my saliva issues, it’s no wonder that when he spits aggressively, to show his displeasure or defiance, it takes every ounce of control in my body not to just come undone. Last night he was in a benign spitting mode, playing games, and while it was generally annoying it was not vindictive and I just bit my tongue, ducked and diverted, and was sorry nursing was preventing me from a nice big glass of merlot. Later, though, he was angry because it was bedtime and I crouched down on his level and was telling him “Sorry, but it’s time for books and then bed.” Little demon blew a big ol’ wet raspberry right in my face. I have never in his whole life even been tempted to spank or strike him, honestly. But there were a few fleeting seconds there where I could see myself smacking him, and I could see it feeling satisfying to be making him as unhappy as I was right in that moment. It would have been totally counterproductive, and it absolutely would have been out of line with my general parenting philosophy, but the vision was there. I suspect he saw it, too, as I found myself adopting the dead calm, flat voice I heard from my father as a child when I had *really* crossed the line.
“Books. Bed. NOW.”
He scrambled to bed with no further incident. But I know it’s a momentary reprieve. No toddler would ever give up such a sure way to get a rise out of a parent. Hell, I am 37 and I still have a few in my pocket in case my folks get out of line!
I do a good job with most of the behavior stuff. I’d go so far as to say I am a really patient parent. I keep my cool, I stay calm, I’m not a shouter or a hitter or a name caller. I can address the behavior without targeting the child, I try and understand that most of these foibles are perfectly developmentally appropriate and respond accordingly. Hitting, throwing things, general defiance…………..I’m pretty much ok with those. I can redirect, I can take toys away, I can put him in timeout for egregious offenses. What can I not handle without going crosseyed and seeing RED?
Spitting. OhSweetBabyJesus, SPITTING. Not even spitting-spitting, just blowing raspberries spitting, but it make me absolutley bonkers. I’d rather he just haul off and smack me in the head, honestly. Because that I can at last handle calmly. Sometimes it’s innocent and he’s playing, and I can blow it off, even while secretly being totally grossed out. Because toddlers are, well, excessively MOIST, and while a grown up can stick his tongue out and blow relatively dryly, a toddler raspberry is as best a little like a summer rainshower. At worst, you feel like you are on the front row at a Gallagher show. Only it’s SPIT, the worlds most revolting substance. Even writing this, I am grossed out by the spit in my own mouth. I have not shared a beverage with another person (even my husband!) since middle school. I can’t even eat lollypops or hard candy or gum – it’s just swallowing flavored spit! EEWWWWW!!
So, with my saliva issues, it’s no wonder that when he spits aggressively, to show his displeasure or defiance, it takes every ounce of control in my body not to just come undone. Last night he was in a benign spitting mode, playing games, and while it was generally annoying it was not vindictive and I just bit my tongue, ducked and diverted, and was sorry nursing was preventing me from a nice big glass of merlot. Later, though, he was angry because it was bedtime and I crouched down on his level and was telling him “Sorry, but it’s time for books and then bed.” Little demon blew a big ol’ wet raspberry right in my face. I have never in his whole life even been tempted to spank or strike him, honestly. But there were a few fleeting seconds there where I could see myself smacking him, and I could see it feeling satisfying to be making him as unhappy as I was right in that moment. It would have been totally counterproductive, and it absolutely would have been out of line with my general parenting philosophy, but the vision was there. I suspect he saw it, too, as I found myself adopting the dead calm, flat voice I heard from my father as a child when I had *really* crossed the line.
“Books. Bed. NOW.”
He scrambled to bed with no further incident. But I know it’s a momentary reprieve. No toddler would ever give up such a sure way to get a rise out of a parent. Hell, I am 37 and I still have a few in my pocket in case my folks get out of line!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Like the Nestea plunge in your pants
So potty training was a dismal failure. Oh, well. I went out and bought some more Pull Ups. We usually get a combo pack at costco that has night time ones and daytime ones. The learning design kind that has a picture that fades when it gets wet. I went to Target this time, and saw the cool ones that get cold when they get wet instead. Fantastic!, I thought. He’ll be able to feel when he wets, and maybe that will help.
So I put one on him. An hour or so later I see him grabbing his, ahem, area and notice the design is different, so I ask if he peed. He says yes. I say “Oh, Drew, did it get all cold? Doesn’t that feel yucky?”
“Oh, no, Mama! I LIKE it! It feels niiiiiiiice.”
Crap. They shouldn’t sell those in Texas. Apparently, they just feel refreshing.
So I put one on him. An hour or so later I see him grabbing his, ahem, area and notice the design is different, so I ask if he peed. He says yes. I say “Oh, Drew, did it get all cold? Doesn’t that feel yucky?”
“Oh, no, Mama! I LIKE it! It feels niiiiiiiice.”
Crap. They shouldn’t sell those in Texas. Apparently, they just feel refreshing.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
What does that even MEAN!?!?!?
From the “certified fitter” at the specialty nursing clothing store:
Crap. I suppose I have to take her at her word. She’s a professional.
“Well, I don’t know what to try. That bra is the right size, but your breasts seem to be the wrong shape for it.”
Friday, March 6, 2009
Florence Nightengale I am not.
Cliff has the flu.
I should point out that I have a sort of weird fear of sickness in the best of times. The word “paranoia” is probably appropriate. Thirty eight weeks pregnant is NOT the best of times, so that paranoia is kicking into overdrive.
My abject fear of sickness is something I have always had, and while having a child tempers it somewhat (Hello, daycare, festering swamp of Germiness!), it remains. I think it is partially just that, hey, duh, no one likes to be sick, but that fact coupled with some bizarre work ethic that means that I am incapable of slowing down until my body actually begins to crumple to the floor on it’s own accord means that I am doubly wary. In the three years since I have had the adorable germ fest we call our Drew, I have called in sick for ME being sick exactly three times. All involving grotesque stomach bugs that rendered me literally physically unable to move off of the bathroom floor. All the colds and sniffles and various other ailments I contracted courtesy of all the kids in his daycare preferring to chew on toys some other runny nosed kid had already chewed on? Miserable, for sure, but I was still trucking it up to work, keepin’ on keepin’ on. No leisurely afternoons on the couch watching reruns of Ellen and bad Lifetime movies for me.
So, poor Cliff. He is really sick. This is, for once, no man cold. But because of my girth and other circumstances – -like Drew’s asthma meaning I am doubly fearful HE will get the flu, my total lack of patience, the fact that I could go into labor at literally any second and then have to deal with thorny questions about exposing a newborn and the rest of the maternity ward to FluDaddy — he’s not getting much by way of tea and sympathy. Instead he gets conversations from across the room, nagging about whether or not he’s on top of his medicine and staying hydrated, and some crazy ass giant pregnant lady following him around with Lysol wipes, swabbing down everything he touches. Sometimes before he even puts it down. If we had Hazmat suits, I feel certain I would be employing them.
I am feeling very pressured. For the flu, it’s best if the Little Man stays put until at least after the weekend. But then we get into a weird place with Drew — he was going to stay at my sisters for the 3 or so days I am in the hospital, but she leaves town Thursday for a week. So if the baby doesn’t come by Monday-ish, then I am going to be hoping he stays put until she gets back and after Drew’s birthday, which is the 19th. Do you sense my controlfreaky side threatening to take over? Yeah, I do, too.
So, zen……………ZEN, dammit! Babies come when they come. Right?
I should point out that I have a sort of weird fear of sickness in the best of times. The word “paranoia” is probably appropriate. Thirty eight weeks pregnant is NOT the best of times, so that paranoia is kicking into overdrive.
My abject fear of sickness is something I have always had, and while having a child tempers it somewhat (Hello, daycare, festering swamp of Germiness!), it remains. I think it is partially just that, hey, duh, no one likes to be sick, but that fact coupled with some bizarre work ethic that means that I am incapable of slowing down until my body actually begins to crumple to the floor on it’s own accord means that I am doubly wary. In the three years since I have had the adorable germ fest we call our Drew, I have called in sick for ME being sick exactly three times. All involving grotesque stomach bugs that rendered me literally physically unable to move off of the bathroom floor. All the colds and sniffles and various other ailments I contracted courtesy of all the kids in his daycare preferring to chew on toys some other runny nosed kid had already chewed on? Miserable, for sure, but I was still trucking it up to work, keepin’ on keepin’ on. No leisurely afternoons on the couch watching reruns of Ellen and bad Lifetime movies for me.
So, poor Cliff. He is really sick. This is, for once, no man cold. But because of my girth and other circumstances – -like Drew’s asthma meaning I am doubly fearful HE will get the flu, my total lack of patience, the fact that I could go into labor at literally any second and then have to deal with thorny questions about exposing a newborn and the rest of the maternity ward to FluDaddy — he’s not getting much by way of tea and sympathy. Instead he gets conversations from across the room, nagging about whether or not he’s on top of his medicine and staying hydrated, and some crazy ass giant pregnant lady following him around with Lysol wipes, swabbing down everything he touches. Sometimes before he even puts it down. If we had Hazmat suits, I feel certain I would be employing them.
I am feeling very pressured. For the flu, it’s best if the Little Man stays put until at least after the weekend. But then we get into a weird place with Drew — he was going to stay at my sisters for the 3 or so days I am in the hospital, but she leaves town Thursday for a week. So if the baby doesn’t come by Monday-ish, then I am going to be hoping he stays put until she gets back and after Drew’s birthday, which is the 19th. Do you sense my controlfreaky side threatening to take over? Yeah, I do, too.
So, zen……………ZEN, dammit! Babies come when they come. Right?
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
What do those words mean?
The words I am referring to are “It’s just too sweet.”
Hmm? What? Come again?
It’s almost Easter. The most glorious candy holiday of the year. Why do I make this claim? Well………Peeps! Marshmallow Hiding Eggs! Chocolate Covered Marshmallow Eggs! Peeps! (worthy of a second mention!) Jelly Beans! Malted Milk Robins Eggs! Reeses Eggs (with a far superior chocolate to peanut butter ration than any other Reeses item)! Cadbury eggs? Thank you, Easter Bunny, Bawk, Bawk!
I say that there is NO better Calgon moment than sneaking away into a room without a begging child grasping your ankles to slowly savor a row of Pink Bunny Peeps that have been left on the counter to get stale for a few days. Chewy but not fluffy. Sweet, but with the ever so slight bitter aftertaste of red dye #40 (which is why, by the way, PINK is the best peep color, unless you are eating chicks, which have an inferior sugar to mallow ratio and can only be eaten in chicky yellow). Don’t even get me started on the blasphemy of the blue, purple, white, and GREEN?!?!?! Peep nuance is something my family takes damn seriously, in case you hadn’t noticed.
I admittedly have a sweet tooth. I think I am going to blame it on evolution – humans are wired to like sweets. Rationalization out of the way, I just like sugar. It’s a tough mistress, what with the calories and the risk tooth decay, trust me. But people who claim to not like sweets, or who use that inexplicable “It’s too sweet”………..can they be trusted? Have they lost some essence of humanity in rejecting the life sustaining calories of a Reeses Egg?
Hmm? What? Come again?
It’s almost Easter. The most glorious candy holiday of the year. Why do I make this claim? Well………Peeps! Marshmallow Hiding Eggs! Chocolate Covered Marshmallow Eggs! Peeps! (worthy of a second mention!) Jelly Beans! Malted Milk Robins Eggs! Reeses Eggs (with a far superior chocolate to peanut butter ration than any other Reeses item)! Cadbury eggs? Thank you, Easter Bunny, Bawk, Bawk!
I say that there is NO better Calgon moment than sneaking away into a room without a begging child grasping your ankles to slowly savor a row of Pink Bunny Peeps that have been left on the counter to get stale for a few days. Chewy but not fluffy. Sweet, but with the ever so slight bitter aftertaste of red dye #40 (which is why, by the way, PINK is the best peep color, unless you are eating chicks, which have an inferior sugar to mallow ratio and can only be eaten in chicky yellow). Don’t even get me started on the blasphemy of the blue, purple, white, and GREEN?!?!?! Peep nuance is something my family takes damn seriously, in case you hadn’t noticed.
I admittedly have a sweet tooth. I think I am going to blame it on evolution – humans are wired to like sweets. Rationalization out of the way, I just like sugar. It’s a tough mistress, what with the calories and the risk tooth decay, trust me. But people who claim to not like sweets, or who use that inexplicable “It’s too sweet”………..can they be trusted? Have they lost some essence of humanity in rejecting the life sustaining calories of a Reeses Egg?
Friday, February 27, 2009
ii don't like it
That’s right, I hate the Wii.
To be fair, I don’t hate it any more or less than I hate any other video game device. But people’s reactions to my distaste seem to indicate that my dislike of this Revolution in Gaming means that the terrorists are winning.
Now, my distaste is two fold. Part one: I just plain suck at video games. Anyone who knows me knows that I do not enjoy doing things I cannot show at least some passable skill at. I don’t want to be the best, I just don’t want to be the worst. I feel awkward and self conscious, and it kicks off some internal conversation in my brain that makes me feel MORE awkward, which pisses me off, which makes it harder to concentrate, which makes me suck even more. Now, given that hand-only video games make me visibly angry and prove my digital incompetence quite obviously (stupid Frogger frog! Always running into traffic!), how on earth would a video game platform that actually requires full body movement be considered an upgrade to me personally? No. Please don’t call 9-1-1. I’m not having some sort of full body convulsion. I am simply trying to hit the soccer ball and avoid the freaking panda head. (Panda head? This is fun family entertainment? The severed heads of cuddly zoo animals flying at me?) So yeah, I suck. I can cop to that.
The secondary part of my distaste is a general ‘ick’ about video games in general. I grew up in an adamantly non-video game household. My parents were of the “Go read a book! Go outside!” hippie bent, so my only exposure was at friends houses, and my friends all wanted to go play outside when we went over to play since they had 24/7 access to video games when they were by themselves with nothing better to do like play kickball with friends. I did internalize that message, though, which was “Go DO something. Don’t sit in front of a screen and pretend to do something.” I am mature enough (ha!) at this point in my life to see that there is nothing inherently Evil about moderate gametime, that it can be nothing more than just mindless fun, but there is a part of me that still internally cringes to see my not-yet 3 year old ‘bowling’ with his father. Because, you see, he’s not really bowling. He’s standing in front of the couch. The first time he played, I thought “A whole generation of pasty white kids is going to grow up thinking they are good bowlers, but the first time they get to an actual bowling alley, they are not going to have the physical strength to pick up the damn ball!” Yeah, yeah. It’s overdramatic. (Hi, I’m Julie. Nice to meet you.) So I keep my mouth shut, I enjoy that my kid and his dad have a ‘thing’ they do together and enjoy, I run over to watch when Drew comes to get me, shouting “ook, me, mama! Ook! I boowing!” and I cheer him on when his daddy helps his get a strike, cause that’s just freaking adorable. I even play when asked. I can enjoy his enjoyment. But I’d be a liar if I said it was the most fun I ever had.
We have the Wii Fit, too, and I hope that after this baby comes I can find some use for it to get back into prebaby shape (which would mean ever-so slightly less round than I am right now :P) and maybe that will warm me up to it. Hell, if it got me into better than pre baby shape, I’d recant this entire diatribe and marry the damn thing.
What IS awesome about the Wii, specifically? That little song they play when a bowling game is finished. Drew loves that song, and immediately hops up to dance his funky little stomping dance, arms held out behind him like non-flapping chicken wings, circling the living room with a most determined look on his face. That’s almost worth the money.
Almost.
To be fair, I don’t hate it any more or less than I hate any other video game device. But people’s reactions to my distaste seem to indicate that my dislike of this Revolution in Gaming means that the terrorists are winning.
Now, my distaste is two fold. Part one: I just plain suck at video games. Anyone who knows me knows that I do not enjoy doing things I cannot show at least some passable skill at. I don’t want to be the best, I just don’t want to be the worst. I feel awkward and self conscious, and it kicks off some internal conversation in my brain that makes me feel MORE awkward, which pisses me off, which makes it harder to concentrate, which makes me suck even more. Now, given that hand-only video games make me visibly angry and prove my digital incompetence quite obviously (stupid Frogger frog! Always running into traffic!), how on earth would a video game platform that actually requires full body movement be considered an upgrade to me personally? No. Please don’t call 9-1-1. I’m not having some sort of full body convulsion. I am simply trying to hit the soccer ball and avoid the freaking panda head. (Panda head? This is fun family entertainment? The severed heads of cuddly zoo animals flying at me?) So yeah, I suck. I can cop to that.
The secondary part of my distaste is a general ‘ick’ about video games in general. I grew up in an adamantly non-video game household. My parents were of the “Go read a book! Go outside!” hippie bent, so my only exposure was at friends houses, and my friends all wanted to go play outside when we went over to play since they had 24/7 access to video games when they were by themselves with nothing better to do like play kickball with friends. I did internalize that message, though, which was “Go DO something. Don’t sit in front of a screen and pretend to do something.” I am mature enough (ha!) at this point in my life to see that there is nothing inherently Evil about moderate gametime, that it can be nothing more than just mindless fun, but there is a part of me that still internally cringes to see my not-yet 3 year old ‘bowling’ with his father. Because, you see, he’s not really bowling. He’s standing in front of the couch. The first time he played, I thought “A whole generation of pasty white kids is going to grow up thinking they are good bowlers, but the first time they get to an actual bowling alley, they are not going to have the physical strength to pick up the damn ball!” Yeah, yeah. It’s overdramatic. (Hi, I’m Julie. Nice to meet you.) So I keep my mouth shut, I enjoy that my kid and his dad have a ‘thing’ they do together and enjoy, I run over to watch when Drew comes to get me, shouting “ook, me, mama! Ook! I boowing!” and I cheer him on when his daddy helps his get a strike, cause that’s just freaking adorable. I even play when asked. I can enjoy his enjoyment. But I’d be a liar if I said it was the most fun I ever had.
We have the Wii Fit, too, and I hope that after this baby comes I can find some use for it to get back into prebaby shape (which would mean ever-so slightly less round than I am right now :P) and maybe that will warm me up to it. Hell, if it got me into better than pre baby shape, I’d recant this entire diatribe and marry the damn thing.
What IS awesome about the Wii, specifically? That little song they play when a bowling game is finished. Drew loves that song, and immediately hops up to dance his funky little stomping dance, arms held out behind him like non-flapping chicken wings, circling the living room with a most determined look on his face. That’s almost worth the money.
Almost.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Ashes, ashes, we all spontaneously combust
Someone at work today made a joke about spontaneous human combustion . It totally freaked me out.
When I was a kid, probably 10 or 11, I got a book from who-knows-where that was based on stories from the then-current TV show, Ripley’s Believe It…….or NOT!! You read that correctly. As if the world needed further concrete, scientific proof that I was the uber-nerd, I didn’t even watch the dorky show. I read the even dorkier book they based the dorky show on.
The book was full of people who did crazy-ass things, but it also had paranormal stories in it. There was an entire chapter on spontaneous human combustion. That’s SHC for those in the know, by the way. The stories always were about people who lived alone, hadn’t been seen in a few days, and when neighbors or family searched for them, all they found was a pile of ashes and some personal effect that was miraculously untouched by flame. Usually a cane tip or the soles of the poor victims shoes, sometimes the very chair the poor victim had been sitting in. There was always some quote along the lines of “My God! It was as if he just burned up where he sat!”
Holy. Crap.
Look, I was well aware at the time that the world was a dangerous place. I was in FIFTH mother effing grade. I had seen some shit, you know? But now, in addition to worrying about the fact that next year I was going to have to manage a locker and changing classrooms at school and that my training bra technically had nothing to train, I had to worry about my body turning on me entirely — to the point of bursting into uncontrollable flame?? I fretted about it for weeks. I took extra special care not to get overheated. I worried it, as my mother is so fond of saying, to death. Since I was a pretty anxious kid in general and prone to worrying about random things, they generally left me alone to obsess over things for a while, but apparently eventually I set off even their blunted “What the hell?” meters and they were compelled to ask me what was up. So I told them.
My poor parents. Every parent prepares themselves for the moment their kids asks “Where do babies come from?”……….a precious, unlucky few have to be faced with “I am afraid I am going to burst into flames in the middle of the night and the only thing you will find in my bed come morning is the plastic-y decor left over from the decals on my Wonder Woman Underoos.” (Whatever! You had some, too! You know you did!) Well, my parents tried to blow it off. It’s all legend, it’s silly, that doesn’t really happen. Unfortunately for them, even at the age of 10 I was going to need something more than their lame platitudes and reassurances. After about a week or so, where my position was firmly backed up by a book compiled by interns who worked on a crappy late night TV show while my dads position was backed up by………..his word and nothing more, my dad got serious. Now, this was looooong before the internet, wikipedia, or anything that allowed you to research things instantaneously. My dad, a very rational man of science and an engineer, had to go to the local library, ask a stranger for help, and look up books and articles on a subject he knew was bunk. I assume there was probably even microfiche involved. But he doggedly compiled his own dossier on SHC, and brought it home to me to look over. It appears that, long story short, the victims are almost always long term alcoholics and the evidence overwhelmingly suggests that they were all smoking at the time of the incidents. Umm, yeah, even at 10 I was able to make the connection between a pickled human being and an open flame. Mostly. I won’t say I was totally convinced (hello! I read it in a BOOK! Books don’t lie!), but it reassured me enough to get a good night sleep without being afraid my blanket would overheat me.
So far, Drew is a happy go lucky sort of kid. Then again, I am not certain I was showing an awful lot of evidence of my worry at that age, beyond needing to know my Weebles were taped down at night so they could get a good night’s rest. Which, incidently, still seems pretty reasonable. I was feeling pretty good about that, that Drew might manage to escape the not alltogether fun burden of a mind with the ability to ruminate and obsess over Potential Doom. It only occurred to me today, when my coworker said those words, that this baby will be a whole new ball of wax. If this kids a worrier like I was, will I be able to handle it like my parents — for the most part calmly and rationally? Or will Cliff come home one day to find us both curled up in the corner, worried and anxious about………….oh, hell. Really almost anything. High fructose corn syrup, melamine in food, moldy peanuts, chemicals leaching out of plastic into our hot chocolate?
Wait………..
When I was a kid, probably 10 or 11, I got a book from who-knows-where that was based on stories from the then-current TV show, Ripley’s Believe It…….or NOT!! You read that correctly. As if the world needed further concrete, scientific proof that I was the uber-nerd, I didn’t even watch the dorky show. I read the even dorkier book they based the dorky show on.
The book was full of people who did crazy-ass things, but it also had paranormal stories in it. There was an entire chapter on spontaneous human combustion. That’s SHC for those in the know, by the way. The stories always were about people who lived alone, hadn’t been seen in a few days, and when neighbors or family searched for them, all they found was a pile of ashes and some personal effect that was miraculously untouched by flame. Usually a cane tip or the soles of the poor victims shoes, sometimes the very chair the poor victim had been sitting in. There was always some quote along the lines of “My God! It was as if he just burned up where he sat!”
Holy. Crap.
Look, I was well aware at the time that the world was a dangerous place. I was in FIFTH mother effing grade. I had seen some shit, you know? But now, in addition to worrying about the fact that next year I was going to have to manage a locker and changing classrooms at school and that my training bra technically had nothing to train, I had to worry about my body turning on me entirely — to the point of bursting into uncontrollable flame?? I fretted about it for weeks. I took extra special care not to get overheated. I worried it, as my mother is so fond of saying, to death. Since I was a pretty anxious kid in general and prone to worrying about random things, they generally left me alone to obsess over things for a while, but apparently eventually I set off even their blunted “What the hell?” meters and they were compelled to ask me what was up. So I told them.
My poor parents. Every parent prepares themselves for the moment their kids asks “Where do babies come from?”……….a precious, unlucky few have to be faced with “I am afraid I am going to burst into flames in the middle of the night and the only thing you will find in my bed come morning is the plastic-y decor left over from the decals on my Wonder Woman Underoos.” (Whatever! You had some, too! You know you did!) Well, my parents tried to blow it off. It’s all legend, it’s silly, that doesn’t really happen. Unfortunately for them, even at the age of 10 I was going to need something more than their lame platitudes and reassurances. After about a week or so, where my position was firmly backed up by a book compiled by interns who worked on a crappy late night TV show while my dads position was backed up by………..his word and nothing more, my dad got serious. Now, this was looooong before the internet, wikipedia, or anything that allowed you to research things instantaneously. My dad, a very rational man of science and an engineer, had to go to the local library, ask a stranger for help, and look up books and articles on a subject he knew was bunk. I assume there was probably even microfiche involved. But he doggedly compiled his own dossier on SHC, and brought it home to me to look over. It appears that, long story short, the victims are almost always long term alcoholics and the evidence overwhelmingly suggests that they were all smoking at the time of the incidents. Umm, yeah, even at 10 I was able to make the connection between a pickled human being and an open flame. Mostly. I won’t say I was totally convinced (hello! I read it in a BOOK! Books don’t lie!), but it reassured me enough to get a good night sleep without being afraid my blanket would overheat me.
So far, Drew is a happy go lucky sort of kid. Then again, I am not certain I was showing an awful lot of evidence of my worry at that age, beyond needing to know my Weebles were taped down at night so they could get a good night’s rest. Which, incidently, still seems pretty reasonable. I was feeling pretty good about that, that Drew might manage to escape the not alltogether fun burden of a mind with the ability to ruminate and obsess over Potential Doom. It only occurred to me today, when my coworker said those words, that this baby will be a whole new ball of wax. If this kids a worrier like I was, will I be able to handle it like my parents — for the most part calmly and rationally? Or will Cliff come home one day to find us both curled up in the corner, worried and anxious about………….oh, hell. Really almost anything. High fructose corn syrup, melamine in food, moldy peanuts, chemicals leaching out of plastic into our hot chocolate?
Wait………..
Monday, February 16, 2009
They seemed so happy together
Last night it was a trial to get Drew to go to bed. Usually, we hop into his bed and chat for a few minutes about his day, and then I ask him whose turn it is to close their eyes first and he decides it’s his turn and closes his eyes. (Clever, clever! See how I did that? It’s a competition, and yet I ALWAYS win even though it’s NEVER my turn to go first! :P ) I close my eyes, too, and he thrashes around for a few minutes and might try to talk to me but I feign sleep and within 10 or 15 minutes he’s drifted off to dreamland. Oh, sure, I have fallen asleep, too, but that happens whenever I stop moving. Sort of like a shark. Feeding frenzies included.
Last night, though, thanks to a very late afternoon nap courtesy of dad being in charge while I grocery shopped, Drew just wasn’t having it at bedtime. I closed my eyes and lay silent for a good 30 minutes, and he thrashed around and talked to no one and made shadow puppets and poked my eyes. “Mommy! Mama! Wake UP!”
I finally open my eyes and ask him what was going on.
“Why can’t you calm down and sleep, buddy? What’s the deal? It’s bedtime!”
“Mama, my toes are fighting. They are keeping me awake.”
“Your toes are fighting?”
“Yeah, mommy. They need to work it out.”
“Well, then, what can we do?”
What we can do, apparently, is take off the socks, for starters. And then I can lay down and enjoy the crazy person ramblings of an almost 3 year old helping his toes work out their differences. It was a complex situation, from what I could tell, having to do with the fact that some toes are smaller and some are bigger, and none of their “twin toes” are on the same feet. The big toes do all right, seeing as they meet up face to face when he puts his feet together, but the little piggies are small and lonely, way out there on the ends. And sometimes Big Toe doesn’t WANT to go the market (whoa, boy, do I know where you are coming from, Big Guy!), and that is a problem, too. I’d say it took about 10 minutes for peace to reign in ToeLand once again. And once it did, true to his word, Drew drifted off to sleep.
Wonder if Obama needs any help with that whole Middle East thing. I know someone who can give him a hand.
Last night, though, thanks to a very late afternoon nap courtesy of dad being in charge while I grocery shopped, Drew just wasn’t having it at bedtime. I closed my eyes and lay silent for a good 30 minutes, and he thrashed around and talked to no one and made shadow puppets and poked my eyes. “Mommy! Mama! Wake UP!”
I finally open my eyes and ask him what was going on.
“Why can’t you calm down and sleep, buddy? What’s the deal? It’s bedtime!”
“Mama, my toes are fighting. They are keeping me awake.”
“Your toes are fighting?”
“Yeah, mommy. They need to work it out.”
“Well, then, what can we do?”
What we can do, apparently, is take off the socks, for starters. And then I can lay down and enjoy the crazy person ramblings of an almost 3 year old helping his toes work out their differences. It was a complex situation, from what I could tell, having to do with the fact that some toes are smaller and some are bigger, and none of their “twin toes” are on the same feet. The big toes do all right, seeing as they meet up face to face when he puts his feet together, but the little piggies are small and lonely, way out there on the ends. And sometimes Big Toe doesn’t WANT to go the market (whoa, boy, do I know where you are coming from, Big Guy!), and that is a problem, too. I’d say it took about 10 minutes for peace to reign in ToeLand once again. And once it did, true to his word, Drew drifted off to sleep.
Wonder if Obama needs any help with that whole Middle East thing. I know someone who can give him a hand.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
A Day In The Life
Ok, not even a WHOLE day, but man, I am ready for bed already.
It has been a tough week or so at the ol’ homestead. Cliff has an infected wisdom tooth that is causing him some pain and therefore making him cranky like a wounded bear. Drew as developed a horrific, bleeding diaper rash that makes him walk like John Wayne and resist diaper changes. Have you ever seen someone try and catch a greased pig at the rodeo? It’s a lot like that. He also developed a nighttime cough that has been keeping him (and thus me!) awake for the past several nights. As for me, I am roughly 67 months pregnant, giant and unwieldy, have heartburn that could strip the chrome off a bumper, have not slept in weeks, and umm……….am mildly hormonal. And when I say “mild” I mean “cries or rages every 8.9 seconds, whether needed or not”.
So……last night started out well. Got Drew into a baking soda bath for his poor bum, then let him have some naked TV time in an attempt to help it dry out a bit. Bedtime was a breeze – a huge thunderstorm rolled in right when we layed down, so we listened to the rain together and I got to hear his awesome commentary about rain and lightning. He has always had an affinity for thunderstorms – I wonder if it is just an inheritance from his weather obsessed father or if it has anything to do with the fact that he was born in the middle of a violent storm. His cough was a little less persistent, and I had great hopes that he’d sleep through the night. And he did!
Alas………….I was up most of the night struggling with pregnancy induced stomach tempests. How totally unfair is THAT!? 2:15 am found me crying, begging, and asking the Universe “WHY??!? The Kid is SLEEPING!!!!! Why won’t you let me sleep, too!???!” There was no answer, but I swear I heard an evil, otherworldly chuckle or two.
This morning, I gathered Drew’s clothes and a clean diaper and prepared for Diaper Dash IIV. I gathered my baby washclothes (softer than disposable wipes), my diaper area cleansing spray (theoretically less stingy than the wipes on a sore bum, and for $15 it has freaking better be downright soothing!), my diaper disposal bag (capable of containing a Level 4 nuclear rated pair of poopy pants), and a $13 tube of organic, environmentally friendly, probably edible diaper rash cream for The Slather manuever necesary to coat the rash. As I approached him (from the rear, you don’t want to spook them!), I noticed with increasing horror that there appeared to be a………river? stream? ooze? of poop coming out of the back of his pants and headed down his leg for the floor.
RED ALERT! RED ALERT! POOPAGE UNCONTAINED!!!
In a move considered by many to be impossible for a 67 month pregnant lady (in a skirt!) to pull off, I grabbed a wipe and launched myself at his ass, simultaneously wiping the chunk of poop about to head for the floor. Frankly, I was impressed with myself, both for getting there in time and for the sheer physicality of the move. I felt like Kerrie Strug pulling off that vault on one leg, albeit larger and more out of breath. Drew, on the other hand, was alarmed. Hard to blame him, I think I’d probably be scared by both the visual of my huge mother launching herself at me and her exuberant “Boo-YA!” of victory as she sat up holding a wipe full of poop if I were a toddler, too. It was also the first time he realized there was something leaking from his pants, so he reached back and grabbed………two handfuls of poop. He then brought his hands to his face and realized there was POOP on them. Utter and total panic set in. He began to cry and shake his hands about, flinging poop all over the place. My only alternative, as both a mother concerned about the bacterial properties of fecal matter AND the owner of a relatively new set of living room furniture concerned about upholstery, was to tackle him and contain the biohazard.
Once he was down, the diaper change that took place can only be described as “barbaric”. He wailed, he cried, he thrashed, his father held him down and I pried his buttcheeks apart to make sure I was getting all the irritating poop out, then slathered about $5 of cream on his bum. New diaper thus installed, we held each other and cried. Then a hand wash, a banana, and out the door to school. God bless the automatic garage door opener (“Hey, Drew! Do you want to press the button to open the big door!?!?!”) and the theme song from Higglytown Heroes. Drop off was easy, breezy, beautiful………not quite Cover Girl, as Mama looks like hell, but at least there was no Drop Off Drama.
……………….and that brings us to about 8:15. What else does the day have in store? Hopefully (mostly pregnancy safe) pharmeceuticals. Please?!??!
It has been a tough week or so at the ol’ homestead. Cliff has an infected wisdom tooth that is causing him some pain and therefore making him cranky like a wounded bear. Drew as developed a horrific, bleeding diaper rash that makes him walk like John Wayne and resist diaper changes. Have you ever seen someone try and catch a greased pig at the rodeo? It’s a lot like that. He also developed a nighttime cough that has been keeping him (and thus me!) awake for the past several nights. As for me, I am roughly 67 months pregnant, giant and unwieldy, have heartburn that could strip the chrome off a bumper, have not slept in weeks, and umm……….am mildly hormonal. And when I say “mild” I mean “cries or rages every 8.9 seconds, whether needed or not”.
So……last night started out well. Got Drew into a baking soda bath for his poor bum, then let him have some naked TV time in an attempt to help it dry out a bit. Bedtime was a breeze – a huge thunderstorm rolled in right when we layed down, so we listened to the rain together and I got to hear his awesome commentary about rain and lightning. He has always had an affinity for thunderstorms – I wonder if it is just an inheritance from his weather obsessed father or if it has anything to do with the fact that he was born in the middle of a violent storm. His cough was a little less persistent, and I had great hopes that he’d sleep through the night. And he did!
Alas………….I was up most of the night struggling with pregnancy induced stomach tempests. How totally unfair is THAT!? 2:15 am found me crying, begging, and asking the Universe “WHY??!? The Kid is SLEEPING!!!!! Why won’t you let me sleep, too!???!” There was no answer, but I swear I heard an evil, otherworldly chuckle or two.
This morning, I gathered Drew’s clothes and a clean diaper and prepared for Diaper Dash IIV. I gathered my baby washclothes (softer than disposable wipes), my diaper area cleansing spray (theoretically less stingy than the wipes on a sore bum, and for $15 it has freaking better be downright soothing!), my diaper disposal bag (capable of containing a Level 4 nuclear rated pair of poopy pants), and a $13 tube of organic, environmentally friendly, probably edible diaper rash cream for The Slather manuever necesary to coat the rash. As I approached him (from the rear, you don’t want to spook them!), I noticed with increasing horror that there appeared to be a………river? stream? ooze? of poop coming out of the back of his pants and headed down his leg for the floor.
RED ALERT! RED ALERT! POOPAGE UNCONTAINED!!!
In a move considered by many to be impossible for a 67 month pregnant lady (in a skirt!) to pull off, I grabbed a wipe and launched myself at his ass, simultaneously wiping the chunk of poop about to head for the floor. Frankly, I was impressed with myself, both for getting there in time and for the sheer physicality of the move. I felt like Kerrie Strug pulling off that vault on one leg, albeit larger and more out of breath. Drew, on the other hand, was alarmed. Hard to blame him, I think I’d probably be scared by both the visual of my huge mother launching herself at me and her exuberant “Boo-YA!” of victory as she sat up holding a wipe full of poop if I were a toddler, too. It was also the first time he realized there was something leaking from his pants, so he reached back and grabbed………two handfuls of poop. He then brought his hands to his face and realized there was POOP on them. Utter and total panic set in. He began to cry and shake his hands about, flinging poop all over the place. My only alternative, as both a mother concerned about the bacterial properties of fecal matter AND the owner of a relatively new set of living room furniture concerned about upholstery, was to tackle him and contain the biohazard.
Once he was down, the diaper change that took place can only be described as “barbaric”. He wailed, he cried, he thrashed, his father held him down and I pried his buttcheeks apart to make sure I was getting all the irritating poop out, then slathered about $5 of cream on his bum. New diaper thus installed, we held each other and cried. Then a hand wash, a banana, and out the door to school. God bless the automatic garage door opener (“Hey, Drew! Do you want to press the button to open the big door!?!?!”) and the theme song from Higglytown Heroes. Drop off was easy, breezy, beautiful………not quite Cover Girl, as Mama looks like hell, but at least there was no Drop Off Drama.
……………….and that brings us to about 8:15. What else does the day have in store? Hopefully (mostly pregnancy safe) pharmeceuticals. Please?!??!
A Day In The Life: Part 2: But wait! There's more!!!
That’s right. I have reduced the entirety of yesterday into a ginsu knife infomercial.
Picking up at 8:15, where our little melodrama left off, the Universe amped up the stress at work. Imagine sitting in your little cube, whilst whispers of your Little Boss, his Big Boss, and his BigBig Boss swirl around you. You hear references to an account you manage, a failed audit, and most incriminatingly, your name. No one addresses you directly, but it seems clear that there is a problem, and someone (who!?!?) thinks it is because of something you did or failed to do. Makes you feel confident and secure, particularly in this stellar economy, no? (By the end of the day all is well, the problem is linked to a software error, I was exonerated and there were many apologies for freaking me the hell out, but it was quite a workday nonetheless!)
So I bail. I have to pee like mad, but frankly am just thinking about getting the hell out of the building, so I just get in the car and drive off. Tooling down the highway at 65ish MPH (perhaps faster, though I cannot commit to that here because I will not confirm my alleged lead-footedness in writing), I felt a quick shimmy of the steering wheel, then feel and hear a huge explosion, and then lose control of the car. I slowed down and wrestled the car over to the shoulder to compose myself and take stock. Well, that was the plan, but I soon realize that the shoulder of a highway at the beginning edge of rush hour isn’t exactly the safest place for that sort of thing. I can’t even get out of the car safely, much less do anything about the situation. So I flip on the hazards, gingerly head across the divider to the exit ramp, and limp the car over to a shopping center under construction and pull off to the side. Have I mentioned my abject fear of car problems and my terror of driving a somehow disabled car yet? Or that I spent the entire drive shouting “DO you not SEE that my car is BROKEN!” at the cars whizzing by me?
I start to call…………well, everyone. Cliff? No answer. My sister and mom are working out, so no answer. Cliff again, no answer. Text him with an admittedly dramatic “Tire exploded. Call ASAP” in an effort to spur action on his part. Yeah, it was ridiculously over the top, but I didn’t go with the heartstopper “Think I am in labor” so I’m giving myself a pass on it. Call my other sister, who works across the highway, to see if she can send a coworker to help me with the spare. She is headed into some mandatory meeting with all her officemates, so no luck there. Call Cliff again, no response. (Yeah, the incessant calls probably were obnoxious. But typically I am more than capable of throwing on the spare tire and was frustrated to need to rely on rescue, plus I was more than a little freaked out by the whole event, plus I STILL had to pee, plus with everything else going on, I felt like the sheer fact that I wasn’t crying in a heap on the side of the road a real accomplishment.)
BTW, where are the Good Samaritans, you are probably asking yourself. Umm, the WHO? I was on the side of the road for about an hour, near a busy construction site where probably 100 (presumably handy, mechanically able bodied) men drove past me, slowing down to gawk at the gigantic pregnant person and her obviously disabled car, and the ONLY person who stopped was some sort of foreman or something who came by on his little golf cart to ask me to move the car. Not to offer aid, not to change the tire, not even to offer to call someone for me. Just “Hey, can you move the car.” He’s damn lucky he was too big for me to stuff his body in the wheel well where the spare was. Damn lucky. Do people just not care anymore? Do they just assume someone else helped? Was it the cankles that scared them off? Do I even want to know?
Cliff finally returns my call(s). He gets me hooked up with the number to roadside assistance, and assures me he’s on his way. It will be about an hour because he’s across town, but he’s coming. I call Geico, and I have to say, they could not have been nicer. First things first they made sure I was ok.
“Ma’am, are you injured? Are you medically stable?”
“Well, I am 8 months pregnant and stranded and I have to pee, so I wouldn’t say stable.”
That poor 17 year old boy working the call center. He took that in stride, dear boy, and got me hooked up with Pop A Lock to change the tire instead of making me wait like 2 hours for a tow truck, which was his original plan. They show up in like 30 minutes, were wonderful, and leave me to drive on the freaking donut (have I mentioned my loathing of driving disabled vehicles?) to the tire place where I get some bladder relief, Cliff meets me and takes over the car situation and I grab his keys to get Drew from school.
Get Drew, get Cliff, pay $500 for 4 new tires, meet Cliff’s cousin and her son for dinner (yeah, on top of everything, wrestling a 3 year old in a restaurant! Yay!), get home, pass out.
Picking up at 8:15, where our little melodrama left off, the Universe amped up the stress at work. Imagine sitting in your little cube, whilst whispers of your Little Boss, his Big Boss, and his BigBig Boss swirl around you. You hear references to an account you manage, a failed audit, and most incriminatingly, your name. No one addresses you directly, but it seems clear that there is a problem, and someone (who!?!?) thinks it is because of something you did or failed to do. Makes you feel confident and secure, particularly in this stellar economy, no? (By the end of the day all is well, the problem is linked to a software error, I was exonerated and there were many apologies for freaking me the hell out, but it was quite a workday nonetheless!)
So I bail. I have to pee like mad, but frankly am just thinking about getting the hell out of the building, so I just get in the car and drive off. Tooling down the highway at 65ish MPH (perhaps faster, though I cannot commit to that here because I will not confirm my alleged lead-footedness in writing), I felt a quick shimmy of the steering wheel, then feel and hear a huge explosion, and then lose control of the car. I slowed down and wrestled the car over to the shoulder to compose myself and take stock. Well, that was the plan, but I soon realize that the shoulder of a highway at the beginning edge of rush hour isn’t exactly the safest place for that sort of thing. I can’t even get out of the car safely, much less do anything about the situation. So I flip on the hazards, gingerly head across the divider to the exit ramp, and limp the car over to a shopping center under construction and pull off to the side. Have I mentioned my abject fear of car problems and my terror of driving a somehow disabled car yet? Or that I spent the entire drive shouting “DO you not SEE that my car is BROKEN!” at the cars whizzing by me?
I start to call…………well, everyone. Cliff? No answer. My sister and mom are working out, so no answer. Cliff again, no answer. Text him with an admittedly dramatic “Tire exploded. Call ASAP” in an effort to spur action on his part. Yeah, it was ridiculously over the top, but I didn’t go with the heartstopper “Think I am in labor” so I’m giving myself a pass on it. Call my other sister, who works across the highway, to see if she can send a coworker to help me with the spare. She is headed into some mandatory meeting with all her officemates, so no luck there. Call Cliff again, no response. (Yeah, the incessant calls probably were obnoxious. But typically I am more than capable of throwing on the spare tire and was frustrated to need to rely on rescue, plus I was more than a little freaked out by the whole event, plus I STILL had to pee, plus with everything else going on, I felt like the sheer fact that I wasn’t crying in a heap on the side of the road a real accomplishment.)
BTW, where are the Good Samaritans, you are probably asking yourself. Umm, the WHO? I was on the side of the road for about an hour, near a busy construction site where probably 100 (presumably handy, mechanically able bodied) men drove past me, slowing down to gawk at the gigantic pregnant person and her obviously disabled car, and the ONLY person who stopped was some sort of foreman or something who came by on his little golf cart to ask me to move the car. Not to offer aid, not to change the tire, not even to offer to call someone for me. Just “Hey, can you move the car.” He’s damn lucky he was too big for me to stuff his body in the wheel well where the spare was. Damn lucky. Do people just not care anymore? Do they just assume someone else helped? Was it the cankles that scared them off? Do I even want to know?
Cliff finally returns my call(s). He gets me hooked up with the number to roadside assistance, and assures me he’s on his way. It will be about an hour because he’s across town, but he’s coming. I call Geico, and I have to say, they could not have been nicer. First things first they made sure I was ok.
“Ma’am, are you injured? Are you medically stable?”
“Well, I am 8 months pregnant and stranded and I have to pee, so I wouldn’t say stable.”
That poor 17 year old boy working the call center. He took that in stride, dear boy, and got me hooked up with Pop A Lock to change the tire instead of making me wait like 2 hours for a tow truck, which was his original plan. They show up in like 30 minutes, were wonderful, and leave me to drive on the freaking donut (have I mentioned my loathing of driving disabled vehicles?) to the tire place where I get some bladder relief, Cliff meets me and takes over the car situation and I grab his keys to get Drew from school.
Get Drew, get Cliff, pay $500 for 4 new tires, meet Cliff’s cousin and her son for dinner (yeah, on top of everything, wrestling a 3 year old in a restaurant! Yay!), get home, pass out.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Cha-cha-cha changes.......
So we are looking at roughly 5 to 10 weeks until Baby 2 makes his debut. A huge variance? Sure. Drew was 3 weeks early, if this baby comes at that same time, then we have 5 weeks to do……………well, EVERYTHING. We have done a sum total of absolutely NADA in terms of getting ready for this baby. We set up Drew’s Big Boy room, freeing up the nursery furniture, which remains stuffed in the nursery, unassembled, and totally unaccessible because there are so many boxes of various junk we don’t use but for some reason can’t get rid of in there.
If the baby decides to hang in there, the doctor will let me go two weeks overdue, putting us at the 10 week mark. Honestly, I have no idea how that would work. I am already unwieldy and massive, in 10 weeks I may have reached “They had to use cranes to get her out of the house to the hospital” proportions. Even though I am steadily LOSING weight at each visit, I do not appear to be getting any smaller. I’m no physics guru, but that seems wrong.
But, this isn’t about my impressive girth or even the new baby, really. It’s just that the closer we get to the birth, the more I notice how many littel things in Drew’s life will change. I really totally believe that siblings are an amazing gift to a child, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want another child. My experience so far with Drew has been the most amazing, humbling, gratifying time of my life. I have discovered wells of patience and love that I never dreamed existed within me.
But I am so afraid of the inevitable moments where Drew feel supplanted by the shinynewbaby, and feels left out or less loved. There will, no doubt, be moments where both kids need me and I have to choose, and thus someone has to cry. How much will the simple limitation that I can only be in one place at one time change how I choose to parent? I hope not at all, or at least very little, but I also understand that there is a certain inevitablility in the evolution of my mad parenting skillz.
In the meantime, while we wait, I find myself treasuring more and more the moments I have with Drew alone. When we lay down to go to sleep at night and he whispers to me and pats my face. When I watch him read a book and can just admire the sweetness of his face and the charming way his hair sweeps across his forehead. Those moments where he seems so much like a kid and then swiftly morphs back into my baby once more.
Please forgive me in advance, Little Man, for turning your world upside down soon. Please find the patience to wait and see — see that someday your sibling will be one of those people in life that you can always turn to, you just have to hang tough with mommy during the initial storm of adjustment. I love you more than words can ever say.
If the baby decides to hang in there, the doctor will let me go two weeks overdue, putting us at the 10 week mark. Honestly, I have no idea how that would work. I am already unwieldy and massive, in 10 weeks I may have reached “They had to use cranes to get her out of the house to the hospital” proportions. Even though I am steadily LOSING weight at each visit, I do not appear to be getting any smaller. I’m no physics guru, but that seems wrong.
But, this isn’t about my impressive girth or even the new baby, really. It’s just that the closer we get to the birth, the more I notice how many littel things in Drew’s life will change. I really totally believe that siblings are an amazing gift to a child, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want another child. My experience so far with Drew has been the most amazing, humbling, gratifying time of my life. I have discovered wells of patience and love that I never dreamed existed within me.
But I am so afraid of the inevitable moments where Drew feel supplanted by the shinynewbaby, and feels left out or less loved. There will, no doubt, be moments where both kids need me and I have to choose, and thus someone has to cry. How much will the simple limitation that I can only be in one place at one time change how I choose to parent? I hope not at all, or at least very little, but I also understand that there is a certain inevitablility in the evolution of my mad parenting skillz.
In the meantime, while we wait, I find myself treasuring more and more the moments I have with Drew alone. When we lay down to go to sleep at night and he whispers to me and pats my face. When I watch him read a book and can just admire the sweetness of his face and the charming way his hair sweeps across his forehead. Those moments where he seems so much like a kid and then swiftly morphs back into my baby once more.
Please forgive me in advance, Little Man, for turning your world upside down soon. Please find the patience to wait and see — see that someday your sibling will be one of those people in life that you can always turn to, you just have to hang tough with mommy during the initial storm of adjustment. I love you more than words can ever say.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Rock a bye, baby
Not that Drew’s a baby anymore. Not really. At almost three, glimpses of ‘baby’ are harder and harder to find.
I do lay down with him for bedtime every night, still. He only just stopped nursing to sleep a few weeks ago. That transition seemed to drag on forever, but in the end, I am really thrilled with how natural and gentle and beautifully it all wound down. So now we turn on our blue lamp, we turn on our “moona” (moon night light) and we crawl into bed together. Some nights Drew talks about the moon or his day, some nights he plays with his Dora or Diego doll, and some nights he just immediately cuddles up to me and rests his head on my arm and whispers, in that warm, wet toddler whisper, “go seep, mommy. go seep.” and his eyes close and he drifts off, my baby once more, if only for a fleeting minute.
I get a lot of “he has to learn to go to sleep on his own!” and similar warnings, all with dire consequences should we fail to teach him to sleep “properly”. And I am just going to call it all Bunk. There is little in my day more precious than those minutes I spend with him, hearing about his day, him dragging my arm around him just so, right beneath his ribs, his arranging my head so that we lay together, cheek to cheek, when every other thing in life seems so small, so insignificant. When the new baby arrives, I know I will treasure those moments even more, and when he grows out of the need and desire to have me there with him as he finds slumber, I will not for one second regret that we didn’t force him to think that his days had to end all alone in a big bed by himself.
I do lay down with him for bedtime every night, still. He only just stopped nursing to sleep a few weeks ago. That transition seemed to drag on forever, but in the end, I am really thrilled with how natural and gentle and beautifully it all wound down. So now we turn on our blue lamp, we turn on our “moona” (moon night light) and we crawl into bed together. Some nights Drew talks about the moon or his day, some nights he plays with his Dora or Diego doll, and some nights he just immediately cuddles up to me and rests his head on my arm and whispers, in that warm, wet toddler whisper, “go seep, mommy. go seep.” and his eyes close and he drifts off, my baby once more, if only for a fleeting minute.
I get a lot of “he has to learn to go to sleep on his own!” and similar warnings, all with dire consequences should we fail to teach him to sleep “properly”. And I am just going to call it all Bunk. There is little in my day more precious than those minutes I spend with him, hearing about his day, him dragging my arm around him just so, right beneath his ribs, his arranging my head so that we lay together, cheek to cheek, when every other thing in life seems so small, so insignificant. When the new baby arrives, I know I will treasure those moments even more, and when he grows out of the need and desire to have me there with him as he finds slumber, I will not for one second regret that we didn’t force him to think that his days had to end all alone in a big bed by himself.
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