I suppose I should start with an apology. At a Christmas party last weekend, a friend furrowed her brow and said "October 22, Jaime. That was your last post." So, dear and faithful readers, I apologize for being such a slacker. The season has been a hectic one, and by the time I get to review the notes I've jotted down for posts, they seem out of date.
One of the things that has added to my inability get anything done is my constant, chronic headaches. For six or so weeks, I've had a blinding headache every day. Now, before you ask "Have you tried..." let me tell you what I've tried. Advil, Nasonex, Sudaphed, Amoxicillin, Claritan, Zyrtec, sinus washes, Afrin, Excedrin, Tylenol 3, Vicodin, Fiorinol and Medrol. I've had a CT scan and an MRI, the results of which we hope to have next week. I'm getting my eyes checked in a few days...
The point of all that is that the process of addressing these headaches has taken a lot of my time. I've found a hilarious and smart internist, so I'm hopeful that we will eventually figure out why my head is being squished by various vices.
Part of the process has included an MRI, which was preceded by a long list of questions. Are you claustrophobic? Afraid of loud noises? Have any shrapnel in your body? I had to take out my nose ring, and laid awake the night before worrying about wearing an underwire bra.
It wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared. The tech told me it sounded like a construction site, and gave me earplugs to wear. The whole process took about fifteen minutes, which was twice the amount of time it took me to drive to the place. After ten minutes, he needed to inject some dye into my arm so they could see the blood vessels in my head. I'd feel a pinch, he told me, but it would all be over soon.
"I'm a mom," I told him, "I can take it."
"Yeah, that makes you tough on a lot of levels." Then he scampered back to the booth and started the machine again.
As I stared at the blue stripe on the inside of the machine, I thought about how tough being a mom has made me. A friend told me after the birth of her daughter that she had never known real fear until she had become a parent. I didn't really understand that concept until February 10, 2006 when I had to take a tiny baby home from the hospital and try to take care of it by myself.
There was really only one thing that would have made me come unglued at the MRI, and it had nothing to do with me. The worst thing I could imagine would have been to stand by and watch one of my kids have to experience a test like that.
Motherhood has made me infinitely stronger than I ever thought I would be. At the same time, I am infinitely more vulnerable than I thought possible. The paradox of motherhood seems to be that both ends of the spectrum have expanded, so I am equally tougher and more sensitive.
So I'll take the headaches, and whatever else comes along, and be grateful that it is happening to me and not to one of those amazing, beautiful little miracle children.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sweatshirt vs. Suit Coat
I pulled into the parking lot at preschool this morning, rocking my stay-at-home-mom uniform. My sweatshirt, purchased 11 years ago in New Jersey, is bright orange. Hunter Safety Orange. Home Depot Orange. Doesn't really go with my new blond hair Orange. The best part about my sweatshirt is that it hides the paint stained, accidentally bleached in spots tee-shirt that is also something of a dinosaur. My super awesome sweatpants aren't a whole lot better, though they are at least from this millennium.
My "natural" makeup look is actually yesterday's mascara in a dusky gray ring around my eyes. I was able to salvage my hairstyle from yesterday by taking off my headband before it crumpled my bangs back enough so that they stick up like stork feathers.
While in the process of hauling my oldest daughter out of the car, I caught the eye of another Mom returning to her car after dropping off a child. This mom, sleekly styled in a business suit and sensible shoes, gave me a sad smile and a slightly envious head-to-the-side look. Wait, was that envy? Or pity? She hopped into a stylish Volvo and bopped away.
Envy? Or pity? I'm reviewing the tape in my head. There are parts of this mom-at-home business that are quite nice, I suppose. We only rush out of the house three days a week, not six. My nine month old sleeps in her crib almost exclusively, not having to be bothered with day care cribs. She doesn't have to fight for attention or share her toys. (My secret anxiety is that she also gets less focused care because I'm also trying to write lists, pay bills, shower, cook meals, etc.)
But there is a flip side. Talking to more than three adults in one day is remarkable. Hubs complains about meetings and emails, but I secretly think it might be fun to have other adults talking around you and have them be interested in your opinion. I miss the camaraderie of community counseling and (gasp) even miss going to class on occasion. Mom-on-the-go styling is not as easy as they make it look on What Not To Wear. You have to be prepared to let your clothes get apple-sauced, dog furred, or ketchuped. Makeup? Not quite as important as it used to be. And yes, I hear you, I know we're supposed to get fancied up and beautiful for our own sake, not for the sake of others, but...the secret is that it feels a bit pathetic to get all glammed up to wrangle the children.
Someone told me, a few days ago, to "Have a great Monday!". Is it Monday? Or Thursday? I told her that as a stay-at-home Mom, every day is Monday. There is no weekend. I said it with a smile, carefully keeping some of the bitterness out of my voice, but my stork hair and yesterday's mascara speak for themselves.
Still, I get to do things that the full-timers can't do. (Like write this out, for example, and ponder the different paths that one's life can take.) I can schedule doctor's appointments for the kids in the middle of the day without worrying about upsetting my boss. I can go to the grocery store during the off hours if I don't mind taking both twerps with me. I can clean the place during naptime if the spirit moves me.
So I don't know, honestly, if I'm to be envied or not. I guess there is good and bad to every situation. Before I get up on my high horse and think I've come up with something super deep and profound, I'd like to remind everyone that the Chinese summed up the whole concept of light and dark, balance and energy with a yin yang. So I'm not exactly treading new ground. But I do feel better about my slouchy outfit and lack of a shower, so that counts for something.
My "natural" makeup look is actually yesterday's mascara in a dusky gray ring around my eyes. I was able to salvage my hairstyle from yesterday by taking off my headband before it crumpled my bangs back enough so that they stick up like stork feathers.
While in the process of hauling my oldest daughter out of the car, I caught the eye of another Mom returning to her car after dropping off a child. This mom, sleekly styled in a business suit and sensible shoes, gave me a sad smile and a slightly envious head-to-the-side look. Wait, was that envy? Or pity? She hopped into a stylish Volvo and bopped away.
Envy? Or pity? I'm reviewing the tape in my head. There are parts of this mom-at-home business that are quite nice, I suppose. We only rush out of the house three days a week, not six. My nine month old sleeps in her crib almost exclusively, not having to be bothered with day care cribs. She doesn't have to fight for attention or share her toys. (My secret anxiety is that she also gets less focused care because I'm also trying to write lists, pay bills, shower, cook meals, etc.)
But there is a flip side. Talking to more than three adults in one day is remarkable. Hubs complains about meetings and emails, but I secretly think it might be fun to have other adults talking around you and have them be interested in your opinion. I miss the camaraderie of community counseling and (gasp) even miss going to class on occasion. Mom-on-the-go styling is not as easy as they make it look on What Not To Wear. You have to be prepared to let your clothes get apple-sauced, dog furred, or ketchuped. Makeup? Not quite as important as it used to be. And yes, I hear you, I know we're supposed to get fancied up and beautiful for our own sake, not for the sake of others, but...the secret is that it feels a bit pathetic to get all glammed up to wrangle the children.
Someone told me, a few days ago, to "Have a great Monday!". Is it Monday? Or Thursday? I told her that as a stay-at-home Mom, every day is Monday. There is no weekend. I said it with a smile, carefully keeping some of the bitterness out of my voice, but my stork hair and yesterday's mascara speak for themselves.
Still, I get to do things that the full-timers can't do. (Like write this out, for example, and ponder the different paths that one's life can take.) I can schedule doctor's appointments for the kids in the middle of the day without worrying about upsetting my boss. I can go to the grocery store during the off hours if I don't mind taking both twerps with me. I can clean the place during naptime if the spirit moves me.
So I don't know, honestly, if I'm to be envied or not. I guess there is good and bad to every situation. Before I get up on my high horse and think I've come up with something super deep and profound, I'd like to remind everyone that the Chinese summed up the whole concept of light and dark, balance and energy with a yin yang. So I'm not exactly treading new ground. But I do feel better about my slouchy outfit and lack of a shower, so that counts for something.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Halloween Costume
One of my girlfriends was logged on to facebook at the same time I popped in to check Barack Obama's status update. She and I chatted for a little bit, kvetching a bit about children, co-workers and what a bummer it is that she lives in Washington DC and still hasn't bumped into Obama at Five Guys. The conversation turned to Halloween costumes.
Her: "Dude, I have a great costume idea. You should dress all in black and wear a shot glass around your neck. You'd be...A Shot in the Dark!"
Me: "I've already picked out my costume. I'm going as an exhausted mother of two, in desperate need of a shower and a cocktail."
Her: "LOL"
Me: "I'm wearing my costume right now. Gotta make sure it fits."
Her: "You poor thing. I'm off to a glamorous martini party with the glitterati and my fabulous entourage."
Ok, so she doesn't actually say that she is living the glamrous life in the fast lane, but I think she is editing out some of the fabulous details so I don't feel so bad about my twice-a-week shower schedule.
Her: "Dude, I have a great costume idea. You should dress all in black and wear a shot glass around your neck. You'd be...A Shot in the Dark!"
Me: "I've already picked out my costume. I'm going as an exhausted mother of two, in desperate need of a shower and a cocktail."
Her: "LOL"
Me: "I'm wearing my costume right now. Gotta make sure it fits."
Her: "You poor thing. I'm off to a glamorous martini party with the glitterati and my fabulous entourage."
Ok, so she doesn't actually say that she is living the glamrous life in the fast lane, but I think she is editing out some of the fabulous details so I don't feel so bad about my twice-a-week shower schedule.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Color Wars
Hubs and I were having one of our very deep, intellectual conversations. MaeMae started it by announcing that her favorite color is Red. This has been the consistent front runner for several days (practically eternity in the mind of a 3.5 year old) so I am inclined to believe her. She went on to remind us that Mom's favorite color is purple, while Dad's favorite color is blue. Spike, who has yet to speak a language we can understand, has no official position on the subject.
I informed Hubs that blue is an inferior color to purple.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Purple kicked Blue's ass the other day in a street brawl. Blue went crying home to it's momma and hid under the bed for two days."
"Well, if Purple saw Blue in a dark alley, Purple would pee on itself and run away."
"Well, Purple is the color of royalty. Blue is the color of plebeians."
(I'll admit, a comeback loses a bit of it's sting when your word choices clearly reveal a childhood spent watching PBS specials and reading too many books about the middle ages.)
"Well, in nature, Purple is an exotic color. There are only a few purple things, like flowers or grapes. Blue, on the other hand, is the color of the most important features in the world." Hubs settled back in his seat, clearly pleased with this response and considering the discussion at an end.
"WHAT? What are you talking about? What in the world is blue that is so important?"
He stared at me, eyes wide. "The. Sky."
Oooh, right. I forgot about that.
"And the OCEAN. Both are blue."
I had lost all traction gained by an obscure word choice and was firmly back in the dunce corner.
"You gotta color your hair back to brown, hon. You're turning into an idiot."
At this point, MaeMae was actually concerned that either Blue or Purple was hurt from their fight, and we had to reassure her that both colors were ok.
I informed Hubs that blue is an inferior color to purple.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Purple kicked Blue's ass the other day in a street brawl. Blue went crying home to it's momma and hid under the bed for two days."
"Well, if Purple saw Blue in a dark alley, Purple would pee on itself and run away."
"Well, Purple is the color of royalty. Blue is the color of plebeians."
(I'll admit, a comeback loses a bit of it's sting when your word choices clearly reveal a childhood spent watching PBS specials and reading too many books about the middle ages.)
"Well, in nature, Purple is an exotic color. There are only a few purple things, like flowers or grapes. Blue, on the other hand, is the color of the most important features in the world." Hubs settled back in his seat, clearly pleased with this response and considering the discussion at an end.
"WHAT? What are you talking about? What in the world is blue that is so important?"
He stared at me, eyes wide. "The. Sky."
Oooh, right. I forgot about that.
"And the OCEAN. Both are blue."
I had lost all traction gained by an obscure word choice and was firmly back in the dunce corner.
"You gotta color your hair back to brown, hon. You're turning into an idiot."
At this point, MaeMae was actually concerned that either Blue or Purple was hurt from their fight, and we had to reassure her that both colors were ok.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Overtraining
Hubs and I have been working out, together, in the morning. This morning workout hour used to be my time alone, where I would escape in my fantasy land of swinging hammocks, umbrella drinks served by shirtless (and mute) muscle bound men. But now we work out together, prompting many interesting and pointed conversations.
Case in point:
Today, I announced that I have "Overtraining Syndrome". This is something that happens to people that over do it for a period of time, don't get enough sleep, and have to slow down for a little while.
Hubs said, "How can you tell?"
"Well," I answered, "I'm grouchy. That's one of the signs."
With a carefully composed face, he said "You've been grouchy for 11 years. I don't think overtraining is the problem."
He thought about it a little while longer. "And, I thought that working out would make you happier. Instead, you're more dangerous now, because you can punch and kick."
"And I'm a lot faster now, so you better start running."
"Yep, that too."
I was slightly less grouchy for a period of time after that, because at least I'm not overtraining. I'm just grouchy, which we already knew.
Case in point:
Today, I announced that I have "Overtraining Syndrome". This is something that happens to people that over do it for a period of time, don't get enough sleep, and have to slow down for a little while.
Hubs said, "How can you tell?"
"Well," I answered, "I'm grouchy. That's one of the signs."
With a carefully composed face, he said "You've been grouchy for 11 years. I don't think overtraining is the problem."
He thought about it a little while longer. "And, I thought that working out would make you happier. Instead, you're more dangerous now, because you can punch and kick."
"And I'm a lot faster now, so you better start running."
"Yep, that too."
I was slightly less grouchy for a period of time after that, because at least I'm not overtraining. I'm just grouchy, which we already knew.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Conversations
"Mom, what are you doing?"
"I'm putting stuff back in the places it belongs."
"Well, it looks like you are organizing."
-
"Mom, what are those guys doing?"
"They are mowing the lawn."
"Why are they doing that?"
"They are helping the people that live there."
"Well, that is really nice of them to help their neighbors."
-
"Mom, what are those guys doing?"
"They are finished mowing the lawns and are putting the mowers away."
"Why are they putting them in there?"
"Those are trailers, so they can put all the mowers in the trailer and drive them home."
"Why are they taking them?"
"So they can put them in the garage."
"What garage?"
"The garage where they put their stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"THE MOWERS!"
"Oh."
-
"Wow, honey, my car looks just like yours."
"What, awesome?"
"No, covered in kid crap. What a mess."
after a family trip to Ohio
"I'm putting stuff back in the places it belongs."
"Well, it looks like you are organizing."
-
"Mom, what are those guys doing?"
"They are mowing the lawn."
"Why are they doing that?"
"They are helping the people that live there."
"Well, that is really nice of them to help their neighbors."
-
"Mom, what are those guys doing?"
"They are finished mowing the lawns and are putting the mowers away."
"Why are they putting them in there?"
"Those are trailers, so they can put all the mowers in the trailer and drive them home."
"Why are they taking them?"
"So they can put them in the garage."
"What garage?"
"The garage where they put their stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"THE MOWERS!"
"Oh."
-
"Wow, honey, my car looks just like yours."
"What, awesome?"
"No, covered in kid crap. What a mess."
after a family trip to Ohio
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Acutally, Mom...
Since the dawn of time, people have been pretending to "get" the noses of their children by putting the tip of a thumb between the pointer and middle finger and waving it in front of the child with a gleeful cry of "Got Your Nose!" Hilarity ensues.
I just attempted this with MaeMae. I squealed "Got Yer Nose!" and waggled my thumb-between-two-fingers gesture at her.
She cast a disdainful look in my direction. "Actually, Mom, that is your thumb."
Oh. Ok.
Can't you see it? "So tell me, MaeMae, do you think bipartisanship is possible in this lifetime, or shall we all revert to a cluster of small, agrarian societies?"
"Actually, Mom..."
I just attempted this with MaeMae. I squealed "Got Yer Nose!" and waggled my thumb-between-two-fingers gesture at her.
She cast a disdainful look in my direction. "Actually, Mom, that is your thumb."
Oh. Ok.
Can't you see it? "So tell me, MaeMae, do you think bipartisanship is possible in this lifetime, or shall we all revert to a cluster of small, agrarian societies?"
"Actually, Mom..."
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Conversations
"Daddy, you scared the crap out of me!"
"Mae, 'crap' is not a good word. It's a bad word."
"No, Daddy, 'crap' is a GREAT word!"
-MaeMae vs. Hubs
"You have a stegosaurus brain."
"What?"
"A stegosaurus has a brain the size of a walnut, and I'm implying that you also have a very tiny brain."
"Ooooo, Burn! Nerd Burn!"
-Me vs. Hubs
"Mae, 'crap' is not a good word. It's a bad word."
"No, Daddy, 'crap' is a GREAT word!"
-MaeMae vs. Hubs
"You have a stegosaurus brain."
"What?"
"A stegosaurus has a brain the size of a walnut, and I'm implying that you also have a very tiny brain."
"Ooooo, Burn! Nerd Burn!"
-Me vs. Hubs
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Confessions of a Dirty Mom
There are some homes that upon entering, you immediately take off your shoes without being asked. The smell of fresh linen isn't wafting from a Glade plug-in, but from actual fresh linen. The carpets are free of spots, and you can be assured that your white socks will stay white even if you moonwalk all around the kitchen.
This home is not my home. We have "hot lava" floors, meaning that anything that touches the floor will be covered in dirt or fur and rendered unusable, as if incinerated by lava. I typically try to scrub off the darkest spots on the family room carpet once a month, but I have been known to miss a few. We shrug, sheepish, and explain to visitors that we will replace the carpet once the dog has moved on to the big farm in the sky.
I just took laundry lessons from my sister in law, who is a wizard at stain removal. Up to that point, I had accepted that our family would just be a bit splotchy. I don't wipe out the fridge, clean the microwave or rinse out the silverware tray until company threatens to come over for a visit.
Some friends and I get together once a week or so, to drink coffee, complain discreetly about husbands, and let the kids wear themselves out. The host Mom is a clean mom, with sparkling floors, white grout and no crayon on the walls of her basement. We were having a lively conversation, and I didn't notice that one of the kids, a cheerful 14 month old girl, had wandered over to the play-doh table. She was only a few feet away from me, and happily munching away on the bits of colored doh. Play-doh is quite dry, and she began to cough a bit on the chunks. Still no reaction from me.
She coughed enough that the little bits of doh came flying out of her mouth, drawing the attention of the other moms. Gasps flew up from around the room..."She's eating play-doh!" The other moms immediately sprang into action. One, armed with Lysol wipes, charged over to wipe up the spit up. The other scooped up the toddler to pry the remaining bits out of her mouth.
Er....it says "non-toxic" right on the can. While I don't serve play-doh for snack, I certainly don't mind if someone has a bite or two. I let Darling lick her first ball of play-doh to see what it tastes like.
(Her verdict? "Ew." End discussion.)
No one actually accused me of neglect, but it did get me thinking. Perhaps this episode was indicative of a larger issue? Is this one example of a dirty mom vs. a clean one?
For further confirmation of the apple falling not-so-far from the tree, I relayed this story to St. Nana. She shrugged her shoulders and said "It says 'non-toxic' right on the can."
This home is not my home. We have "hot lava" floors, meaning that anything that touches the floor will be covered in dirt or fur and rendered unusable, as if incinerated by lava. I typically try to scrub off the darkest spots on the family room carpet once a month, but I have been known to miss a few. We shrug, sheepish, and explain to visitors that we will replace the carpet once the dog has moved on to the big farm in the sky.
I just took laundry lessons from my sister in law, who is a wizard at stain removal. Up to that point, I had accepted that our family would just be a bit splotchy. I don't wipe out the fridge, clean the microwave or rinse out the silverware tray until company threatens to come over for a visit.
Some friends and I get together once a week or so, to drink coffee, complain discreetly about husbands, and let the kids wear themselves out. The host Mom is a clean mom, with sparkling floors, white grout and no crayon on the walls of her basement. We were having a lively conversation, and I didn't notice that one of the kids, a cheerful 14 month old girl, had wandered over to the play-doh table. She was only a few feet away from me, and happily munching away on the bits of colored doh. Play-doh is quite dry, and she began to cough a bit on the chunks. Still no reaction from me.
She coughed enough that the little bits of doh came flying out of her mouth, drawing the attention of the other moms. Gasps flew up from around the room..."She's eating play-doh!" The other moms immediately sprang into action. One, armed with Lysol wipes, charged over to wipe up the spit up. The other scooped up the toddler to pry the remaining bits out of her mouth.
Er....it says "non-toxic" right on the can. While I don't serve play-doh for snack, I certainly don't mind if someone has a bite or two. I let Darling lick her first ball of play-doh to see what it tastes like.
(Her verdict? "Ew." End discussion.)
No one actually accused me of neglect, but it did get me thinking. Perhaps this episode was indicative of a larger issue? Is this one example of a dirty mom vs. a clean one?
For further confirmation of the apple falling not-so-far from the tree, I relayed this story to St. Nana. She shrugged her shoulders and said "It says 'non-toxic' right on the can."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Conversations
To Husby
hey honey -
I was just making dinner and got into the spices - I saw the container of Dill Weed and thought of you.
I hope you're having a good day.
(bwah ha ha ha snort ha ha ha ha)
His Answer:
hey honey -
I was just making dinner and got into the spices - I saw the container of Dill Weed and thought of you.
I hope you're having a good day.
(bwah ha ha ha snort ha ha ha ha)
His Answer:
I saw a homeless lady pushing a cart along the river walk shouting profanities....and I thought of you.
Hope you're having a great day.
(burrrrrrrrrn)
Friday, June 12, 2009
Check the temperature of hell, please...
Because perhaps it has frozen over?
I find myself in the unbelievable position of agreeing with our erstwhile candidate on the GOP ticket. Sarah Palin, for the first time since her inexplicable arrival on the political scene, has said something that actually makes sense.
I find myself taking her side in the tiff with David Letterman, who sparked a debate by making what even he admits to be a tasteless joke about one of her daughters. It wasn't funny, and probably would have drifted off into the wilderness, except that Sarah was paying attention. (Insert snide remark here - as a big fan of the "gotcha media", I don't have a lot of credibility when it comes to objective analysis of her character.)
Ms. Palin made her argument on the Today show this morning, to an incredulous Matt Lauer who taunted her with raised eyebrows during the interview. He took great pains to insist that Letterman was just joking, geeze, nothing to get your long underwear in a knot over. You slutty flight attendants are so touchy...
Not so fast, buster.
Sarah's argument centers around the idea that our words actually matter. Letterman's joke about her youngest daughter getting "knocked up" by the third baseman for the Yankees wasn't just unfunny, wasn't just rude or in poor taste. This kind of crap, these stupid jokes, these reaffirmed stereotypes of women get slowly burned into the collective, cultural consciousness. Stupid women, stupid girl, stupid blonde. Stupid, slutty, trampy, trashy women.
Now, I recognize that we've come a long way, baby. I see how facial expressions go from interested to flat when I go off on my tangents, get up on one of my soapboxes. Boo, hiss, shut UP already, Jaime. Yeeaaa, no. Sorry.
The words we choose to use represent our thoughts, our feelings, our fears. The words we select out of the vast language options are indicative of what we believe. These words send signals, spoken and unspoken, that communicate the fundamentals of our belief systems.
For example, when I hear someone say "Merry Christmas", I hear the following message: I believe in Jesus, and you should too. If you don't believe in Jesus, you're an outsider and don't belong here. As a result, I say "Happy Holidays" to everyone, even once to my pastor on Christmas Eve. (That got an eyebrow raise, lemme tell ya.) Other phrases, like "Do you work?" send another message. "Are you important? Or do you just sit at home and change diapers all day?" Hell, yes I work. I work inside the home, outside the home, all around the home, and I can kick your ass if you don't get out of my way.
It is my firm believe that our words indicate who we are, what we believe, and how we think. Our words create the relationships between people, and our relationships with people result in our society at large. So our little "jokes" about girls, women, gays, blondes, and even the "stupid husband" characters on sitcoms like Raymond and The King of Queens represent our true societal beliefs.
David Letterman apologized, sincerely this time, for his bad joke. Sarah used his apology as a chance to take one last swing, saying that she hopes men that make sex jokes about women "evolve". I am surprised to hear that word from her, because that word carries other connotations than just to grow and change. But I do agree with her, that it is time for the entertainers in society to rise above the lowest denominator and to quit repeating sexist, unfunny jokes about girls and women. It is time for us to chose our words more carefully, to create a better society, one relationship at a time.
I find myself in the unbelievable position of agreeing with our erstwhile candidate on the GOP ticket. Sarah Palin, for the first time since her inexplicable arrival on the political scene, has said something that actually makes sense.
I find myself taking her side in the tiff with David Letterman, who sparked a debate by making what even he admits to be a tasteless joke about one of her daughters. It wasn't funny, and probably would have drifted off into the wilderness, except that Sarah was paying attention. (Insert snide remark here - as a big fan of the "gotcha media", I don't have a lot of credibility when it comes to objective analysis of her character.)
Ms. Palin made her argument on the Today show this morning, to an incredulous Matt Lauer who taunted her with raised eyebrows during the interview. He took great pains to insist that Letterman was just joking, geeze, nothing to get your long underwear in a knot over. You slutty flight attendants are so touchy...
Not so fast, buster.
Sarah's argument centers around the idea that our words actually matter. Letterman's joke about her youngest daughter getting "knocked up" by the third baseman for the Yankees wasn't just unfunny, wasn't just rude or in poor taste. This kind of crap, these stupid jokes, these reaffirmed stereotypes of women get slowly burned into the collective, cultural consciousness. Stupid women, stupid girl, stupid blonde. Stupid, slutty, trampy, trashy women.
Now, I recognize that we've come a long way, baby. I see how facial expressions go from interested to flat when I go off on my tangents, get up on one of my soapboxes. Boo, hiss, shut UP already, Jaime. Yeeaaa, no. Sorry.
The words we choose to use represent our thoughts, our feelings, our fears. The words we select out of the vast language options are indicative of what we believe. These words send signals, spoken and unspoken, that communicate the fundamentals of our belief systems.
For example, when I hear someone say "Merry Christmas", I hear the following message: I believe in Jesus, and you should too. If you don't believe in Jesus, you're an outsider and don't belong here. As a result, I say "Happy Holidays" to everyone, even once to my pastor on Christmas Eve. (That got an eyebrow raise, lemme tell ya.) Other phrases, like "Do you work?" send another message. "Are you important? Or do you just sit at home and change diapers all day?" Hell, yes I work. I work inside the home, outside the home, all around the home, and I can kick your ass if you don't get out of my way.
It is my firm believe that our words indicate who we are, what we believe, and how we think. Our words create the relationships between people, and our relationships with people result in our society at large. So our little "jokes" about girls, women, gays, blondes, and even the "stupid husband" characters on sitcoms like Raymond and The King of Queens represent our true societal beliefs.
David Letterman apologized, sincerely this time, for his bad joke. Sarah used his apology as a chance to take one last swing, saying that she hopes men that make sex jokes about women "evolve". I am surprised to hear that word from her, because that word carries other connotations than just to grow and change. But I do agree with her, that it is time for the entertainers in society to rise above the lowest denominator and to quit repeating sexist, unfunny jokes about girls and women. It is time for us to chose our words more carefully, to create a better society, one relationship at a time.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Meet me at the 'Brary...
A notice popped up in my inbox a few days ago, reminding me that my library materials were due. Silently praising the internets for making my life easier, I clicked "renew materials" on the website. Out of curiosity, I wondered when I had checked out the books in the first place...I've renewed them twice, so they've been in our house for about six weeks. Heh.
I remember that day, six weeks ago, when I gathered up my courage with both hands and loaded Frick and Frack into the car for an adventure to the library. I attempted to fit the baby carrier into the stroller, but found that three years of motherhood have left gaping holes in my memory...I couldn't remember how to put all the pieces together. Add to this MaeMae's howls of injustice, because she realized that I wasn't planning on letting her ride in the stroller. The cold, wet wind was blowing my unwashed hair around, both kids were crying, my shirt was covered in mud from trying to get the stroller into the trunk of the car. I finally put the carrier back in the car, put MaeMae back in her seat, closed all the doors and leaned against the car to reevaluate.
It had been a monumental effort to get everyone out of the house, and it made sense to press on. So I abandoned the idea of putting the baby carrier into the stroller, and grabbed one child per hand. The baby carrier, for those that have blocked it out or have never experienced it, weighs about one zillion pounds and has to be carried at an awkward angle about two feet away from the body. It grows exponentially heavier with each second. A screeching three year old tugging on the other arm should theoretically balance out the weight of the carrier. It doesn't.
So, I'm working my way through the parking lot, explaining to MaeMae why I can't carry her and Spike at the same time. I have to keep hitching up the carrier against my hip so I don't drop it, and then add the corresponding shoulder jerk to get the diaper bag back into place. Hitch, jerk. Hitch, jerk. Marchmarchmarch, No, I can't pick you up and don't make me turn around and leave 'cuz I'll do it don't test me you know I'll do it.
Now, at this point, I was still in maternity pants. The charming elastic panel had begun to break down, and to my horror, had begun to slip down with each hitch of the carrier. Because I was dragging MaeMae with one hand and hitching the baby carrier with the other, I didn't have a free arm to hitch up my pants. Lower and lower the panel rolled, threatening the integrity of my outfit. Seriously? After all that, my freakin' pants were about to fall down? Yeah. Awesome.
I made it, glory be. I was able to get the kids into the kid section before MaeMae could disrupt the grownups with a shouted "Mom, is THIS the library?" I had run the gauntlet of the parking lot and made it to the safety of the kids section. There were people here that understood exactly what it takes to get out of the house. We shared exasperated smiles and heavy sighs.
The Library is a Mom's singles bar. We evaluate each other for signs of similar backgrounds, parenting styles, age of children. If we think there might be enough in common, we might approach someone and ask a generic question..."How old is yours?" That breaks the ice a bit - if Mom is friendly, we might ask something a little more personal.
"Hard to get out of the house, isn't it?" The answer to that question speaks volumes about the individual's Momtra.
"Why, whatever do you mean? It's really easy for us, I'm a very talented and good mom. I make cookies from scratch, have implemented a Montessori curriculum, and am in denial about my addiction to Oprah and diet coke."
Er....on to the next.
"Do you come here often?" Roughly translated, that means...do you come here a lot? Like, if you are friendly, can I count on seeing you here again next Wednesday at 10:00? Do you do storytime? If you don't come here often, what do you do with your kids and can I come too?
If a mom looks appealing, you might strike up a conversation. If the conversation goes well, you might hope to see them again next week, or if you're incredibly bold you might ask for her phone number or give her yours. (To date, I have never been that bold.) Some moms choose to go with a Wing Mom, to lessen the appearance of desperation. I don't need friends, this mom says, because I already have them. Some moms are shy and sit in the corner, some moms are loud and outgoing and are full of bravado.
I personally throw in a few key words to let the Moms know what kind of Mom I am. Yes, I come here when I can, but I'm meeting my friend for a drink tonight. Yeah, a mom I know from church has that problem with her kid. Yes, I love my children but sometimes...(eye roll)...
So the dance goes on. Moms milling around our new version of a night club, scoping out the other moms and wondering if any of them could be "the one". The lights are brighter, it is less smokey, and there are a lot more children than at Boogie Fever, but it is a place to see and be seen nonetheless.
So, really, do you come here often?
I remember that day, six weeks ago, when I gathered up my courage with both hands and loaded Frick and Frack into the car for an adventure to the library. I attempted to fit the baby carrier into the stroller, but found that three years of motherhood have left gaping holes in my memory...I couldn't remember how to put all the pieces together. Add to this MaeMae's howls of injustice, because she realized that I wasn't planning on letting her ride in the stroller. The cold, wet wind was blowing my unwashed hair around, both kids were crying, my shirt was covered in mud from trying to get the stroller into the trunk of the car. I finally put the carrier back in the car, put MaeMae back in her seat, closed all the doors and leaned against the car to reevaluate.
It had been a monumental effort to get everyone out of the house, and it made sense to press on. So I abandoned the idea of putting the baby carrier into the stroller, and grabbed one child per hand. The baby carrier, for those that have blocked it out or have never experienced it, weighs about one zillion pounds and has to be carried at an awkward angle about two feet away from the body. It grows exponentially heavier with each second. A screeching three year old tugging on the other arm should theoretically balance out the weight of the carrier. It doesn't.
So, I'm working my way through the parking lot, explaining to MaeMae why I can't carry her and Spike at the same time. I have to keep hitching up the carrier against my hip so I don't drop it, and then add the corresponding shoulder jerk to get the diaper bag back into place. Hitch, jerk. Hitch, jerk. Marchmarchmarch, No, I can't pick you up and don't make me turn around and leave 'cuz I'll do it don't test me you know I'll do it.
Now, at this point, I was still in maternity pants. The charming elastic panel had begun to break down, and to my horror, had begun to slip down with each hitch of the carrier. Because I was dragging MaeMae with one hand and hitching the baby carrier with the other, I didn't have a free arm to hitch up my pants. Lower and lower the panel rolled, threatening the integrity of my outfit. Seriously? After all that, my freakin' pants were about to fall down? Yeah. Awesome.
I made it, glory be. I was able to get the kids into the kid section before MaeMae could disrupt the grownups with a shouted "Mom, is THIS the library?" I had run the gauntlet of the parking lot and made it to the safety of the kids section. There were people here that understood exactly what it takes to get out of the house. We shared exasperated smiles and heavy sighs.
The Library is a Mom's singles bar. We evaluate each other for signs of similar backgrounds, parenting styles, age of children. If we think there might be enough in common, we might approach someone and ask a generic question..."How old is yours?" That breaks the ice a bit - if Mom is friendly, we might ask something a little more personal.
"Hard to get out of the house, isn't it?" The answer to that question speaks volumes about the individual's Momtra.
"Why, whatever do you mean? It's really easy for us, I'm a very talented and good mom. I make cookies from scratch, have implemented a Montessori curriculum, and am in denial about my addiction to Oprah and diet coke."
Er....on to the next.
"Do you come here often?" Roughly translated, that means...do you come here a lot? Like, if you are friendly, can I count on seeing you here again next Wednesday at 10:00? Do you do storytime? If you don't come here often, what do you do with your kids and can I come too?
If a mom looks appealing, you might strike up a conversation. If the conversation goes well, you might hope to see them again next week, or if you're incredibly bold you might ask for her phone number or give her yours. (To date, I have never been that bold.) Some moms choose to go with a Wing Mom, to lessen the appearance of desperation. I don't need friends, this mom says, because I already have them. Some moms are shy and sit in the corner, some moms are loud and outgoing and are full of bravado.
I personally throw in a few key words to let the Moms know what kind of Mom I am. Yes, I come here when I can, but I'm meeting my friend for a drink tonight. Yeah, a mom I know from church has that problem with her kid. Yes, I love my children but sometimes...(eye roll)...
So the dance goes on. Moms milling around our new version of a night club, scoping out the other moms and wondering if any of them could be "the one". The lights are brighter, it is less smokey, and there are a lot more children than at Boogie Fever, but it is a place to see and be seen nonetheless.
So, really, do you come here often?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sisyphus Shmishaphus
Sisyphus has been on my mind lately. For those readers who aren't complete and total nerds like myself and haven't read Edith Hamilton's encyclopedia of Greek Mythology, Sisyphus is the poor bastard condemned to an eternity of fruitless labor. He was found to be guilty of having a huge ego and thought himself more clever than Zeus. He was sentenced to an eternity in hell, pushing a massive boulder up a mountain just to watch it roll down to the bottom.
Can you see it? Up the mountain with the boulder, pant pant, whew! Finished! Then...
Wait...stop...someone stop that boulder...oh, crap. Trudge down the mountain, perhaps kicking a few pebbles out of the way while you go, get behind the boulder again and puuuush it up the hill.
Repeat. For all eternity.
Sisyphus has gotten a fair amount of air time since the story broke a jillion years ago. Many scholars with sharper minds than mine have used him to illustrate the finer points of the absurdity of humanity. Some liken him to the sun, which rolls from one side of the sky to the other in an eternal cycle of light and dark.
Personally, I have stormed around the house declaring that Sisyphus has nothing on a mother of young children. My boulders are laundry and mealtimes, toy cleanup and bath time. Grocery store runs, diaper changes, dishes. Repeat. For all eternity.
You want dinner again? Didn't we do that yesterday? Didn't I wash this plate, microwave that bag of frozen vegetables, make you sit in your chair until you finished, and force you to ask politely to be excused from the table?
MaeMae told me yesterday that it wasn't naptime and she didn't need to lay down. I reminded her that she has taken an afternoon nap every day since the dawn of her little baby life. (This is excepting the first six months of her life which we will not get into here.) When I finally did convince her to lay down, I stepped squarely into her laundry basket full of dirties. And then bumped into the dog that needed to be fed, medicated, brushed and yelled at for being a worthless mongrel. Don't forget the poop...
Sisyphus, a regular on the cast of my daily complaints, made a surprise appearance on my spiritual stage this morning. For the last few weeks I have been cheerfully pushing my boulder of skepticism, disbelief, doubt and frustration up to the top of Mt. Spiritual Hangup. I was so hoping I was getting enough momentum to throw the boulder off the top, setting me free from the forked stick of twin desires to be more "Christian" or to be done with the whole mess and go out for a drink.
I was making progress. I...was...almost...over...the tricky spot...
Not so fast, sparky. I'm not sure when I lost my grip on the boulder but it rolled right back down the hill. So today's church service sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher; waa waa waaa. This can also be referred to as the "Ginger Factor", immortalized by Gary Larson's FarSide comic:
Blah blah blah, indeed. I've heard the words, I know the song, I can even do the hand motions. For a few weeks I had this burgeoning seed of hope that maybe this time it would make sense to me and I would break out of this fourth stage crap. Ffft. That seed of hope got smushed by the boulder as it careened down the slope.
I've tossed out expletive filled explanations of why Sisyphus has nothing on a Mom. Now I'm seeing him in other areas of life, and I'm not his biggest fan. He reminds me that laying down in traffic for your children isn't what is required - instead it is a constant stream of "use your inside voice, say please, pick up your toys, you can't talk to me that way and you're getting a time out". Not once, not twice. Always, for eternity. Apparently he is no longer satisfied with illustrating the futility of my domestic agenda. Now he's showing me all the other absurd cycles of growth and destruction.
So there. And don't try and cheer me up, either. I'm obviously quite fond of my spiritual boulder or I wouldn't be dragging it around like a blankie for twenty years. And that, my friends, is a psychoanalytic article of it's own; that will have to wait until my allergy medicine kicks in.
Can you see it? Up the mountain with the boulder, pant pant, whew! Finished! Then...
Wait...stop...someone stop that boulder...oh, crap. Trudge down the mountain, perhaps kicking a few pebbles out of the way while you go, get behind the boulder again and puuuush it up the hill.
Repeat. For all eternity.
Sisyphus has gotten a fair amount of air time since the story broke a jillion years ago. Many scholars with sharper minds than mine have used him to illustrate the finer points of the absurdity of humanity. Some liken him to the sun, which rolls from one side of the sky to the other in an eternal cycle of light and dark.
Personally, I have stormed around the house declaring that Sisyphus has nothing on a mother of young children. My boulders are laundry and mealtimes, toy cleanup and bath time. Grocery store runs, diaper changes, dishes. Repeat. For all eternity.
You want dinner again? Didn't we do that yesterday? Didn't I wash this plate, microwave that bag of frozen vegetables, make you sit in your chair until you finished, and force you to ask politely to be excused from the table?
MaeMae told me yesterday that it wasn't naptime and she didn't need to lay down. I reminded her that she has taken an afternoon nap every day since the dawn of her little baby life. (This is excepting the first six months of her life which we will not get into here.) When I finally did convince her to lay down, I stepped squarely into her laundry basket full of dirties. And then bumped into the dog that needed to be fed, medicated, brushed and yelled at for being a worthless mongrel. Don't forget the poop...
Sisyphus, a regular on the cast of my daily complaints, made a surprise appearance on my spiritual stage this morning. For the last few weeks I have been cheerfully pushing my boulder of skepticism, disbelief, doubt and frustration up to the top of Mt. Spiritual Hangup. I was so hoping I was getting enough momentum to throw the boulder off the top, setting me free from the forked stick of twin desires to be more "Christian" or to be done with the whole mess and go out for a drink.
I was making progress. I...was...almost...over...the tricky spot...
Not so fast, sparky. I'm not sure when I lost my grip on the boulder but it rolled right back down the hill. So today's church service sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher; waa waa waaa. This can also be referred to as the "Ginger Factor", immortalized by Gary Larson's FarSide comic:
Blah blah blah, indeed. I've heard the words, I know the song, I can even do the hand motions. For a few weeks I had this burgeoning seed of hope that maybe this time it would make sense to me and I would break out of this fourth stage crap. Ffft. That seed of hope got smushed by the boulder as it careened down the slope.
I've tossed out expletive filled explanations of why Sisyphus has nothing on a Mom. Now I'm seeing him in other areas of life, and I'm not his biggest fan. He reminds me that laying down in traffic for your children isn't what is required - instead it is a constant stream of "use your inside voice, say please, pick up your toys, you can't talk to me that way and you're getting a time out". Not once, not twice. Always, for eternity. Apparently he is no longer satisfied with illustrating the futility of my domestic agenda. Now he's showing me all the other absurd cycles of growth and destruction.
So there. And don't try and cheer me up, either. I'm obviously quite fond of my spiritual boulder or I wouldn't be dragging it around like a blankie for twenty years. And that, my friends, is a psychoanalytic article of it's own; that will have to wait until my allergy medicine kicks in.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Overheard very early this morning...
"I think someone woke up on the right side of her big girl bed..."
"ME! Mom, it was ME!"
Yeah, honey, we know.
"ME! Mom, it was ME!"
Yeah, honey, we know.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Life's a bitch...
For the second time in a week, I found myself in a dead sprint to Rite Aid, in search of the perfect baby formula. I had a brilliant idea last week to switch to generic baby formula, which would save us approximately one jillion dollars per month. Spike appeared to be on board with the Kroger brand for a day or so, then changed her mind. She expressed her displeasure by yarking on me and screaming uncontrollably. Our previously serene existence was no more.
So I raced to Rite Aid, pulling out my hair as only a new mom with jangled nerves can. I got the trusty Blue formula, and Spike returned to her previously calm state. Almost. So I got a bright idea that we should try soy formula to see if that would bring us all the way back to Zen Baby.
Fffft. A full day of soy formula brought us back to barfing, yelling and general mayhem. At the end of my rope, I raced over to Rite Aid again to get more of the Blue Stuff. They were out of the powder Blue, so I bought the liquid Blue, hoping it would be the right kind. The cashier, taking in my ensembe of a ratty t-shirt and pajama pants, astutely observed that I must have a "hungry baby at home, raising all sorts of holy heck." And how.
It's been a rough day, what with Darling breaking out of her crib and me still being too wide in the hips to get into a decent sized pair of pants. Howling Spike was a bit of a last straw. I was keeping a running log of complaints in my head, as if to prove somehow that I've taken my fair share of lumps for one day and deserved a spa vacation as a reward.
I was remembering fondly the days before children. The problem, as devoted fans will remember, is that I'm a bit of a pessimist. The good ole' days weren't all great, you know. Husby and I lived in Colorado for many years, and I remember the exhiliration of having a mountain range in my backyard and the freedom of non-commitment. The endless blue skies, the clean dry air of the high desert, the view from the parking lot at school...I miss all of these things. But I also remember the lonliness, the fear of not knowing what the hell I was going to do with a bachelors in Psych, the co-worker that threw post-it notes at my head. I remember being too far from my family, breaking the coffee pot at work on my first day back from vacation. I remember driving home from campus for lunch becuase I didn't have anyone to sit with.
And so it goes. I remember Michigan State, which was a pretty good time while it lasted. I think about high school, a time of freedom and rent free living. I remember the year I lived in New Jersey, the time I went to community college, the first time I tried to make spagetti. There is a good side and a bad side to everything, a time of growth mixed with the fear of not being prepared to handle the transition. I refuse to be romantic about the past.
So, where does that leave us? Our lives are full of crisis, from infancy to the grave. (I didn't make that up, that comes from Erik Erikson, neo-Freudian at large.) We must resolve these crisis in order to move forward in the game, in order to gain the skills to get to the next level. So I don't look back with glazed longing to be the person I was before, to go back to a time in my life when things were different. At least, I don't do that for very long.
We're faced with the challenges that are appropriate for our develomental level. Darling is faced with figuring out how to sleep in a bed instead of a crib. I'm pretty sure it is very uncomfortable for her not to be penned in on four sides. In five years, she might wish that was her biggest challenge. Spike is learning how to express her needs in a way that her big people can understand. I have no desire to be in her booties - how frustrating it must be to have to lay in one spot and scream until someone figures out that you've pooped yourself? Sure, it seems like a blissful life, to drink yourself silly and fall asleep in the middle of a meal and take another nap...but what if you didn't like what was on the menu?
So I'm back to day one, lesson one. Life, dear readers, is a bitch. No matter what stage you're in, your problems are big and scary. Even if the outside world thinks you've got it made in the shade.
Update: Spike was sound asleep by the time I got back from Rite Aid, and Darling was up wandering around because the baby had "woked" her up.
So I raced to Rite Aid, pulling out my hair as only a new mom with jangled nerves can. I got the trusty Blue formula, and Spike returned to her previously calm state. Almost. So I got a bright idea that we should try soy formula to see if that would bring us all the way back to Zen Baby.
Fffft. A full day of soy formula brought us back to barfing, yelling and general mayhem. At the end of my rope, I raced over to Rite Aid again to get more of the Blue Stuff. They were out of the powder Blue, so I bought the liquid Blue, hoping it would be the right kind. The cashier, taking in my ensembe of a ratty t-shirt and pajama pants, astutely observed that I must have a "hungry baby at home, raising all sorts of holy heck." And how.
It's been a rough day, what with Darling breaking out of her crib and me still being too wide in the hips to get into a decent sized pair of pants. Howling Spike was a bit of a last straw. I was keeping a running log of complaints in my head, as if to prove somehow that I've taken my fair share of lumps for one day and deserved a spa vacation as a reward.
I was remembering fondly the days before children. The problem, as devoted fans will remember, is that I'm a bit of a pessimist. The good ole' days weren't all great, you know. Husby and I lived in Colorado for many years, and I remember the exhiliration of having a mountain range in my backyard and the freedom of non-commitment. The endless blue skies, the clean dry air of the high desert, the view from the parking lot at school...I miss all of these things. But I also remember the lonliness, the fear of not knowing what the hell I was going to do with a bachelors in Psych, the co-worker that threw post-it notes at my head. I remember being too far from my family, breaking the coffee pot at work on my first day back from vacation. I remember driving home from campus for lunch becuase I didn't have anyone to sit with.
And so it goes. I remember Michigan State, which was a pretty good time while it lasted. I think about high school, a time of freedom and rent free living. I remember the year I lived in New Jersey, the time I went to community college, the first time I tried to make spagetti. There is a good side and a bad side to everything, a time of growth mixed with the fear of not being prepared to handle the transition. I refuse to be romantic about the past.
So, where does that leave us? Our lives are full of crisis, from infancy to the grave. (I didn't make that up, that comes from Erik Erikson, neo-Freudian at large.) We must resolve these crisis in order to move forward in the game, in order to gain the skills to get to the next level. So I don't look back with glazed longing to be the person I was before, to go back to a time in my life when things were different. At least, I don't do that for very long.
We're faced with the challenges that are appropriate for our develomental level. Darling is faced with figuring out how to sleep in a bed instead of a crib. I'm pretty sure it is very uncomfortable for her not to be penned in on four sides. In five years, she might wish that was her biggest challenge. Spike is learning how to express her needs in a way that her big people can understand. I have no desire to be in her booties - how frustrating it must be to have to lay in one spot and scream until someone figures out that you've pooped yourself? Sure, it seems like a blissful life, to drink yourself silly and fall asleep in the middle of a meal and take another nap...but what if you didn't like what was on the menu?
So I'm back to day one, lesson one. Life, dear readers, is a bitch. No matter what stage you're in, your problems are big and scary. Even if the outside world thinks you've got it made in the shade.
Update: Spike was sound asleep by the time I got back from Rite Aid, and Darling was up wandering around because the baby had "woked" her up.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Smells
Our house is a brick ranch, built in 1955. I'm pretty sure there has been a cat peeing in the basement every day since the thing went up. We moved in about 18 months ago, and I've been fighting the old person/cat piss smell ever since.
I've tried everything short of fire to alter the smell of the house. I draw the line at scented candles and incense because I have a healthy fear of unattended flames developing a mind of their own and proving the existence of sentient candles by burning down my house. So I'm restricted to those goofy plug-ins which are arguably more dangerous than candles and smell pretty bad anyway. I'm threatening to rip up the carpet in the family room and replace it with laminate flooring, but until our giant mutt goes to the great dog farm in the sky, we're stuck with the stank.
A few days ago, I cooked up an amazing dinner with green, yellow and orange peppers, chicken, cheese and a whole lot of pats-on-the-back. The good part about this combination is the versatility - add green chilies, and you've got a Mexican feast. Take out the cheese, add the soy sauce, and you've got a stir fry. Forget the whole thing and order a pizza, and you've got my dream dinner. But my cooking abilities are increasing, and I didn't burn any of the ingredients during this attempt to feed my family something everyone would eat.
This successful dinner yielded a hidden bonus - it made my house smell great for about a day. It took me a minute to figure it out, but the smell of peppers, chicken and cheese reminds me of our pre-child camping trips to Canyonlands, in Utah. We used to make hoagies on a Coleman stove, drinking beer out of cans labeled "BEER" (love state-run liquor stores). We would play gin rummy, and feel smugly grateful that we had chosen a college in such close proximity to the desert.
I was reminded of the time we constructed a shelter with tarps, using rope and every ounce of Husby's carpentry skills. We dragged a picnic table under the roof in time to escape the torrential rainstorm, and were terribly proud of ourselves. We could see a pair of campers across the sand that didn't fare as well in the storm. They were huddled over two mugs of coffee, drenched and miserable.
I scampered over in the pitch dark to invite them to come and hang out with us under our shelter. They were not expecting me, and I was lucky they were hippies, and not hunters. (Sneaking up on hunters is not a good idea.) I scared the crap out of them, but they were greatly cheered by the prospect of getting out of the rain.
They came over and sat with us under our tarp tent for a few hours, telling us about their adventures in camping across the country. They had their mugs, they explained, and ate most meals out of the mugs. If you make oatmeal in a mug, they told us, everything that you eat from that mug will taste faintly of oatmeal. They seemed good natured enough, despite the fact that rain really was following them around the country like Linus's dirt cloud. This was good news to us, because we thought it was our presence that brought rain to the desert...
For a moment, my kitchen waved out of focus and was replaced with the memory of flaming red rocks against a brilliant blue sky. All it took was a whiff of the peppers/chicken/cheese combination to break out of the brick ranch in the Midwest and go to the desert for a few moments.
I've tried everything short of fire to alter the smell of the house. I draw the line at scented candles and incense because I have a healthy fear of unattended flames developing a mind of their own and proving the existence of sentient candles by burning down my house. So I'm restricted to those goofy plug-ins which are arguably more dangerous than candles and smell pretty bad anyway. I'm threatening to rip up the carpet in the family room and replace it with laminate flooring, but until our giant mutt goes to the great dog farm in the sky, we're stuck with the stank.
A few days ago, I cooked up an amazing dinner with green, yellow and orange peppers, chicken, cheese and a whole lot of pats-on-the-back. The good part about this combination is the versatility - add green chilies, and you've got a Mexican feast. Take out the cheese, add the soy sauce, and you've got a stir fry. Forget the whole thing and order a pizza, and you've got my dream dinner. But my cooking abilities are increasing, and I didn't burn any of the ingredients during this attempt to feed my family something everyone would eat.
This successful dinner yielded a hidden bonus - it made my house smell great for about a day. It took me a minute to figure it out, but the smell of peppers, chicken and cheese reminds me of our pre-child camping trips to Canyonlands, in Utah. We used to make hoagies on a Coleman stove, drinking beer out of cans labeled "BEER" (love state-run liquor stores). We would play gin rummy, and feel smugly grateful that we had chosen a college in such close proximity to the desert.
I was reminded of the time we constructed a shelter with tarps, using rope and every ounce of Husby's carpentry skills. We dragged a picnic table under the roof in time to escape the torrential rainstorm, and were terribly proud of ourselves. We could see a pair of campers across the sand that didn't fare as well in the storm. They were huddled over two mugs of coffee, drenched and miserable.
I scampered over in the pitch dark to invite them to come and hang out with us under our shelter. They were not expecting me, and I was lucky they were hippies, and not hunters. (Sneaking up on hunters is not a good idea.) I scared the crap out of them, but they were greatly cheered by the prospect of getting out of the rain.
They came over and sat with us under our tarp tent for a few hours, telling us about their adventures in camping across the country. They had their mugs, they explained, and ate most meals out of the mugs. If you make oatmeal in a mug, they told us, everything that you eat from that mug will taste faintly of oatmeal. They seemed good natured enough, despite the fact that rain really was following them around the country like Linus's dirt cloud. This was good news to us, because we thought it was our presence that brought rain to the desert...
For a moment, my kitchen waved out of focus and was replaced with the memory of flaming red rocks against a brilliant blue sky. All it took was a whiff of the peppers/chicken/cheese combination to break out of the brick ranch in the Midwest and go to the desert for a few moments.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The only job you'll ever....nevermind.
Everyone has had a crap week at work, right? Everyone has that co-worker that interrupts you just as you start a project, won't stop talking during lunch, insists on having everything done their way and ignores all of your subtle social signals that say "I'm not interested in what you're saying...".
So, most people come home from work, kick off their shoes, open a nice cold Heineken and start planning a Beaches vacation to Ocho Rios. Maybe play some video games, go to Opening Day at Tiger's Stadium, take in a movie, go out for a cocktail with a buddy...or peacefully read a book that might be more insightful than the latest vampire novel because there might actually be enough gas left in the tank to comprehend something a smidge more complicated. Maybe microwave a Lean Cuisine or go for a walk.
What do you do when that most irritating co-worker is someone to whom you have personally given birth? Or taken a vow in front of God and everybody to love, honor, cherish and not tell to shutthehellupplease just this once? What if your co-worker didn't understand that just this one time, you'd like to go to the bathroom without an audience? What if your co-worker screeched, stomped a foot and flung herself on the floor because you'd had the temerity to fill her water cup to the tippy top instead of just to the regular top?
What if you were bound by state law and biological psychology to wipe your co-worker's butt, play circus penguin on the driveway, and praise every piece of artwork created by putting old address labels on a piece of construction paper?
Some people may complain that they feel like they live at the office. What do you do when you actually do live at the office? When you can't go home? When you are at work, and at home, all at the same time?
Well, if you're me, you daydream about camping in Utah, fitting into your old jeans, and doing the hippy jig dance at a dive bar in Colorado with a super cute carpenter that you met at a block party. (The fact that the super cute carpenter is now the father of the co-workers that are plaguing you is irrelevant in these daydreams.)
If you're me, you count going to the grocery store as "getting out of the house" and wonder if you've sacrificed your brain to those co-workers that are frustrating, adorable, amazing and infuriating. You hope that someday, you will find a hairstyle and sunglasses that make you look as stylish as the mom on Friday Night Lights. (And to be half as good at motherhood as she is, too.) You hope to get a pedicure for your rusty feet before summer and wonder why some moms have nice eyebrows...
And hope that tomorrow, you can go to the bathroom, just once, by yourself.
So, most people come home from work, kick off their shoes, open a nice cold Heineken and start planning a Beaches vacation to Ocho Rios. Maybe play some video games, go to Opening Day at Tiger's Stadium, take in a movie, go out for a cocktail with a buddy...or peacefully read a book that might be more insightful than the latest vampire novel because there might actually be enough gas left in the tank to comprehend something a smidge more complicated. Maybe microwave a Lean Cuisine or go for a walk.
What do you do when that most irritating co-worker is someone to whom you have personally given birth? Or taken a vow in front of God and everybody to love, honor, cherish and not tell to shutthehellupplease just this once? What if your co-worker didn't understand that just this one time, you'd like to go to the bathroom without an audience? What if your co-worker screeched, stomped a foot and flung herself on the floor because you'd had the temerity to fill her water cup to the tippy top instead of just to the regular top?
What if you were bound by state law and biological psychology to wipe your co-worker's butt, play circus penguin on the driveway, and praise every piece of artwork created by putting old address labels on a piece of construction paper?
Some people may complain that they feel like they live at the office. What do you do when you actually do live at the office? When you can't go home? When you are at work, and at home, all at the same time?
Well, if you're me, you daydream about camping in Utah, fitting into your old jeans, and doing the hippy jig dance at a dive bar in Colorado with a super cute carpenter that you met at a block party. (The fact that the super cute carpenter is now the father of the co-workers that are plaguing you is irrelevant in these daydreams.)
If you're me, you count going to the grocery store as "getting out of the house" and wonder if you've sacrificed your brain to those co-workers that are frustrating, adorable, amazing and infuriating. You hope that someday, you will find a hairstyle and sunglasses that make you look as stylish as the mom on Friday Night Lights. (And to be half as good at motherhood as she is, too.) You hope to get a pedicure for your rusty feet before summer and wonder why some moms have nice eyebrows...
And hope that tomorrow, you can go to the bathroom, just once, by yourself.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Surprise? Really?
We have reached a point in our parenting career where a trip out of town was necessary. Husby's dear grandmother passed away in January, and we were to go to her memorial service in Indiana. St. Nana was called upon to let out our wayward (worthless) mutt, but we were unable to convince ourselves that letting the children out of the house twice a day to poop in the yard would constitute "good parenting". So we packed up the kids and headed out of town.
I made a list of all of the things required for three of us to appear presentable for an hour long function. (Husby, being male, requires no list. He has a bag with deodorant and a toothbrush in it and is good for about a week.) As the bags were filled and items crossed off the list, I began to feel like I was organizing a small army of invaders.
"Look out!" they would cry as the family marched across the state line. "The crazy family with all the wild floral prints is coming to bring an attempt at mid-century fashion to Indiana! Run for your lives!"
In my defense, I didn't realize that all three of us would be kitted out in big floral prints until we were all standing next to each other. I also didn't realize that my floral print raincoat, when paired with my crazy geometric diaper bag, would create such a grinding headache in anyone unfortunate enough to see me. And all that on top of my bright green dress? Oof. Sorry, everyone.
Our trip went very smoothly, meaning that I didn't use a quarter of the clothing I'd brought for the kids. I used only a small fraction of the formula that I'd packed for the baby, though I did deplete our supply of ibuprofen in an attempt to thwart my spring sinus headaches. My over preparation for every possible circumstance did come in handy a few times, so I can at least rest in the knowledge that my new obsession with plastic grocery bags as diaper containers is justified.
But even with my preparation, my amazing children and my ability to sing any number of Barney songs at the request of a tired three year old, 10 hours in the car is a long time. By the end of our journey, I felt a bit grimy and stiff. To combat this feeling, I plopped Fat Baby in a warm bath and used one of the bath toys to pour warm water on her chubby little self.
Husby was scampering about in an attempt to put away all of the supplies I had gathered for our trip. I called out to him from the bathroom to let him know that I wasn't just playing patty-cake with the baby. "I think I'm projecting," I told him.
"Why?"
"I'm pouring all this warm water on the baby, and I don't think she really likes it that much. I, on the other hand, would love a nice warm bath and someone to pour water on my head." I looked at Fat Baby, who actually did have a bit of a smile on her face. Hmm, maybe she did like it?
This gave me an idea. After I finished spoiling the baby, I called Darling Daughter over to the bathroom. "I have a treat for you! A surprise treat!"
"What is it, Momma?" she croaked in her raspy, croupy voice.
"A warm washcloth to wash your hands and face!" I was so proud of my idea.
Darling's face transformed in a heartbeat to one of tearful disbelief. Her bottom lip stuck out, her cheeks got all red, and she sucked in a huge lungful of air to launch a protest. "I want my surprise!"
"This is your surprise, baby! Doesn't that feel better, being clean?" My explanation didn't help at all. Husby was chuckling from the safety of the other room.
"No! NO! I want my surprise! I! Want! My! Surprise!" After voicing her articulate arguments, Darling abandoned reason and wailed wordlessly while I stood there with my damp washcloth.
"You know, that was a pretty crappy surprise," said Husby. "Good luck with that one."
I cast about for a replacement surprise while my tired and grubby daughter expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills with increasing volume. Juice? We'd just brushed her teeth. A Popsicle? Way too late at night, and too messy. Nothing seemed to be a good fit.
Inspiration struck again, though I was a bit insecure about my version of "treats". I raced over to the pantry and poured an assortment of children's vitamins into my palm. I offered to let Darling pick out which one she wanted to eat. She settled on the purple Dino and grumbled quietly to herself as she wandered out of the kitchen. Whew. Saved by the dino.
The razzing continued long after Darling had gone to sleep. My husband wanted to know just what the hell I was thinking, offering a three year old a nice warm washcloth. "Here, dirty child, get clean! Won't that be nice?"
"You know, in first class they give you a warm washcloth to freshen up with after a long flight. It's lovely."
"Unless you are three, in which case you would be horribly disappointed that all you were getting was a modified bath!"
Fine. Whatever. But don't come crying to me when all you get with the next trip is a bag of peanuts!
I made a list of all of the things required for three of us to appear presentable for an hour long function. (Husby, being male, requires no list. He has a bag with deodorant and a toothbrush in it and is good for about a week.) As the bags were filled and items crossed off the list, I began to feel like I was organizing a small army of invaders.
"Look out!" they would cry as the family marched across the state line. "The crazy family with all the wild floral prints is coming to bring an attempt at mid-century fashion to Indiana! Run for your lives!"
In my defense, I didn't realize that all three of us would be kitted out in big floral prints until we were all standing next to each other. I also didn't realize that my floral print raincoat, when paired with my crazy geometric diaper bag, would create such a grinding headache in anyone unfortunate enough to see me. And all that on top of my bright green dress? Oof. Sorry, everyone.
Our trip went very smoothly, meaning that I didn't use a quarter of the clothing I'd brought for the kids. I used only a small fraction of the formula that I'd packed for the baby, though I did deplete our supply of ibuprofen in an attempt to thwart my spring sinus headaches. My over preparation for every possible circumstance did come in handy a few times, so I can at least rest in the knowledge that my new obsession with plastic grocery bags as diaper containers is justified.
But even with my preparation, my amazing children and my ability to sing any number of Barney songs at the request of a tired three year old, 10 hours in the car is a long time. By the end of our journey, I felt a bit grimy and stiff. To combat this feeling, I plopped Fat Baby in a warm bath and used one of the bath toys to pour warm water on her chubby little self.
Husby was scampering about in an attempt to put away all of the supplies I had gathered for our trip. I called out to him from the bathroom to let him know that I wasn't just playing patty-cake with the baby. "I think I'm projecting," I told him.
"Why?"
"I'm pouring all this warm water on the baby, and I don't think she really likes it that much. I, on the other hand, would love a nice warm bath and someone to pour water on my head." I looked at Fat Baby, who actually did have a bit of a smile on her face. Hmm, maybe she did like it?
This gave me an idea. After I finished spoiling the baby, I called Darling Daughter over to the bathroom. "I have a treat for you! A surprise treat!"
"What is it, Momma?" she croaked in her raspy, croupy voice.
"A warm washcloth to wash your hands and face!" I was so proud of my idea.
Darling's face transformed in a heartbeat to one of tearful disbelief. Her bottom lip stuck out, her cheeks got all red, and she sucked in a huge lungful of air to launch a protest. "I want my surprise!"
"This is your surprise, baby! Doesn't that feel better, being clean?" My explanation didn't help at all. Husby was chuckling from the safety of the other room.
"No! NO! I want my surprise! I! Want! My! Surprise!" After voicing her articulate arguments, Darling abandoned reason and wailed wordlessly while I stood there with my damp washcloth.
"You know, that was a pretty crappy surprise," said Husby. "Good luck with that one."
I cast about for a replacement surprise while my tired and grubby daughter expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills with increasing volume. Juice? We'd just brushed her teeth. A Popsicle? Way too late at night, and too messy. Nothing seemed to be a good fit.
Inspiration struck again, though I was a bit insecure about my version of "treats". I raced over to the pantry and poured an assortment of children's vitamins into my palm. I offered to let Darling pick out which one she wanted to eat. She settled on the purple Dino and grumbled quietly to herself as she wandered out of the kitchen. Whew. Saved by the dino.
The razzing continued long after Darling had gone to sleep. My husband wanted to know just what the hell I was thinking, offering a three year old a nice warm washcloth. "Here, dirty child, get clean! Won't that be nice?"
"You know, in first class they give you a warm washcloth to freshen up with after a long flight. It's lovely."
"Unless you are three, in which case you would be horribly disappointed that all you were getting was a modified bath!"
Fine. Whatever. But don't come crying to me when all you get with the next trip is a bag of peanuts!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Tights on a Toddler
Putting outfits together has never been my strong suit. I have retreated to a safe position of neutral clothes (jeans + t-shirt = happy) and big funky jewelry. Some people have said things like "I wish I could wear a necklace like that, but I don't think I could pull it off." The secret answer is that my big necklaces keep you from noticing that I'm wearing last year's jeans. I go in for a bit of a "hippy/business casual/bohemian/this-was-the-only-clean-sweater-I-could-find" look.
So, styling Darling Daughter for a weekly appearance at church has historically been a bit of a trial for me. Do we go casual to show my disregard for the patriarchal insistence that women must be attractively kitted out from the moment of our birth? Do I let Darling wear her sweatpants to church to illustrate what a forward thinking Mom I am to let her make her own choices? (Sometimes, yes. And mothers everywhere share a slight shrug and an eye roll with me when they see us out in public in our party shoes, paisley pants and a football jersey that is a few sizes too small.) Or do I try, against all my good judgement backed up by three years of experience, to put together an outfit that matches, fits and is event appropriate?
Ambitious Mom took over this weekend, and I put Darling in a planned outfit of a skirt, tights and tunic. She wasn't very keen on the whole idea until I told her she could chose between her cow-boots and her party shoes. Fancy shoes? No, not the fancy shoes, the party shoes. Alright, then, she would do it, but she really did think the fancy shoes would go better than the party shoes.
Everything was going really well, believe it or not. There was even a girl at church that had the same shoes as Darling, though I don't think she was wearing them in a casually ironic way, which is the message I was attempting to send. The tights were a surprisingly big hit, and Darling mentioned to more than one person that she was, in fact, wearing tights that day.
We were enjoying a relativly snarl free Sunday afternoon at my parents house when it became clear to us that someone needed a new diaper. After elucidating the finer points of the being free of diapers and launching into a description of the brave new world of potty training, I changed her diaper and put her outfit back together. I was also telling a not-very-funny anecdote to Husby, St. Nana and Papa while hitching Darling's tights back up under her skirt.
I noticed that all three of my audience members were wearing a similar, odd smirk. I silently reviewed my anecdote in my head to figure out what they thought was so amusing. Finally, Hubsy snickered and asked if I was forgetting something.
Huh?
St. Nana and Papa were clearly holding in serious laughter. I looked around divine the cause of this amusement and came up empty handed.
"Did you forget to do something?" Husby wondered, unhelpfully. St. Nana and Papa were giggling. Nice supportive family I have, don't you know...
"The diaper. You forgot to put a diaper on her."
I looked at Darling, who looked back at me with as much confusion as I felt. Neither of us had noticed that I had completely forgotten to put a new diaper on her after clearing off the first one. I had simply carried on with the business of putting her matching outfit back together without bothering to supply an important, foundational layer.
Oops. I had to redo the whole process with my unsupportive family cackling in the background. At that point, I reminded them that Fat Baby is only eight weeks old and that they still have to be nice to me. It didn't work, though Papa did promise to keep the house stocked with Heineken Light so he, at least, is back in my good graces.
So, styling Darling Daughter for a weekly appearance at church has historically been a bit of a trial for me. Do we go casual to show my disregard for the patriarchal insistence that women must be attractively kitted out from the moment of our birth? Do I let Darling wear her sweatpants to church to illustrate what a forward thinking Mom I am to let her make her own choices? (Sometimes, yes. And mothers everywhere share a slight shrug and an eye roll with me when they see us out in public in our party shoes, paisley pants and a football jersey that is a few sizes too small.) Or do I try, against all my good judgement backed up by three years of experience, to put together an outfit that matches, fits and is event appropriate?
Ambitious Mom took over this weekend, and I put Darling in a planned outfit of a skirt, tights and tunic. She wasn't very keen on the whole idea until I told her she could chose between her cow-boots and her party shoes. Fancy shoes? No, not the fancy shoes, the party shoes. Alright, then, she would do it, but she really did think the fancy shoes would go better than the party shoes.
Everything was going really well, believe it or not. There was even a girl at church that had the same shoes as Darling, though I don't think she was wearing them in a casually ironic way, which is the message I was attempting to send. The tights were a surprisingly big hit, and Darling mentioned to more than one person that she was, in fact, wearing tights that day.
We were enjoying a relativly snarl free Sunday afternoon at my parents house when it became clear to us that someone needed a new diaper. After elucidating the finer points of the being free of diapers and launching into a description of the brave new world of potty training, I changed her diaper and put her outfit back together. I was also telling a not-very-funny anecdote to Husby, St. Nana and Papa while hitching Darling's tights back up under her skirt.
I noticed that all three of my audience members were wearing a similar, odd smirk. I silently reviewed my anecdote in my head to figure out what they thought was so amusing. Finally, Hubsy snickered and asked if I was forgetting something.
Huh?
St. Nana and Papa were clearly holding in serious laughter. I looked around divine the cause of this amusement and came up empty handed.
"Did you forget to do something?" Husby wondered, unhelpfully. St. Nana and Papa were giggling. Nice supportive family I have, don't you know...
"The diaper. You forgot to put a diaper on her."
I looked at Darling, who looked back at me with as much confusion as I felt. Neither of us had noticed that I had completely forgotten to put a new diaper on her after clearing off the first one. I had simply carried on with the business of putting her matching outfit back together without bothering to supply an important, foundational layer.
Oops. I had to redo the whole process with my unsupportive family cackling in the background. At that point, I reminded them that Fat Baby is only eight weeks old and that they still have to be nice to me. It didn't work, though Papa did promise to keep the house stocked with Heineken Light so he, at least, is back in my good graces.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Further Evidence that I need to Watch My Mouth
The bad news:
- "Mom, these pants are pissing me off."
- "Daddy, my friends are old. They are older than dirt."
- "Mom, I need a new blankie, this one smells really bad and it stinks too. Like you."
The good news:
- "Mom, you're a genius!"
- "The baby looks so cute in her raincoat! She's just darling!"
- "Mom, you're my best friend."
- "Mom, these pants are pissing me off."
- "Daddy, my friends are old. They are older than dirt."
- "Mom, I need a new blankie, this one smells really bad and it stinks too. Like you."
The good news:
- "Mom, you're a genius!"
- "The baby looks so cute in her raincoat! She's just darling!"
- "Mom, you're my best friend."
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Oh. My. Lord.
Our morning was progressing along in typical fashion - Darling was prancing about the family room dressed in nothing but a diaper. I was puttering around in the first layer of yesterday's outfit (a white tank with armpit stains and makeup on the front) and a face mask dabbed strategically on my latest spots. The house, as usual, looked a bit like the command center for a baby led mutiny - bottles overturned on the counter, step stools laying lifelessly on their sides or propped up against the pantry door. There were rings of dried formula on the counter, a toaster sprouting crumbs and empty cereal boxes next to last night's dirty bowls of late night ice cream. Toys had been rousted from their sleepy spots in the toy box or under the tv and scattered mercilessly around the room. I had wandered into the baby's room to check my email when a horrible sound pulled me away from my pleasant daydreams about squishy babies and long drives through the Colorado mountains.
The doorbell.
Oh. Crap. I looked around the room in horror. I gathered up my courage with both hands and went to the door to face the judgement of the visitor. I was so hoping it would be AT&T with another plea for me to sign up for their latest internet package, or a meter reader, or the good people from the Veterns for Clean Water group. No such luck. It was my next door neighbor, coming to see the baby.
Darling was delighted and showed off her sweet moves for the neighbor until I hissed at her to go find pants and a shirt to put on. I dashed over to the basket full of clean (praise be) laundry and pulled the first shirt I could find over my head. I glanced into my room to see if things were better organized than I remembered, which they weren't. The bathroom mirror had hand prints all over it, and Fat Baby's poopy outfit in the sink where I'd left it after rinsing off the worst bits.
I hung my head in shame and offered repeated apologies for the state of the house. I'd often thought about having her come over to see how I'd decorated it, because I knew she had seen it when the previous owners were living here in their Brady Bunch splendor. I almost asked if she wanted a tour, because I wanted to show off the murals I've painted in a few rooms. I thought twice, remembering that Fat Baby's room had dirty diapers on the changing table, laundry baskets in the crib, and my dirty outfit from a few days before wadded up in the corner.
Thankfully, my neighbor was gracious and said many times that this is what a house looks like when there are young children in residence. That helped a little. I also knew that I would look back on this and laugh...
But one can't help but feel a little chagrined at getting caught at their least attractive in the middle of the day. And my house, where I spend 27 hours each day, wasn't quite the shining jewel that I like it to be when people wander in.
Oh bother. At least she didn't want to go to the basement, where every item of clothing I own is scattered on the floor in an attempt to find anything that fits. And at least Darling didn't wander out of Fat Baby's room waving my bra, saying "Don't forget your bra, Momma..." because she'd already done that earlier in the morning.
Small miracles.
The doorbell.
Oh. Crap. I looked around the room in horror. I gathered up my courage with both hands and went to the door to face the judgement of the visitor. I was so hoping it would be AT&T with another plea for me to sign up for their latest internet package, or a meter reader, or the good people from the Veterns for Clean Water group. No such luck. It was my next door neighbor, coming to see the baby.
Darling was delighted and showed off her sweet moves for the neighbor until I hissed at her to go find pants and a shirt to put on. I dashed over to the basket full of clean (praise be) laundry and pulled the first shirt I could find over my head. I glanced into my room to see if things were better organized than I remembered, which they weren't. The bathroom mirror had hand prints all over it, and Fat Baby's poopy outfit in the sink where I'd left it after rinsing off the worst bits.
I hung my head in shame and offered repeated apologies for the state of the house. I'd often thought about having her come over to see how I'd decorated it, because I knew she had seen it when the previous owners were living here in their Brady Bunch splendor. I almost asked if she wanted a tour, because I wanted to show off the murals I've painted in a few rooms. I thought twice, remembering that Fat Baby's room had dirty diapers on the changing table, laundry baskets in the crib, and my dirty outfit from a few days before wadded up in the corner.
Thankfully, my neighbor was gracious and said many times that this is what a house looks like when there are young children in residence. That helped a little. I also knew that I would look back on this and laugh...
But one can't help but feel a little chagrined at getting caught at their least attractive in the middle of the day. And my house, where I spend 27 hours each day, wasn't quite the shining jewel that I like it to be when people wander in.
Oh bother. At least she didn't want to go to the basement, where every item of clothing I own is scattered on the floor in an attempt to find anything that fits. And at least Darling didn't wander out of Fat Baby's room waving my bra, saying "Don't forget your bra, Momma..." because she'd already done that earlier in the morning.
Small miracles.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Speak of the devil...
Ok, dear readers, show of hands...how many of you saw this one coming?
Yesterday, I was a totally blissed out stay-at-home-mom. Today, I am defeated, demoralized and dumpy. I am wearing yesterdays pajamas because I can't fit into my Mom-Jeans. I smell. I have a headache, a backache, a neck ache. I have stringy hair and acne. My toes haven't seen nail polish in over a year. Husby just cheerfully said that I look "cute" in his baggy sweatpants. I'm pretty sure he is making fun of me.
So, if anyone was planning on using yesterday's post as a blueprint for how to organize their own lives, I highly suggest thinking twice. Sure, Fat Baby is still adorable, despite having pooped so vigorously this evening that it came out of her diaper and extended past her elbow. (Honestly, how does one poop up to their elbow? I suppose I should have seen it coming because I'm the one that has been feeding her for eight consecutive hours with only one or two breaks. All that food had to come out somewhere, I guess.)
Sure, Darling is still precocious and sweet. Sure, Husby is still a great guy. Sure, I still know that this all goes by really fast and I need to cherish each moment.
But honestly, at this moment in time, I am daydreaming about a time when I can wake up, just once, to something other than the sound of someone screeching to be fed.
Yesterday, I was a totally blissed out stay-at-home-mom. Today, I am defeated, demoralized and dumpy. I am wearing yesterdays pajamas because I can't fit into my Mom-Jeans. I smell. I have a headache, a backache, a neck ache. I have stringy hair and acne. My toes haven't seen nail polish in over a year. Husby just cheerfully said that I look "cute" in his baggy sweatpants. I'm pretty sure he is making fun of me.
So, if anyone was planning on using yesterday's post as a blueprint for how to organize their own lives, I highly suggest thinking twice. Sure, Fat Baby is still adorable, despite having pooped so vigorously this evening that it came out of her diaper and extended past her elbow. (Honestly, how does one poop up to their elbow? I suppose I should have seen it coming because I'm the one that has been feeding her for eight consecutive hours with only one or two breaks. All that food had to come out somewhere, I guess.)
Sure, Darling is still precocious and sweet. Sure, Husby is still a great guy. Sure, I still know that this all goes by really fast and I need to cherish each moment.
But honestly, at this moment in time, I am daydreaming about a time when I can wake up, just once, to something other than the sound of someone screeching to be fed.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
They are a changin...
A few things have changed around our house in the last seven weeks or so. The arrival of our second daughter, whom we lovingly call "Fat Baby", has tipped the scales in favor of female dominance in the house. We always knew we would love her as soon as she made an appearance, but some of the changes that she has wrought in the house are completely unexpected.
- I cook now. A lot. Some of it is good, some not so much, but I have dinner on the table almost every night. I also make a big breakfast on Saturday, and have learned how to make cookies. From scratch. This goes against some of the major tenents by which I have lived my life, so I'm trying not to crush this burgeoning enjoyment of serving edible food to my family.
- Personal hygiene has taken a big hit. I am attempting to adhere to a strict "every-other-day" shower schedule to keep the flies at bay. I'm not always successful in getting a shower, and have been known to wear the same outfit for a few days straight. I used to scoff at the moms on makeover shows that claimed they only had time for a five minute beauty routine, but now I realize that having five minutes to scratch on some eyeliner is a rare blessing. I'm grateful if I get to shampoo my hair, much less find the time to research a haircut that will accentuate my best features. Next stop...Mom Jeans.
- I am a one handed wizard. I can do anything with one hand, because Fat Baby requires a lot of cuddling, carrying and feeding. So I cradle her with one arm, prop the bottle up against my chin, and carry on with my day. St. Nana and Husby have both expressed incredulous admiration at my ability to do so many different things with one hand, and I have a new appreciation for people with disabilities. I'm not sure if I can put this on my resume, but I think it will add to the list of things I can do at parties to impress people that have had a few glasses of wine.
- A wise friend of mine told me early on in the pregnancy that having Darling Daughter around was going to make all the difference in my stay-home experience. I thought she was a lunatic. But Darling Daughter is like a mini-adult, so I have someone to talk to and laugh with all day long. Darling also keeps my attitude in check. I am not allowed to wallow in any kind of self pity or depression for very long because she picks up on my mood and echoes it back to me in tantrums and tears.
But the biggest difference Fat Baby has made in my life goes beyond all of these things. For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I am seriously happy. I have this deep, inexplicable contentment that I never expected to experience in my lifetime. There are weeks when I don't leave the house for four or five days straight, and I don't really mind that much. I am actually enjoying being a stay-at-home-mom.
Make no mistake, I am still easily exasperated by Darling's tantrums and insistence on drinking specific beverages out of certain cups. Husby still drives me crazy by putting the dishes next to the dishwasher instead of in it. Fat Baby claims, at the top of her little baby lungs, that she is starving every two hours or so. Nursing didn't quite go as planned. I am still vaguely aware that I need to totally revamp our diet, start an exercise program, and find ways to structure our time so that we remain civilized and socialized. These things cause me no shortage of stress and anxiety, and I'm not too good to use Heineken Light to take the edge off.
But all of that nonsense falls within the average range of experience. I was expecting the apocalypse, and instead found a peace and comfort that I didn't know was possible. Depression is a black dog that lives under my bed - sometimes sleeping, sometimes snarling viciously and disrupting my life. I fully expected the arrival of another baby to wake the beast and unleash another torrent of suffering. Instead, the opposite has happened.
And this, dear readers, is as close to optimistic as I have ever been.
- I cook now. A lot. Some of it is good, some not so much, but I have dinner on the table almost every night. I also make a big breakfast on Saturday, and have learned how to make cookies. From scratch. This goes against some of the major tenents by which I have lived my life, so I'm trying not to crush this burgeoning enjoyment of serving edible food to my family.
- Personal hygiene has taken a big hit. I am attempting to adhere to a strict "every-other-day" shower schedule to keep the flies at bay. I'm not always successful in getting a shower, and have been known to wear the same outfit for a few days straight. I used to scoff at the moms on makeover shows that claimed they only had time for a five minute beauty routine, but now I realize that having five minutes to scratch on some eyeliner is a rare blessing. I'm grateful if I get to shampoo my hair, much less find the time to research a haircut that will accentuate my best features. Next stop...Mom Jeans.
- I am a one handed wizard. I can do anything with one hand, because Fat Baby requires a lot of cuddling, carrying and feeding. So I cradle her with one arm, prop the bottle up against my chin, and carry on with my day. St. Nana and Husby have both expressed incredulous admiration at my ability to do so many different things with one hand, and I have a new appreciation for people with disabilities. I'm not sure if I can put this on my resume, but I think it will add to the list of things I can do at parties to impress people that have had a few glasses of wine.
- A wise friend of mine told me early on in the pregnancy that having Darling Daughter around was going to make all the difference in my stay-home experience. I thought she was a lunatic. But Darling Daughter is like a mini-adult, so I have someone to talk to and laugh with all day long. Darling also keeps my attitude in check. I am not allowed to wallow in any kind of self pity or depression for very long because she picks up on my mood and echoes it back to me in tantrums and tears.
But the biggest difference Fat Baby has made in my life goes beyond all of these things. For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I am seriously happy. I have this deep, inexplicable contentment that I never expected to experience in my lifetime. There are weeks when I don't leave the house for four or five days straight, and I don't really mind that much. I am actually enjoying being a stay-at-home-mom.
Make no mistake, I am still easily exasperated by Darling's tantrums and insistence on drinking specific beverages out of certain cups. Husby still drives me crazy by putting the dishes next to the dishwasher instead of in it. Fat Baby claims, at the top of her little baby lungs, that she is starving every two hours or so. Nursing didn't quite go as planned. I am still vaguely aware that I need to totally revamp our diet, start an exercise program, and find ways to structure our time so that we remain civilized and socialized. These things cause me no shortage of stress and anxiety, and I'm not too good to use Heineken Light to take the edge off.
But all of that nonsense falls within the average range of experience. I was expecting the apocalypse, and instead found a peace and comfort that I didn't know was possible. Depression is a black dog that lives under my bed - sometimes sleeping, sometimes snarling viciously and disrupting my life. I fully expected the arrival of another baby to wake the beast and unleash another torrent of suffering. Instead, the opposite has happened.
And this, dear readers, is as close to optimistic as I have ever been.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Welcome Home, Nana
My mom, Saint Nana, comes over to the house a few times a week to prevent a complete structural breakdown. She provides moral support, laundry support, and gives me the chance to get some errands done. This system has worked flawlessly for months, both when I was working outside the home and now that I'm shackled inside it.
Until now. Saint Nana decided (without checking with me, I might add) to go visit my sister in Mississippi. Dedicated readers will remember that my sister is a great cook and that her phone number is 5. What you might not know is that my sister has two boys that are 18 months apart. She managed to wrangle these boys without the benefit of a Nana in close proximity, which is a cross I am delighted not to bear.
For 6 full days, I ran this house with no help from St. Nana. We joked that we would be waiting on the driveway, dirty and hungry, for her to come back and help us. My sister could be heard in the background during these conversations, expressing derisively that she somehow managed to keep her children alive without this help; but as a skinny person, she has no credibility with me.
Today, St. Nana returned to us. Praise be! Now, despite our joking around, I have done quite well in her absence. Everyone has been fed, watered and bathed frequently. The laundry is done for the most part, and I have even managed to learn a new recipe. I was quite looking forward to showing off my abilities as a domestic diva...
Fate intervened. Darling daughter had been entertaining herself by building a castle out of baby bottles and some half full glasses of water. When the castle inevitably met it's watery end, she raced into the room where I was feeding the baby and announced "Mom, I'm all wet!" I helped her peel off her soaked shirt, and she declared that her pants were also too wet to wear. I told her to go pick out a new outfit, but she decided that being naked was much more fun.
Moments later, Nana pulled into the driveway. She was greeted at the door by a naked three year old, a howling dog, a crying baby and a sheepish me. The naked three year old expressed her delight at seeing Nana again by showing off her "sweet moves" and "shaking her booty". So much for my domestic agenda...
An hour or so later, Nana found the broom and was sweeping the remains of last night's project (graham crackers with icing and sprinkles) off the kitchen floor. She explained that the sprinkles were sticking to her feet. I'm still surprised that the sprinkles would bother her when she was covered in dog fur...but I'm grateful, as always, for any help I can get.
We're glad you're back, Nana!
Until now. Saint Nana decided (without checking with me, I might add) to go visit my sister in Mississippi. Dedicated readers will remember that my sister is a great cook and that her phone number is 5. What you might not know is that my sister has two boys that are 18 months apart. She managed to wrangle these boys without the benefit of a Nana in close proximity, which is a cross I am delighted not to bear.
For 6 full days, I ran this house with no help from St. Nana. We joked that we would be waiting on the driveway, dirty and hungry, for her to come back and help us. My sister could be heard in the background during these conversations, expressing derisively that she somehow managed to keep her children alive without this help; but as a skinny person, she has no credibility with me.
Today, St. Nana returned to us. Praise be! Now, despite our joking around, I have done quite well in her absence. Everyone has been fed, watered and bathed frequently. The laundry is done for the most part, and I have even managed to learn a new recipe. I was quite looking forward to showing off my abilities as a domestic diva...
Fate intervened. Darling daughter had been entertaining herself by building a castle out of baby bottles and some half full glasses of water. When the castle inevitably met it's watery end, she raced into the room where I was feeding the baby and announced "Mom, I'm all wet!" I helped her peel off her soaked shirt, and she declared that her pants were also too wet to wear. I told her to go pick out a new outfit, but she decided that being naked was much more fun.
Moments later, Nana pulled into the driveway. She was greeted at the door by a naked three year old, a howling dog, a crying baby and a sheepish me. The naked three year old expressed her delight at seeing Nana again by showing off her "sweet moves" and "shaking her booty". So much for my domestic agenda...
An hour or so later, Nana found the broom and was sweeping the remains of last night's project (graham crackers with icing and sprinkles) off the kitchen floor. She explained that the sprinkles were sticking to her feet. I'm still surprised that the sprinkles would bother her when she was covered in dog fur...but I'm grateful, as always, for any help I can get.
We're glad you're back, Nana!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Phone Numbers
Husby came bounding in from work this evening, to find me turning the meatballs over in the pan with one hand, holding our six week old daughter with the other, and feeding her with a bottle propped up against my chin. Our oldest daughter was standing on her step stool in front of the microwave, cheerfully pouring water from one bottle to another with marginal success. (She was "helpering".)
As is his custom, bouncy Husby adds to the cacophony with stories about the latest adventures in corporate finance. He interrupted himself and asked me if I'd heard from my Dad.
"Huh?" I tried to infuse my question with as much distracted irritation as I could to remind him that I was truly doing at least four things at once.
"I sent your Dad a text message and I haven't heard back from him yet. And hey, how do you do all that stuff at once? I can feed the baby and do something else at the same time too, as long as the other thing that I'm doing is watching tv." Hilarious.
It's magic, pal. That's how I do it. Tons of fairy dust and duct tape, Coors Light and moxie, that's what is holding this whole thing together. Instead of sharing this thought, I smiled beatifically and raised my eyebrows at him to indicate that he should continue with his bewildering line of questioning.
"Did you watch the news today?"
I had, but not since the morning.
"Well, Slumdog Millionaire took home a ton of Oscars. And something tremendous happened in the financial market that I wonder if your Dad knows about."
I knew about the Oscars, hadn't I been watching all day to see the "hits and misses" of Oscar fashion? I had no idea what tremendous thing happened in the business world, so I waited for him to tell me with a sense of trepidation. No gnus is good gnus in the market these days...
"So and so bought Such and Such, isn't that amazing?" He now had his phone out, to check if Dad had answered his text. I reminded him that Dad was visiting my sister, who lives in Mississippi. Cell phone reception is spotty in her neck of the woods. He could call my sister and reach them that way.
"What's your sister's phone number?"
"Seriously, I have no idea. Go get my phone. She's speed dial #5."
He was still flipping through his contact list. "Is her area code 614?"
"I have no idea. She's speed dial #5."
"Uhm...is her area code 312?"
"Honey. Listen. I have absolutely no idea what her phone number is. She is speed dial #5. As far as I'm concerned, her phone number is 5. I push the number 5, and she answers. Her phone number is 5."
Sheesh. He finally found my phone, pushed the number 5, and got a hold of the gang in Mississpi. Eureka.
(for the record, Dad did know about the market thing, and the meatballs I made for dinner turned out quite well. Those details don't really impact my story, I'm really just bragging about cooking a dinner that didn't turn out like the bottom of my shoe.)
As is his custom, bouncy Husby adds to the cacophony with stories about the latest adventures in corporate finance. He interrupted himself and asked me if I'd heard from my Dad.
"Huh?" I tried to infuse my question with as much distracted irritation as I could to remind him that I was truly doing at least four things at once.
"I sent your Dad a text message and I haven't heard back from him yet. And hey, how do you do all that stuff at once? I can feed the baby and do something else at the same time too, as long as the other thing that I'm doing is watching tv." Hilarious.
It's magic, pal. That's how I do it. Tons of fairy dust and duct tape, Coors Light and moxie, that's what is holding this whole thing together. Instead of sharing this thought, I smiled beatifically and raised my eyebrows at him to indicate that he should continue with his bewildering line of questioning.
"Did you watch the news today?"
I had, but not since the morning.
"Well, Slumdog Millionaire took home a ton of Oscars. And something tremendous happened in the financial market that I wonder if your Dad knows about."
I knew about the Oscars, hadn't I been watching all day to see the "hits and misses" of Oscar fashion? I had no idea what tremendous thing happened in the business world, so I waited for him to tell me with a sense of trepidation. No gnus is good gnus in the market these days...
"So and so bought Such and Such, isn't that amazing?" He now had his phone out, to check if Dad had answered his text. I reminded him that Dad was visiting my sister, who lives in Mississippi. Cell phone reception is spotty in her neck of the woods. He could call my sister and reach them that way.
"What's your sister's phone number?"
"Seriously, I have no idea. Go get my phone. She's speed dial #5."
He was still flipping through his contact list. "Is her area code 614?"
"I have no idea. She's speed dial #5."
"Uhm...is her area code 312?"
"Honey. Listen. I have absolutely no idea what her phone number is. She is speed dial #5. As far as I'm concerned, her phone number is 5. I push the number 5, and she answers. Her phone number is 5."
Sheesh. He finally found my phone, pushed the number 5, and got a hold of the gang in Mississpi. Eureka.
(for the record, Dad did know about the market thing, and the meatballs I made for dinner turned out quite well. Those details don't really impact my story, I'm really just bragging about cooking a dinner that didn't turn out like the bottom of my shoe.)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Four things Husby said that would make me mad if I didn't know he was kidding
1. "Move it, fat-ass." (I was 9 months pregnant)
2. "You know, sometimes the baby makes a 'Jaime' face at me. She scowls, frowns, yells at me, cries and nags..." (holding our 15 day old baby)
3. "Give me a call if you need a ride home from the hospital." (After I told him we were pregnant with our second child)
4. "Marriage isn't about true love at all, at least not in that stupid 'Sex-In-The-City' chick way." (during our discussion about our relationship)
2. "You know, sometimes the baby makes a 'Jaime' face at me. She scowls, frowns, yells at me, cries and nags..." (holding our 15 day old baby)
3. "Give me a call if you need a ride home from the hospital." (After I told him we were pregnant with our second child)
4. "Marriage isn't about true love at all, at least not in that stupid 'Sex-In-The-City' chick way." (during our discussion about our relationship)
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Funny Things Dearest Daughter Said
-Baby Girl wandered out of her room the other morning, looking like a sleepy, rumpled lion with her huge, tangled hair. "Where's Daddy?" she croaked, still hoarse. I told her that Daddy was at work, because his vacation was over. "Well," she tried again, "Where is my Father? Father? Father?!?"
-Baby Girl pranced into the kitchen to announce "Mom! I put away all of my crap!"
-Baby Girl asked for another glass of milk, which I countered with an offer of water or juice. She looked straight across the table to Nana and said in the most serious of tones "Milk makes me poop."
-After a full hour of wailing at her wonderful parents to come and get her out of her crib (at 10:30 pm, a full 1.5 hours past her bedtime) she finally resorted to a tried and true form of manipulation. "Dad!" she hollered. "Dad! Dy! I forgot! I forgot to tell you something!" It is a testament to our wonderful parenting skills that we didn't go in to her room to hear what she had forgotten to say.
-Baby Girl pranced into the kitchen to announce "Mom! I put away all of my crap!"
-Baby Girl asked for another glass of milk, which I countered with an offer of water or juice. She looked straight across the table to Nana and said in the most serious of tones "Milk makes me poop."
-After a full hour of wailing at her wonderful parents to come and get her out of her crib (at 10:30 pm, a full 1.5 hours past her bedtime) she finally resorted to a tried and true form of manipulation. "Dad!" she hollered. "Dad! Dy! I forgot! I forgot to tell you something!" It is a testament to our wonderful parenting skills that we didn't go in to her room to hear what she had forgotten to say.
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