"I think someone woke up on the right side of her big girl bed..."
"ME! Mom, it was ME!"
Yeah, honey, we know.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
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.
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