I can't think of a title

Baby's always been good about taking bottles. He's had a few moments when he wasn't interested, like when I was having lunch with a student and her mom, but for the most part, he's been great. About a week or so ago, he decided he was no longer interested in bottles. This is problematic because a) I like to go out occasionally, and b) he gets a bottle of formula each night before bed. I mentioned this to Baby's pediatrician, and she said to fight him on it, otherwise, he'll learn that we'll give in. And I know us. We will give in. She also said I should not be anywhere in sight when Baby gets the bottle, and if I can even leave the house when he gets it, that would be great. So this becomes mainly Husband's problem. Last night he spent 30 minutes fighting Baby with the bottle before I finally gave in and fed him. Same thing tonight. It's not easy for me to sit downstairs, working on the computer or watching TV or emptying the dishwasher, and listen to Baby shriek. It's also not easy for me to let Husband deal with this on his own. I don't want to stick him with such a thankless chore, but I know that if Baby can sleep a little longer each night or go a little longer between a feed, we will all be happier. Husband says he'll keep fighting it, and maybe it'll get better. I guess I will try to listen to him and hope Baby will eventually pass through this.

Tempting Fate

I like rules. I think they're important. I think that might be part of what is so attractive to me about Catholicism. I enjoy following rules. They make me feel secure, and they have a predictability to them. I have rules in my classroom, rules for walking in the hallway, rule for lunch, and rules for recess. If a rule is broken in my classroom, the consequence is clear and expected. Even though life doesn't work quite like that, there are still elements of predictable consequences. If I speed on 64, it's only a matter of time until I get a speeding ticket (or three). I do not, however, follow every single rule. I don't follow the rule that says I should go to church each week. I speed. I'm not always kind and respectful. I tend to follow the rules that I feel like following and ignore the rest.
Well, today I got a parking ticket. I got a ticket because I take a liberal interpretation of what an hour means. When I go for my walks I park in front of a sign that informs me I am to park there for no longer than one hour at a time between the hours of 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. I'm not yet at the point where I am able to walk 3-4 miles in less than an hour, but I figure, it's not a super busy street, and until today, I've gotten away with it. Today I couldn't take my normal walk. I had plans to have lunch with a friend, and I was worried about the heat of the day, so I just parked in my normal spot, walked to the restaurant which was over 1/2 a mile away, ate lunch, and walked back to my car. I knew I'd be well over an hour, but I figured I was safe. So now I owe the city $15, which will double if I don't pay within 96 hours. Lesson learned. I will now have to deviate from my route and find a different place to park. One without signs.

Update on Baby

Baby had his two month check up today. He's now 23 inches long, 12 pounds and 4 ounces, and his head is "still on the charts" at a whopping 17 1/4 inches. He got four shots and cried quite a bit. It wasn't as traumatic as I expected, but I still got a little teary seeing my baby in pain. He's been pretty fussy and lethargic for most of the day today, and he's slept quite a bit.
The doctor and I discussed his sleeping. She told me that by four months, our lives should look like how we want our lives to look. I guess Husband and I need to start discussing what we want our lives to look like. The doctor told me to start trying to get Baby used to sleeping where we want him to sleep. So if we want him to sleep in his swing, we should try to put him in his swing a couple times a day when he's sleepy. If we want him to sleep in his crib, we should put him in his crib. She also said to let him cry for "no more than 7-10 minutes," if all of his needs have been met. I guess 7-10 minutes is not enough time for him to be traumatized and feel as though he's not being listened to. While I'm ready to take steps to get him out of my bed, the thought of sitting by while my baby cries is still hard for me to imagine. I assume this is something most parents go through at one point or another, though. The doctor also told me that if he won't sleep on his back, sleeping on his side is probably fine, but she wouldn't recommend stomach sleeping, unless someone is right with him the entire time. So I feel like there's hope. Baby has also taken to fighting his bottle, whether it's formula or breastmilk. She said to keep fighting him on it-basically make him take his bottle-and that boy babies tend to have a harder time with bottles.
In other, non-medical Baby news, Baby has taken to rolling over from his stomach to his back. He did this the first time a couple weeks ago, and I felt like a crappy mama because I a) didn't see it happen, and b) left him on his stomach, unattended, for a few minutes while I went in the kitchen. Now he rolls over quite a bit. Today I put him on his stomach, and he rolled over almost immediately. Go, Baby!
When we figure out how to put video on our computer, I will try to post Baby rolling over. It's really cute, and I find myself being constantly mesmerized by him. I feel really lucky to have him.

My Self Loathing, Part 2

I had a scary experience yesterday. I was sitting on the couch, reading imdb's celebrity gossip page to Baby, and I noticed someone on my front porch. The someone on my front porch didn't come to the door to knock; instead, he chained his bike to the railing on my front stoop and walked around to the back of my house. Initially I thought he was the guy reading the meter or something, and I thought maybe he'd go to the next house and so on down the street. He didn't. He paced up and down my driveway, up my front steps, and up and down the sidewalk in front of my house and my neighbors' houses. After several minutes, I started to get really scared. I didn't know why he kept pacing in front of my house and up my stairs. I was alone with Baby, and I had no idea what to do. I didn't want to call the police because I didn't want to be paranoid, but I also didn't want to die or be raped or robbed or anything like that. I decided I'd call my sister-in-law, and she'd tell me what to do. She didn't answer. Then I thought I'd just leave, and I'd be on the phone with someone while I was walking to the car, that way if something happened, there'd be a record of someone talking to me. I called two friends and my mother, but since they all have jobs, none of them answered. By this point, Baby was screaming, and the guy was still pacing up my driveway and steps. I emailed Husband and told him what was happening. His advice was to call my sister-in-law, so I tried her again. This time she answered and told me to call the police and that she'd come over. So I did. I felt awful doing it, but I was still scared, and Baby was still screaming. The police came eventually and talked to the guy, and eventually I ended up having a conversation with the guy and the police. The police assured me he wasn't in trouble; it turns out he was just here to look at my apartment. Our landlord said they'd left a message, but it went to Husband's phone number that's no longer in use. I apologized profusely to the guy and felt truly terrible about the whole situation, even though he said he'd want his wife to do the same thing.
When I was on the phone with 911, they asked me to describe the person hanging out in front of my house. I said he was a tall guy with a backpack who was well dressed. They asked about his race, and I told them. I felt terrible about it and kind of angry. I know the 911 guy was just doing his job, but I also felt that my description of a well dressed tall guy with a backpack was adequate.
I'm not a racist, at least I don't think I am. I've discussed adopting a child of a different race, if I ever end up having an extra $20,000 lying around. I make an effort to be equally friendly (or unfriendly) to all people. But I still feel as though I was being racist by calling the police yesterday. I think I would have done it regardless of race, but I can't help but think how it must have looked to the poor guy who was just trying to preview an apartment. It's just that I've never felt really safe on my street. There's a lot of activity at all hours, and we've occasionally heard gunshots and fights. I waited several minutes before calling the police simply because I didn't want to appear racist or as though I was overreacting. Eventually, though, I got so scared and found myself envisioning scenarios in which the guy stopped pacing in front of my house, pulled out a gun, and shot his way into the house and proceeded to do terrible things to me and Baby. I wanted to keep Baby safe, and that became my primary focus. And while I feel terrible about calling the cops on someone who was simply early for an appointment I should have known about, I at take some consolation in that I tried to keep my baby safe. I still feel guilty though and wish I could stop feeling as though I've done something terrible.

I Like to Walk*

As happens with many people who have babies, I have taken up walking. My town is a very sidewalk friendly town, so I can walk without worrying too much about getting run over. I love walking because it makes me sweaty, and if I feel sweaty, I feel like I'm accomplishing something and losing weight, even if I've managed to get sweaty just by sitting in the house with the AC off. I have a loop that I do. It's about 4 miles, and it basically hugs the local university (from now on referred to as LU), and in the end cuts through LU. I think I can do it in about an hour, maybe a little more, and I always manage to pass by interesting places and people. I say "always" as though I've done this more than four times.
The first time I did this walk, it was great. I drove around for 40 minutes trying to find a place to park and getting lost in a town where I've either visited regularly or lived for almost four years. Once I parked, I turned back a couple times, worried that Baby would wake up and want to eat. He didn't. He slept for about half of our walk, then he woke up and looked around and cooed. About 2 1/2 miles into the walk, the endorphins kicked in. I love the point during exercise when endorphins kick in. I temporarily lose all of my insecurities and think happy thoughts like: I don't care that Husband had a serious relationship before he met me. I'm totally secure in that. It's great that Baby hates to sleep and wants to eat every 90 minutes. I'm not a failure for moving back to Virginia. So what if I never become a skinny girl? It's okay that I don't really have many friends nearby. I'm okay with how socially inept and freakishly shy I am. I'm not going to eat a Dairy Queen cheeseburger and Blizzard after this. I'm going to go home and make a salad. It's okay that Baby's throwing a fit right now; I can't do anything about it. It's okay that I've lost so many friendships over the years. Moving on is just part of life. Maybe I will want to have another baby someday. Maybe I want to have another baby soon, like in a year. Maybe Irish twins wouldn't be so bad. I love the endorphins. They usually stay with me for several hours, which ends up being good for Husband and anyone else I might come into contact with.
On that first walk, after the endorphins kicked in, I picked up my pace. I got to the end of my loop, but I wasn't back at the car yet, and I realized I was hungry. Completely famished. I'd had an english muffin and some snack cheese earlier in the day, but at 2 p.m. it clearly wasn't enough. The loop ends in a part of town that has lots of restaurants and shops, and I managed to talk myself into taking a slight detour to Qdoba. I passed a homeless man on the way to Qdoba, and really thought it was a sign from God that I shouldn't spend $11 on lunch when there are so many people in the world without Qdoba for lunch, and there are so many frozen pizzas in my freezer waiting to be eaten. My liberal guilt wasn't strong enough to deter me from going to Qdoba in the end, though, but it was strong enough to prompt me to give the guy a dollar, which I usually don't do.
Since that first day, I've done my walk a few more times. Once, I convinced myself that since I'd taken Baby out in the heat of the day I'd managed to get him overheated to the point that he got a fever which would then infect his brain, thus rendering him retarded. I took frequent breaks during the journey to check on him, and when I got back to my car I sped home. I explained to Husband my concerns and told him we needed to get Baby cooled down immediately. Husband wasn't as concerned and enjoyed a few minutes playing with a happy Baby, and relieved my concerns by saying, "Well, sweetie, if he's retarded, he was retarded before cause he's not doing anything different."
Yesterday I managed to convince Husband to go on my walk with me. He kept deviating from the standard path, even though I told him how we needed to stick to the regular loop. We meandered through LU, stopping once for me to feed Baby, and 2 1/2 hours later ended up back at the car and on our way to Dairy Queen.
Today, I was inspired by having lived through yesterday's deviation from the routine (routine is very important to me), so I changed it up a bit. I parked in a different spot, only .2 miles from the start of the loop, rather than .5, and did the loop backwards. Downhills became brutal uphills, but I feel so proud of myself. Clearly, the endorphins are still hanging out. I did 3.3 miles in an hour and four minutes. I even ran for a minute of this walk. My co-worker is right; running while breastfeeding a baby is going to suck.
And I don't have any observations or insights from my walk today, but there's always tomorrow's journey.
*click

Well, it is Kentucky...

I started reading an article on Yahoo today, but I didn't make it much past the first paragraph because I was so excited that I had to stop and Google the article's subject matter for myself. The subject of the article was a new museum opening in Petersburg, Kentucky, which validates a literal interpretation of the Judeo-Christian Creation story. The museum's mission is to show how science and the Bible are not rivals; rather, science proves what the Bible says. It apparently shows dinosaurs on the Ark, but I'm not sure how that works. I have to go to this museum; it's not up for debate. Husband, unfortunately, was not as enthusiastic about this as I was, and asked why he has to be involved when I have these ideas. Then I told him it was close to Ohio, and he said he'd be happy to take me when he and his brother-in-law go to Cedar Point.
I explored this museum's website for a few minutes, and while I didn't find any photos or virtual exhibits like I would at the American Museum of Natural History's website, I did find out that it's within 650 miles of 2/3 of the United States, costs $20 for an adult to visit, and offers a lifetime membership. If I wanted to, I could pay this museum $1,000-I am not lying-and visit whenever I wanted. Forever. For an additional $1,000, I could purchase lifetime memberships for Husband and Baby. Yep, I'm getting my credit card out right now.

I'm a nerd...

I need to figure out a way to get to NYC and see this exhibit.

Little Victories, Part 2

Baby slept in his swing from 11:30 until 4 a.m. I'm still sleepy, but it's progress!

Stupid babies need the most love, part 2

A few weeks ago, we put Baby in his crib. He gave us two hours and twenty minutes before we woke up to a rhythmic thumping. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. I wasn't sure what it was, and Husband groggily mumbled something. Since it wasn't 2 a.m. yet, which is the beginning of my shift, I asked Husband to investigate. He didn't (he later said he was thinking about what he should do about the thumping). Eventually, I got out of bed and peeked into the crib. Baby was still asleep, banging his oversized head against the side of the crib. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. I rescued Baby, berated Husband for not getting up, and spent yet another night with Baby sleeping in my bed. Sigh. Husband likes to say that we should let sleeping babies lie. I don't know if this applies to sleeping babies who unknowingly bang their heads against the side of their cribs. Baby hasn't slept in his crib since, so maybe I jinxed it by picking him up during his thud-session. Maybe stupid Mamas need the most love, too.

F. U. Thoreau

The other day, I was out walking with Baby, and I passed by a froufy stationery store. The window had a display where a card or poster or something with a quote by Thoreau which said, "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined." Instead of being inspired like I knew I should be, I was angry. I felt angrier than I had in a very long time. I wanted to hurl the stroller, minus Baby, through the window of the store. Not that that would show Thoreau, but he's dead somewhere, so all I could really think to do was hurl the stroller, minus Baby, through the window of the store. Unlike other times when I've been unable to immediately know why something's made me angry, I knew right away why this particular Thoreau quote incensed me so much. I thought: He doesn't fucking know what he's talking about.
Right now the life I dream of and imagine is a life in which I hop a Virgin Atlantic flight from Dulles to London, alone, this evening. I spend a few days bumming around London and maybe even bump into my friend from college who moved there but I've lost touch with. I'd see a play and finally visit the British Museum and maybe take a day trip to Bath or Salisbury. Next, I'd make my way over to Italy via the Eurostar and visit Cinque Terre and take very long walks and sit alone by the sea and cry a lot. I would eat gelato at least twice a day and drink wine or lemoncello. In Italy I would meet interesting people from all over the world and share meals and hike with them. Once I finished crying, and I'd cry until everything felt better, I could come home and be at my social, physical, spiritual, mental, and emotional best. It's worked before, and it's all I want right now. I can't imagine my life beyond sitting by the sea because right now I can't imagine ever feeling better about anything. Ain't postpartum hormones great?
I am angry at Thoreau because I can't live this life. I have a husband and a baby, and if I just took off, I'm not sure I'd be let back home. Plus, I would miss them terribly. Baby depends on me. Who else would feed him and change him and dress him in jeans and a t-shirt? Who else would spend 20 straight minutes playing "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" or "You Licked My Thumb!" with him? Who else would sing to him and pray with him and take him on long walks around the town? Whose arm fat would he sleep on? Husband also depends on me. He needs me to take care of Baby and mail things and listen to him talk about soccer.
I can't even live the more realistic life I imagined for several years: living in New York, going to shows and restaurants, and bars, and museums having Important Conversations with Interesting People, writing and traveling the world. Living this life is an impossibility. I have to think about what Husband wants and what Baby needs. My life belongs to Husband and Baby, and that's the life I chose and the life I often love. We are a family, our own little unit with rents and possibly a mortgage to think about. We have credit cards to pay off and private school to pay for eventually. I also think it's really important to raise my kid close to his grandparents.
I lived in New York briefly, and it was the happiest time of my life so far, but it wasn't quite what I dreamed. I was frequently lonely, and due to my complete lack of social skills, spent the first year I lived there with a whopping two friends. New York is an expensive place to live, and I will be paying off my time there for the next 30 years. I tended to go to summer blockbusters rather than Broadway shows and chose Barnes and Noble over museums.
Intellectually, I know that just because my life didn't turn out exactly how I imagined or planned doesn't mean it's a crappy life. But I'm still angry at Thoreau because his quote makes me feel like I failed. I didn't pursue the life I imagined; the life I'm pursuing is almost the exact opposite of the life I imagined. And I can't pursue the life I imagined because it's not only my life anymore. When I thought about my life, I imagined I'd head off to New York and not look back. I never imagined myself moving back to Virginia, much less my hometown. While I have very good reasons for doing so, like a job I enjoy and a husband and baby I adore, I still feel like I'm giving up. I need to know I can move back to my hometown and still have elements of the life I dreamed of and expected to have, with some adjustments. It's a life where Husband and Baby and I are all happy and do things together that don't always involve the television or sports. It's a life where I am financially stable enough to travel with my family and show them the places I love and ache for every day and have them understand why I love them and ache for them. It's a life where we go on long walks and talk about Important Things that aren't the day to day, and it's a life where I have a group of friends I see frequently and we also talk about Important Things. In this life, we live in a lovely little house with a small yard and sit on the deck watching Baby stumble around the backyard. We go to a church that's neither mean nor theologically simplistic. I am free to pursue whatever educational paths I want, and I'm no longer freakishly shy. We're not exhausted and burned out. It's a life in which the Iraq war and bird flu don't exist, and the world isn't such a fucked up, broken place. I can afford to shop at Whole Foods. I read and write and talk to interesting people. And I ride a Vespa everywhere. A red one.
I'm even angry at Thoreau because I don't feel like what I want is unreasonable, even though I know some of it is unrealistic. I know I shouldn't blame Thoreau because I'm unhappy or too lazy to get out of my head and live the life I want. It's not his fault I don't have a Vespa. It's just not as easy as Thoreau's quote makes it seem. And for that, I give him a resounding F.U., the finger, and a Bronx cheer.
Oh, and I know pretty much nothing about Thoreau or his struggles. Maybe he does know what he's talking about and it's Hallmark who should be getting the F.U. for oversimplifying some brilliant philosophical ideal. But since I don't actually know that, Thoreau is the one who gets the F.U., for now, anyway.

For Leighann...

I wrote this in grad school. It's the first thing I wrote just for myself, really. I stayed up until 6 a.m. reading Laurie Notaro's The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club: True Tales from a Magnificent and Clumsy Life. I think there was also some beer and ice cream involved. Leighann occasionally asks me for it, and I recently dug it up on a routine check of my computer's documents. My, how things have changed...
As a disclaimer, I don't drink nearly as much as I did then. As another disclaimer, I swear much more than I did back then. And despite Husband's wishes, I am not planning on stopping any time soon.

“It shouldn’t be weird with your boyfriend, should it?” my friend asked me. The word kept echoing in my head. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. BOYFRIEND. Scotty, my partner in singleness and cynicism since we were 15 had a BOYFRIEND. She was now one of them. Not that I wasn’t happy for her. I was just a little surprised. And as I was lying in bed last night trying to fall asleep, I got to thinking. Now it’s just me and my friend Leighann. Everyone else has paired off. Every few months (or in this case, weeks) I get the news that another one of my high school or college friends has met someone, started dating someone, or is engaged. So now I am simply trying to survive as one of the remaining single gals. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross developed her phases of bereavement-denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I’ve designed my own personal stages of dealing with the pressures of being one of the dwindling few single girls left in the world.

Stage One: Involves listening to your friend for hours on end as she tells you EVERY minute detail of how she and her current man got together. When one friend finally got together with her boyfriend after nine months of talking and dancing around their feelings for each other, I listened to her story three times, as she told me, then her sister, and then a mutual friend. Now talking about boys is one of the most natural parts of being a girl, and I don’t mean to come across as bitter at this point. The vast majority of my friends have sat and listened to me talk for hours, analyzed and cried with me about boys I’ve liked, boys I’ve dated, and boys who have broken my heart. And being told, especially if you’re one of the first ones told is such a privilege, and being told is so much better than finding out weeks or months later. Generally these conversations conclude with “I’ve got to go-I’m so sorry I’ve talked about Boy the entire time. I’ll let you talk next time.” This is the point at which you assure your friend for the 400^th time that you are so excited, so happy, and can’t wait to hear more/meet Boy. It works best if you actually mean it.

Stage Two: Analysis. If this new found relationship of your friend’s has been a long time coming, then you don’t really need to analyze much. If, however, your friend’s change seems to have come out of nowhere, then you must sit around and analyze the conversation and wonder how all of this could happen WITHOUT YOUR KNOWLEDGE. I prefer to analyze these situations with another friend and/or a six-pack.

Stage Three: The longest and most drawn out stage, consisting of various subphases. Also known as Bridget Jones Mode, this stage occurs in phases, such as moping, dieting, drinking and commiserating, and fishing.

Moping generally occurs alone, although occasionally it can occur with another single gal. For me, I usually tend to put on sad music, sit in my bed, drink my emergency beer, and think about how I am the only single person left in the entire universe. I remember that my younger sister has been dating Randy From Queens for TWO YEARS. I reach for the beer. I think about how nobody is EVER going to want to date me, and then I start to wonder why. Why have I never had a relationship last more than two months. Why was my last quasi relationship three years ago? Why don’t boys like me? What’s wrong with me? I reach for the beer. I start to think about my assets. I think I’m somewhat cute; at least I don’t have hair spewing out of my face or a unibrow. Okay, so my hair is frighteningly scary, and my waistline is definitely not where anyone would want it to be, but it could be worse. I’m not missing toes or teeth; I like to wear hats, and I wear shirts that enhance my boobs. Boys like boobs, right? I’m smart, kind of. I got into two graduate schools and managed to get through college with decent grades. Okay, so I don’t have the best conversational skills when I first meet people, or after I meet people, I’m freakishly shy, and I’m prone to say the STUPIDEST things upon first getting to know someone and even after I get to know them. But I could be a lot worse. Right? I reach for the beer.

Onto dieting. By dieting, I don’t mean eating baby carrots and salad and no carbs. No, I mean real dieting. The Gracie Single Girl Diet consists of M&M’s, Tostidos, soda, Ben and Jerry’s, and pasta (and other starches). Basically anything that’s bad for me. Ice Cream for breakfast (at noon, cause you’ve either slept until then or else have been so busy that you haven’t had time to eat), some sort of bad for you soup or sandwich for lunch (between 4 and 6 pm cause that’s when you’ve come home from work/class), and pasta from a box for dinner anytime between 8 and 11 pm while watching Will and Grace, ER, Joe Millionaire, the evening news or reruns of Raymond. For a simple snack during the day, eat M&M’s or Tostidos. I also recommend KC Masterpiece Bar-B-Q chips. It is also important to keep in mind that it is completely appropriate to eat only one or two meals a day. For example, today I got up at 11, after falling asleep at 6, ate a cupcake and some Tostidos around 3, and then at 6:30 made some Potato Buds. I topped it off with a bit of ice cream from the carton around 8:45. Now is not an appropriate time to look through this month’s Glamour, Cosmo, or Self, as it could easily send you back to Moping.

The next phases, Commiserating and Drinking MUST go together. I am not talking about a simple emergency beer (or 6); I am talking about wine, Sangria, Cosmopolitans, hard cider, etc. Commiserating and Drinking can take place either at someone’s apartment or else out. The benefits of staying in: it’s cheap. Two or three $8 bottles of wine, and you’re set. This is also good for underage people who could very well get in a lot of trouble if they are caught drinking in public. The downside to staying in is that you could very well get that drunken restlessness where you feel like you have to go out and do something. This could lead to something incredibly stupid like standing on the corner of 87^th and Amsterdam yelling “Why don’t boys like me?” to every couple that passes by. But generally when you are commiserating with your girl friends, you are each other’s entertainment. Going out is also a good option. Generally bars, cafes, or restaurants that are fairly quiet and smoke free are good for commiserating. The downside to going out is that if you’re drinking cocktails or ciders, it can get pretty expensive. The upside is that you can sit for hours, watching as the waiter/bartender gets more and more attractive and charming, and convincing yourself that he thinks you and your friends are the hottest things he’s seen all night. Even if all he says is “Another round, ladies?” Out is also nice simply because it gets you out of the house. Out of the house is good, especially if you’ve been in yoga pants and a sweatshirt for the last two days.

Now that we’ve established location, we must discuss company. Who you commiserate with is crucial. As much as you love your coupled girlfriends, when it gets harder to fake that you’re blissful as an unattached gal they simply won’t do. You’ll hear clichés such as “I know he’s out there; you just have to be patient” or “I never thought it would happen for me either” or my personal favorite “Being single is a gift from God.” My friend Scotty always asks if the gift is returnable. No, on nights like these, you need to be with someone in a similar situation. If you go out with one of your coupled friends, you will want to drill a hole through your big toe by the time you finish your first glass. You will start thinking bad thoughts about your coupled friend and wish that you were at home, in your yoga pants and sweatshirt drinking beer and watching Sex and the City or Bridget Jones and quickly regressing back to Moping. For the last year and a half, Leighann has been my most reliable friend in this area, partially because we are the only ones in our circle who have not dated in awhile. A typical evening usually starts with us drinking sangria, wine, or Cosmopolitans, catching up on whatever crisis has befallen each of us that week. After each glass, we reassess how much drunker we need to be. Depending on our status, we either continue drinking, finding ourselves more and more entertaining with each drink. Swearing also increases. This is the essential time to begin commiserating. We start by making fun of or bitching about people in long term relationships, making passive aggressive comments like “Well, I wouldn’t want to be with someone who wouldn’t let me drink” or “I’d really hate to have to go home and hang out with Boy” or “At least I don’t have to put up with all the bullshit that goes into relationships.” We then start to discuss our last relationships, or the boys who didn’t like us back. We discuss what went wrong in previous relationships, why boys didn’t like us back, and why it’s completely their fault that they didn’t realize the wonderfulness that is Gracie or Leighann. We say things like “Boy was a fucking jackass. And what the fuck was his problem with drinking excessively?” or “Boy was so great. I was so perfect for him. What the fuck was his problem?” or “Fuck him. I don’t need him. If I were with him, I wouldn’t be able to be here, in fucking New York City.” At this point, we generally know it is time to go home and pass out. The walk home sobers us up enough to find the apartment and keep us from peeing on the street or subway, but not so much that we can’t complete the final part of the stage: The Drunk Call. Now being as how Leighann and I both live in New York, Caroline is usually the one who reaps the benefits of the Drunk Call. Caroline is truly a saint. Drunk Calling Caroline begins with me telling her how much I love her, repeatedly, and if my insecurities come out, asking if she loves me, is she really my friend, etc. Then Leighann gets on the phone and chats, only it sounds a little more sane coming from her, then we discuss her current relationship. I use the word discuss very loosely. Apparently on Valentine’s Day, when we talked to Caroline, we said to her repeatedly, in sing-song voices “Do you love him? Are you going to marry him? We think you should marry him.” (Update from the future: she did). Eventually, after trying for awhile to get us (or maybe just me?) off the phone, Caroline makes some excuse, like church the next morning, and we hang up. Leighann and I, still thinking we’re the world’s funniest people are able to pass out.
The final part of Stage 3, Fishing, is only effective when it occurs in sobriety. While on the phone or Instant Messenger with a friend, preferably a guy, sound a little down, even if you’re feeling better after a night of commiserating and drinking with your girlfriends. Throw in “nothing’s wrong” or “it’s fine” until they think they are dragging some big issue out of you. Just casually mention that you’ve been feeling a little bummed, lonely, or insecure lately and feel like there’s something completely repellant about yourself. I mean, all of your friends are dating, engaged, or married. But it’s totally fine. At this point, your friend will start to reassure you that you are pretty, you are smart, and some guy would be lucky to have you. At worst, you’ve made someone do exactly what you’ve wanted him to do. At best, you’ve been reassured that you do have worth, that you are attractive, and that someone is going to want you someday. Fishing primes you for the final stage.

Stage Four: Acceptance. The majority of the time, you are going to be in this stage anyway, but it becomes part of the process after a hard week at work or school. This is the part where you think mostly happy thoughts about your coupled friends (except the completely repulsive ones) and are completely happy in your stage in life. You are beautiful, smart, and living your life as a confident single woman. You are too busy and consumed with finishing school, starting a career, finding a church, and strengthening your relationship with God to devote the time and energy that comes with a boy. They really are time consuming, and right now, I’d much rather have a good time with my girlfriends.

June 16

We are moving. If anyone is available to help, please let me or Husband know. My mother has said she and my dad will help, but they prefer not to lift anything.

The Great Formla Debate, Revisited, or My Sick Boob*

*If you have boy parts or are squeamish, you might not want to read this.

I have mastitis. I woke up at 4 a.m. on Monday in severe pain. I tried to feed Baby since it's had been nine hours since I'd pumped. He would have none of it. I lay there for an hour, not wanting to wake Husband, since the hours between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. are my shift. After an hour the pain became unbearable, and I had to wake Husband, tell him I needed to pump, and make sure he was awake enough to remember that Baby was in the bed. Yeah, we're still doing that. I went downstairs and was freezing. I turned the AC off and pumped for 20 minutes. I got a whopping three ounces out. Three ounces-after not nursing or pumping for nine hours! I went back to bed, and even with the down comforter could not get warm. I shivered and shook and was generally miserable. At 6 a.m. when the alarm went off, I told Husband what was going on and that I absolutely could not take care of Baby. I figured we'd call my sister-in-law and ask her to come over until my other sister-in-law got here, but he took the day off in order to take care of me and Baby. Wow. He pretty much never stays home. He even took advantage of the 20 minutes our internet worked this morning (thanks, Comcast), and found my doctor's phone number for me. I went to the doctor and got antibiotics and went home to shiver and sweat in bed and virtually ignore my sister-in-law. My day consisted of me lying on the couch, taking my temperature every ten minutes in order to gauge how much it was rising, Husband yelling at me to stop taking my temperature every ten minutes, and me bitching and moaning about how terrible I felt. My mother came to take care of Baby that evening and buy me orange Gatorade, which I have to have whenever I get really sick.
So what does this have to do with formula? We gave Baby formula. We gave it to him Saturday night and gave him some during the day on Sunday and once more on Sunday evening. We gave him formula against the wishes and advice of my dad and sister, and we did it sort of because we hoped it would help him sleep in his crib, or at least his swing for more than two hours an evening, and we did it because I needed to occasionally be able to leave him for a little while. About three weeks ago the sad for no reason started coming back, and on Friday the unstoppable crying for no reason came back. I felt spread thin, stressed, and tired from feeding him every 90 minutes to two hours. I figured that if we could use formula once at night, I'd actually be able to go to bed at 10 when my sleeping shift starts, and if I was unable to pump, or didn't pump enough, I could leave formula with someone and use the time to do a couple of errands or take a shower or brush my teeth. It wasn't something I wanted to do-I wanted to be someone who didn't give her baby formula until I had to go back to work (I'm not going to be a pump at work kind of gal-I think that could end up being unfair to my students). I'm not judging people who chose to formula feed; I'm not sure why I feel so bad about it. I think I feel like I failed and like I'm selfish. I'm giving my baby formula because I want to sleep or go out or want more than a full hour to go by before I have to whip out my cha chas again. I can't make my baby go for more than a full hour before he wants to eat again.
So on Sunday, Baby got a lot of formula. He had a fabulous afternoon with Aunt Jen and his cousins while Husband and I went our separate ways for awhile. I managed to pump twice that day, since I was alone and didn't need to constantly hold a Baby so he could eat, sleep, or be entertained by me repeatedly dabbing his mouth with a cloth. I'm not sure why he finds it so great, but he does, or at least did until I introduced him to "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes." I pumped about six ounces in two sessions and managed to semi-destink my kitchen. When Husband gave Baby his bedtime feeding around 10 o'clock that night, I chose not to pump. I wasn't completely convinced that a six ounce bottle of formula would sustain Baby for several hours, so I didn't pump. In retrospect, that was really stupid of me. Really, really stupid. Unbelievably stupid. One cause of mastitis is a clogged milk duct. I assume that's what happened to me, considering how long I'd gone without pumping or nursing on that side. As part of my punishment, I am supposed to nurse Baby on the infected side as much as possible. I understand logically that I'm not being punished and that I'm probably not being selfish by deciding to give Baby the occasional bottle of formula, but I still feel guilty. I guess that's what makes me such a great lapsed Catholic.

Who Needs Sleep? Part 2

For about three weeks now, we've been dealing with a problem. Baby has stopped sleeping in his crib. It wouldn't be a big deal if he'd sleep somewhere else-the co-sleeper, his swing, his hippo, etc, but he won't. He will not sleep unless he is actually touching another person. Since I'm the one who's home all day, I'm generally the one Baby sleeps with. He used to prefer my stomach, but in the last week, he's discovered my arm fat, and that's now his favorite place to sleep. It's pretty cute when we take our 7 something to 10 something nap on the couch each morning, but it's not so cute in the middle of the night. It's actually really anxiety inducing, and my nights have become a series of sleeping between about 11 and 1, feeding Baby, dozing, jarring awake, and keeping a drowsy vigil while staying perfectly still, trying not to pee myself, and making sure Baby is breathing until he wakes up 90 minutes later and decides he wants a snack.
These nights are really getting to me. I'm not a fan of co-sleeping, even though I understand why people do it. For me, it's just too frightening. I love my pillows and goose down comforter, and since I'm a very restless sleeper, I'd rather not have an 11 pound completely helpless person resting on my arm fat.
I'm not sure what to do. My sister-in-law put Baby on his stomach, and he napped great. The other morning Baby napped on his stomach for about 45 minutes while I tried to sleep with one eye open. It didn't work. If I put him in his crib or swing or carseat, he might give us an hour or two, but more likely he'll wake himself up. He's so active that his arms and legs move constantly until they end up waking him up. When he's in my bed, I'm terrified. If he's on his stomach, I'm terrified.
Since Baby is only about eight weeks old, I'm not sure he's old enough to begin sleep training. I know that'll be necessary at some point, but right now I envision Husband and me letting Baby cry, and Baby never liking me again. It already makes me sad that he'll never remember all the time we spend smiling and making faces at each other and watching the harpies on the View and making up dumb songs and taking long walks. I don't want to jeopardize that, but I'd like to be able to sleep soundly. I'd like to be able to sleep with just one other person in my bed. I'm not sure what to do, and I have no idea how to figure it out.

One reason I'm excited to move...

I will no longer have to deal with our high-speed internet/cable company. The company has been going through a transition for awhile, and every month they've given us problems. This month: internet has been out for most of the day, every day. Fuck that.

Mother's Day

Mother's Day is tomorrow, and I think this might be the year my dad finally stops calling to remind me and ask if I've secured a gift for my mother yet. I'm generally pretty good about remembering, and I have, in fact (mostly) secured gifts for my mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother. I found the perfect gift for my mother and mother-in-law at Bed Bath and Beyond last week. It's a fancy, high-tech picture frame that has some sort of memory function, so the owner can load digital pictures onto the frame. I imagine it can scroll through several photos, since it holds 256 megs in it's 5X7 frame. I figured I'd load the frames with my favorite pictures of Baby looking exceptionally cute and present the gift in absolutely no wrapping because it's rare that I can ever be bothered to find suitable wrapping for any gift. As an example: my dad's birthday gift, which he will be getting in a few minutes, will be presented in the bag that was given to me when I purchased said gift. But my lack of interest in wrapping presents isn't the point. The point is that upon finding this super-duper frame, I would become favored daugther/daughter-in-law. Go me!
Yeah, so I went back to Bed Bath and Beyond and found that this gift is beyond (insert obligitory sarcastic laugh here) what I could afford to spend, even using Husband's gift card. So, um, mothers, enjoy your book. Oh, and as an extra-special Mother's Day gift, I will throw in unlimited time with Baby whenever you want. Seriously, whenever you want. You can even hold him while he cries, or stay up with him when he won't sleep, which is pretty much all the time. After all you've done for me and Husband throughout the years, it's the least we can do.

On Losing Something I Never Had

In December I came up with a crazy scheme. Husband and my mother tend to mock me for my crazy schemes, as they probably should. In December I came up with the idea of my mother, Husband, and me buying a house together. My mother called this idea "intriguing," and Husband's response was, "I thought we weren't going to talk about this." Since December the three of us have had numerous discussions about renting vs. buying, and what the best plan would be. Shortly after Baby was born, she said, "I think we should buy a duplex." Unfortunately we soon found out that purchasing a duplex is not financially possible, but it got us thinking about purchasing a house. I've spent the last few weeks house hunting and looking on realtor.com. It's been a much bigger process than I expected, and after last week, we thought we might be through. After looking at a house that needed some TLC (translation: walls and ceilings), a house where the tenants didn't know they could be kicked out within 60 days, and a house where the tenants didn't bother to put their bongs away, we found a lovely four bedroom home with a nice-sized yard, a deck, and a screened porch. I could picture Baby learning to walk in the soft grass out back and watching him play in the living room. I envisioned us walking to one of my favorite Mexican restaurants on summer evenings. Husband imagined walking to soccer games at the stadium across the street. The house wasn't perfect, but it fit. It had two bedrooms downstairs, one for my mom and one for a study, and two more were upstairs. After looking at the house a few times, we made an offer. Living in the town we do, Husband and I thought the asking price of the house was very fair. The cost of living is much lower where we're planning on moving, and our realtor told us the owners stood to make a $115,000 profit. They bought the house four years ago and have made no improvements. Furthermore, their asking price was very ambitious when compared with recent sales of the same types of houses in the same neighborhood. We made an offer that was lower than what they asked, and they countered, knocking $6,000 off their asking price, which was still around $10,000 more than comparable houses had gone for. We countered again, and they didn't budge. At this point, my mother said F.U., and I am starting the process again. I understand that it wasn't meant to be, and while that attitude is hard for me, I am trying to be positive and curb my disappointment. And I'm not excited about starting the process again. Husband and I were happy to pay what the owners were asking, but we weren't willing to get ripped off or reward their greed. While I really am trying to be positive, I find myself thinking all sorts of mean thoughts towards them. Worse than that, I keep praying spiteful prayers, like Dear God, please let them not sell their house due to their overwhelming greed and selfishness and let her have to keep leaving the house with the two-year old so she just gets more and more annoyed and decides to lower the price but still no one wants to buy it because by the time they lower the price interest will have faded, but we'll have found a way better house with a screened porch and a deck, and we'll sit on that screened porch drinking homemade margaritas thinking F.U. to the selfish, greedy, homeowners. Oh, and please keep Baby and Husband safe. Amen. Yeah, I know this is wrong, and God's not going to reward my crappy attitude. I should probably just have faith that we will find a house where we fit, a house we can afford, and a house that works for all of the parties involved. It's hard, though. Having faith and a positive attitude have never been easy for me. And so I will say that I'm fine, but I will actually be a bit sad. I will restart the process next week and show Baby more potential houses than he will ever remember or care about. Maybe next week I can see a house where the tenants are running a prostitution ring or something. Good times will be had by all.

The Obligitory Mention

My mother and sister are here for the week. My mother just asked if I was going to mention their visit on here. It's been mentioned.

Difficult?

Under the heading "DO YOU HAVE A DIFFICULT BABY?" my What to Expect book says this:
The active baby. Babies often send the first clue that they're going to be more active than most right from the uterus; suspicions are confirmed soon after birth when coverings are kicked off, diapering sessions become wrestling matches, and baby always ends up at the opposite end of the crib after a nap. Active babies are a constant challenge (they sleep less than most, become restless when feeding, and are always at risk of hurting themselves), but they can also be a joy (they're usually very alert, interested and interesting, and quick to accomplish) While you don't want to squelch such a baby's enthusiasm and adventurous nature, you will want to take special protective precautions as well as learn ways to quiet him or her for eating and sleeping.
Yep. This is what I've got. This is exactly what I've got. Baby could, in fact, be the inspiration for this particular subheading. Under the description of the active baby, What to Expect gives some "helpful" tips, which basically says, several times, "Don't take your eyes off your baby. No matter what you do, don't leave him or her alone. Don't take your eyes off your baby. Seriously, don't. Don't even blink. Dear God, don't blink. If you blink, your active baby will no longer be an active baby because he or she will now be a dead baby. I'm not kidding. DO NOT BLINK."
I'm in the fetal position just thinking of what the next days and weeks and months and years hold.

Let Arby's deal with it

Baby has been to a few restaurants in his short life. He's been to a fairly nice restaurant once, a Mexican place twice, Dairy Queen once, and another nice restaurant once. Every time he's been fairly well behaved. If he's gotten fussy, he's calmed down quickly with a short walk around, a change of position, a bottle or a pacifier. Enter last night's trip to Arby's. Husband coaches a soccer team, and they go to dinner after away games. Since last night's game was only an hour away, I drove out and met them for dinner. Before dinner I took Baby on a trip to Target, which is apparently the most miserable place on earth, and Barnes and Noble, which he seemed to love (yea!). Then I drove over to Arby's. I finished changing Baby's diaper just as Husband's bus was pulling up, so I met the bus rather than go inside. As soon as the bus doors opened, I was surrounded by high school girls who cooed and ooohed over how cute Baby is. When people do that, I usually ask if they'd like to hold him. One of the girls immediately and excitedly accepted my offer, and I handed Baby over. Well, once one high school girl held Baby, all the high school girls wanted to hold Baby. Husband and I allowed Baby to be passed around among several soccer playing girls who seemed just delighted to be given such a privilege. I saw this as an opportunity to eat dinner since my baby does such a good job in restaurants. Pretty much once we sat down with our food, Baby started howling. He continued to be passed around among the soccer team, and if I'd turned around to look, I'm sure I would have seen several frazzled looking young girls. I occasionally asked Husband for an update on Baby, and he'd say, "He's with[insert player's name here]. They're fine," as I heard Baby's screams increase in volume and frequency. I could see other diners look around to see a) what was making that awful, horrible noise, and b) who was being horribly horribly abused. I'm sure they were shocked at the noise a 5 1/2 week old can make. Finally, Baby ended up in the arms of one of the player's mother's, and an entire soccer team breathed a collective sigh of relief. Baby continued to cry, then whimper, then collapse defeatedly on the shoulder of said mom, where he stayed until it was time to go home.
After thinking about why Baby acted this way after doing such a nice job so many other times, I could only conclude that Baby clearly prefers fine dining.

At least I'm not her

click if you're not squeamish

The Great Formula Debate*

*If you have boy parts or are squeamish, you might want to stop reading now.
I watch a lot of TV these days. Most mornings, Baby and I watch the Today show, Live With Regis and Kelly, the harpies on the View, the Insider, and Access Hollywood. That brings us to one o'clock, when the television just kind of defaults to the ABC soaps until it's time for Dr. Phil at 3 o'clock. And before you start thinking I'm a completely horrible mama, just because the TV's on doesn't mean I'm paying attention to it. Baby and I are usually playing or cuddling or eating or trying very hard to sleep.
Anyway, yesterday the Today show did a feature on a growing group of parents called "grupsters." Here is an article about them. I didn't read the whole article because it's eight pages long and I have a terribly short attention span, but I did skim the first page. Basically grupsters are parents who actively try not to let having kids change their lives or make them boring. I had this attitude before I had Baby and still do to a certain extent. I'd ask questions like "Can we take the baby on the boat this summer?" or "Can I let my second graders hold my baby?" which would cause Husband to say something along the lines of "I don't think you should be in charge of this baby," or "Do you know anything at all about babies?" I expected Baby would be a week old and we'd be eating in the same fancy restaurants we ate in before he arrived, going to the movies, hanging out at Barnes and Noble, and visiting friends and family in the DC area. I thought I'd be one of those hip mamas hanging out at coffeeshops while my baby slept serenely in the sling. Clearly, I didn't know anything about babies.
I'd still like to do those things, and I'm thankful that Baby seems pretty adaptable so far, but living the same life I lived before or even the life I pictured living doesn't seem possible right now. First of all, Baby does not seem to enjoy the sling, and the Baby Bjorn has about a 50% success rate. Secondly, just preparing to leave the house is a huge undertaking. Baby has to be changed. Then I need to check the bag to make sure I've got diapers, changing pad, wipes, phone, wallet, keys, pacifier (sometimes), extra outfit, spit-up cloth, and camera since he's so cute. Next, I have to make sure I have everything I need. Finally, it's time to put Baby in his carseat, a ritual that generally leaves Baby screaming and looking at me with eyes that say "Mama, Mama, why do you hate me so?"
But the biggest problem with me adapting Baby to the life I want is food. I am breastfeeding. When I was pregnant, I don't think formula feeding ever crossed my mind, even though I knew a few people who did it successfully. When people asked me if I was going to breastfeed I was always kind of surprised for a second or two, not because they were basically asking me about my cha chas, but because it was something I really never considered. I guess I just assumed I would.
To be perfectly honest, I hated nursing for the first 2 1/2 weeks. It made me sleepy, I didn't feel like I was bonding with him the way I thought I was supposed to, and I've said so many times in the last six weeks, "Baby, it's not a fucking wrestling match." Now that I've gotten used to it, however, I'm actually enjoying it. During the day, it gives me time to catch up on my celebrity gossip and answer emails. And since my friend Katie told me about Hooter Hiders, Baby has become a lot more portable, and I've got some semblance of modesty back. I don't even mind whipping out the Hooter Hider and feeding Baby in a parking lot or if necessary, I guess I could do it in a restaurant. My sister bought me a pump, so I could even leave Baby with a bottle or two if I wanted to go out on my own. So my newfound lack of modesty coupled with awesome pump means that everything should be fine.
I can't make a bottle. My body will not do it. I will spend hours and hours pumping, when Baby is willing to play in his chair or swing or sleep, and I will get at best 2 oz. out. I have tried all the suggested tricks-pumping before a feed, after a feed, during a feed, while thinking of Baby, while looking at Baby, etc. Nothing helps. Once I went for six hours in between a feeding on one side and pumping it, and I still got less than 3 oz. out. I asked the pediatrician, and she said it's pretty normal and to keep in mind that Baby is getting enough because he is much better at getting the milk than the pump is. This means that I have to plan for days in advance if I want to be away for an extended time or if I want to leave Baby. When I knew I was going house hunting, I started pumping two days before and pumped for at least 30 minutes two to three times a day and still only managed to get about 6 oz, and he ate almost all of it. Plus, I nursed him a few times while I was out. Last night, I pumped 30 minutes on both sides and got less than 2 oz. out. My sister-in-law offered to keep Baby for an hour or two earlier this week so I could go to the bank and Target. I had to say no because what little milk I'd made had to be saved for house hunting. I am kind of at my end, and I don't really know what to do.
Husband and I have been engaging in a discussion for the last few weeks over whether or not we should give Baby the occasional bottle of formula. One of my friends suggested that giving him the occasional bottle of formula at night would help with some of his erratic sleep patterns and would give me and Husband a chunk of uninterrupted sleep each night. Or instead of giving the formula at night, I could leave Baby for a couple hours in the afternoon or evening. Or I could give him the formula and pump my milk and save it. Endless possibilities.
The occasional bottle of formula seems like a great solution to a very frustrating problem, except for the guilt I feel. When people ask me how I'm feeding Baby they seem to relax and smile when I tell them. My books and the websites I frequent hail the benefits of breastmilk. I feel selfish even considering it, especially when I think of all the people out there who would have liked to have nursed their babies and weren't able to. I feel selfish when I think about how I won't be able to nurse him for a whole year because I'll be going back to work in August, and he'll be stuck with formula then. I really don't know what to do though because I can't be constantly attached to Baby.
I think, that if it weren't for their sleeping and eating habits, having a baby would be the most fun thing ever.

All progress deserves a setback

Baby was awake from about 5:30 or 6 yesterday afternoon until midnight, with the exception of a small catnap around 7. He screamed from 9:30 to midnight, when he finally fell asleep in my arms and didn't wake again when Husband put him in his crib. At 2:01 Baby woke up again wanting to eat. I fed him, and he fell asleep on my stomach until around 5. He ate/dozed from 5 to 6 when he decided that even though he was sleepy, it was time to play. Thankfully, when Baby decides it's time to play he's so f-ing cheerful and cute that it curbs the frustration a little. You may be wondering why I'm so tired if I slept from 12 to 2 and then again from 2 to 5. Here's why: The two hours between 12 and 2 were great, once I stopped lying in bed thinking "Don't wake up soon. Don't wake up soon. Sleep for four hours. Sleep for four hours." Of course he doesn't, even though he's got to be wiped out. So when Baby wakes at 2, not with sweet baby noises, but with two loud, shrill shrieks that have me bolting up in bed and sprinting through the obstacle course that is my bedroom to comfort my child. At 2, then, Baby eats lazily, then falls asleep on my stomach, his new favorite place to sleep. Now I can fall asleep, but sleeping with a baby on top of me is incredibly stressful for me. I constantly startle awake and check on him to make sure he's still there. Whenever he shifts positions, which is a lot, I have to shift as well in order to preserve the precarious balance. I'm perpetually terrified he's going to fall off of my stomach and onto the floor. So that 3 hour chunk is not in any way a restful three hour chunk. I just fed Baby again, and now he's asleep again on my stomach. If you're thinking aaawww, how cute, let me tell you, it's sweet to fall asleep with a baby, but there are the occasional moments where it gets old. If I move, he's likely to wake up. If I stay here, I'm resigned to two hours of trying to sleep, worrying he's going to fall, watching the Today show, and playing computer Scrabble. I was so excited yesterday by his sleep the night before and during the morning yesterday. I was able to empty the dishwasher, start to make a bottle for Baby, and eat. Now I just feel a little discouraged, tired, and I really have to pee. I know this is just part of having a baby, but really, I'm kind of struggling here. All I want is the occasional 2 to 3 hour chunk of sleep without a baby on top of me. Then I'd like another 90 minute chunk where Baby is sleeping and I am awake to make a dent in the squalor before our landlord shows the apartment tomorrow afternoon. Sigh. At least he's so cute and sweet.

The Reverse Dictionary, or My Stupidest Idea Ever

Husband recently purchased computer Scrabble. It was so cute the way he tried to do it without me knowing even though I was sitting next to him on the couch. That's okay, though. I'm currently downloading a cd from itunes without his permission. But the financial rules of marriage are not why I am writing. I'm writing about computer Scrabble. Computer Scrabble has turned out to be a purchase I approve of (unlike the Jimmy Buffet cd I just purchased, which he will definitely not approve of). I'm enjoying computer Scrabble. I don't need both hands to play, I can play while Baby is eating, and I learn new words. The only problem is that I suck at it. I've always sucked at Scrabble. I'm so insecure about my Scrabble abilities that I almost never play. Now that we've got it on the computer, however, nobody can see how bad I am. I think my problem is a cognitive one and has something to do with the way I learn. I can't see words when the letters are not in order or there are gaps in them. I have the same problem with unscrambling words and crossword puzzles.
So I came up with a brilliant idea. Someone who's not me should create a reverse dictionary. It would work like this: instead of being ordered by the letters words start with, it would be ordered by the letters words end with. So the first section would be words that end with the letter a. Within each section the words would be in regular alphabetical order. So, for example, since the word lab would be in the b section rather than the l section since it ends with b.
I told my idea to Husband and my mother over dinner the other night. After they stopped laughing at me, he said, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." He says that a lot when I have brilliant ideas. My genius is not appreciated.
I stand by my idea. I'm sure I'm not the only person this would benefit. We could even have a series-second letters, third letters, etc. According to Tobias Funke, "There are dozens of us out there. Dozens!"

When I wasn't so self loathing

When I was finishing up graduate school, I was asked to give the "reflection" at our graduation Mass. This is it. I have to say, three years later, I'm not sure I'm any closer to understanding my call to follow. Maybe if I tried harder I would? Sometimes I even worry that I won't ever know the reason for certain things or there is no reason. It's not a fun mindset to have.

The Bible verses at the top are Mark 1:16-20.

As he passed by the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting their nets into the sea; they were fishermen.

17

Jesus said to them, "Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men."

18

Then they abandoned their nets and followed him.

19

He walked along a little farther and saw James, the son of Zebedee, and his brother John. They too were in a boat mending their nets.

20

Then he called them. So they left their father Zebedee in the boat along with the hired men and followed him

When I think about my time at Fordham, this reading seems especially appropriate. Coming here, I had no idea of what I was getting into. Pretty much my entire experience here has been an exercise in following. When I first met with the Dean to discuss the GSRRE, I was attending another graduate school. My roommate at the time and I had joked around, saying “Wouldn’t it be funny if he says to come next semester?” And, since I’m here, a year and a half later, you can all figure out what he said to me when I met with him. I was a little overwhelmed, although probably not nearly as overwhelmed as my mom was when I called her and said, “Hey, Ma, I’m changing schools.”

Not only was coming to Fordham an exercise in following, it was also an exercise in leaving. The Gospel talks about Simon and Andrew abandoning their nets, and James and John leaving their father. While I didn’t abandon a career or family, I did have to leave a fabulous apartment on 34^th street and find a new home for my kitten.

The Gospel doesn’t tell us what was going through the heads of Simon, Andrew, James, and John. Sometimes I like to think they were somewhat like me, knowing they needed to follow Jesus, but also questioning. Other times I like to think they just instinctively knew and they didn’t have wonder what they were doing or why they were doing it. I spent my entire first semester and my first summer here questioning why I was here. I knew God wanted me to be at Fordham, but at times, I thought He only wanted me here because He has some sort of sadistic sense of humor. I didn’t understand why God would want me so far from home, moving twice in a four month period, going to a school where I was, by far, the youngest student. Also, once I started at the GSRRE, I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to meet the nice Catholic boy He surely wanted me to marry. I didn’t know why God wanted me to be as lonely and confused as I was those first six months.

For a long time I didn’t understand why I was here. It’s only been now, as I’ve started to prepare to leave, that God’s reasoning is becoming clearer. Because I followed, I got an education that challenged me in ways I hadn’t expected. Because I followed, I interacted with and got to know people I normally would have ignored or written off. Because I followed, I had an opportunity to visit different churches with different liturgical and worship styles. Because I followed, I had a roommate who has never hesitated to talk to me, help me think things through, or call me out when I’m being too hard on myself. Because I followed, I have met people who share my same interests, passions, and frustrations. Because I followed, I had a chance to backpack in Europe last summer, an experience as formative as anything else in the last two years.

And now, with my time at Fordham coming to an end, I’m being asked to follow again. And like those Jesus called, I don’t know quite where He’s asking me to go or what He’s asking me to do. All I really know is that I’m being told, once again, to follow.

With just a few weeks left until graduation, we’re all once again being told to abandon our respective nets to follow Jesus. Some of us will have to leave homes and surrogate families that we’ve formed in our time in New York. Some of us will simply have to make the transition from being students to employment, and some of us will have to return to wherever it is we came from. All we really know right now is that we have to leave, we have to follow Jesus, and the rest will be revealed to us in time.

I'm confused...

I am currently watching TV, and a commercial for yet another birth control pill just came on. This particular pill will revolutionize a woman's life because since it's too difficult to swallow a pill at the same time every day, a woman can now take a chewable pill at the same time every day. So okay, that makes sense. Sometimes a person might not have a bottle of water on her, and not everyone can swallow a pill without water. Then I noticed the fine print at the bottom of the screen: chewable when followed by a glass of liquid. Am I wrong to be confused about this?

Stupid babies need the most love

I'm not saying my baby is stupid. I know he's just a baby, not even six weeks old, and based on some of the crap he pulls, I'm secretly (okay, not so secretly anymore) worried he's actually an evil genius. But last night made me rethink my evil genius theory.
My aunt bought Baby a crib. Husband spent several days putting it together, and I went out and bought cute sheets. Last night I finally got around to putting the sheets on Baby's bed and decided we should let him spend some time in his crib just to get used to it. Baby explored his crib and made lots of little happy baby noises. Since Baby seemed happy, we didn't really pay a whole lot of attention to Baby after the initial ooohs and aaahs. I figured Baby would let us know when he wanted out of his crib. Out of nowhere we hear a shriek similar to a cat in heat. Husband looked at Baby to see what could possibly be making him that miserable and said "Is he pulling his own hair?" I investigated, and yes, he was pulling his own hair. He had a small chunk of his hair in a strongman grip and kept screaming and screaming and screaming. He continued to scream as I tried to pry his fingers off of his hair. This took awhile because each time I pried a finger off of his hair, he immediately put it back. When I finally detangled Baby and brought him to Husband to get calmed down, Husband's comment was simply: Wow. Babies are really stupid.

Little Victories...

1. Baby slept in his crib for two stretches last night and one very small stretch this morning. This is an improvement from yesterday when he slept on my legs. He still prefers to sleep on either Husband or me, but maybe he is making progress.

2. Baby was very well behaved when we went house hunting yesterday. He only had two meltdowns, and one was quelled by a bottle, and the other didn't happen until we were at the very last house.

3. Baby will occasionally use a pacifier. I'm trying to use them sparingly because I want him to eventually learn to self-soothe, but they are also correlated with a decreased risk of SIDS, so I want him to have some exposure. He seems to like the occasional suck.

4. Rosie O'Donnell leaving The View.

5. I got a shower this morning. Granted, when I got out Baby was screaming, which broke my heart, but I am clean, deodoranted, and moussed.

My Lil Cross Dresser

This happened about a month ago...

he hospital where I had Baby runs a bunch of classes. One of them is called "Welcome to Motherhood," a group where women who have recently had babies sit around and bitch about their useless husbands. Husband has been encouraging me to go to this thing, since I still can't drive and can't leave Baby for much for than 20 minutes or so, so I haven't been able to really get out. After much hesitation, Baby and I went to this group this morning. While listening to other people cry (crying is something I, personally, prefer to do in private), Baby started fussing. I picked him up, and noticed that his pants were a little damp, but I figured he was just a little sweaty, since his pants were fleece. I fed him, but he continued fussing, so I bounced him, talked to him, and finally decided to check his diaper. In checking his diaper, I discovered that he had peed not just through his diaper, but through his diaper, his onesie, and his thick fleece pants. I was completely unprepared for this, and all I had was a spare diaper and a blanket. I stripped my child down to his new, unsoiled diaper, and began to wrap him up in his blanket. Baby has never liked being wrapped in blankets, but I had nothing else. By this point, everyone was looking at me, and I expect they were thinking that I am completely incompetent as a mother. I explained the situation, and several of the mothers knowingly gave me the advice: You should always bring an extra outfit with you, just in case (I'm now resigned to the fact that I will have to buy a diaper bag-sigh). At this point, I looked down to try to figure out what to do with Baby and debated calling Husband and telling him to get me out of there immediately, and I noticed something on my shirt. I didn't know what it was, so I picked it up, realized what it was, and immediately dropped it. While Baby was busy peeing through three layers, he also managed to lose his umbilical cord stump. It was totally gross. Finally one of the other mothers offered me a spare onesie that her daughter had outgrown. It's hard to tell from the pictures, but Baby is wearing a bright purple onesie with a little teddy bear on it. Very girly. I'm not sure I'm going to be returning to this group.
P.S. Does anyone know how to make pictures appear at the bottom, rather than the top of a post?

Queen of the Harpies

Last week Husband uttered a sentence I never expected to hear. He said, "Can we please watch Ellen? Dear God, please let's watch Ellen." Husband has not become a sudden devotee of America's favorite lesbian. He begged to watch Ellen because the alternative was The View. They both come on at 11 a.m. here. Each day, I say to Baby, "Okay, Baby, it's time to watch the harpies!" and we switch from channel 4 to channel 3 and become irate over how Rosie O'Donnell treats others. I really liked her when I was younger, but now she just seems mean. She yells all the time. She seems to disagree with everyone who's not her, but not in a respectful manner. When Husband told me she was leaving The View, I yelped, I was so excited. Here's The Onion's take on it. http://www.theonion.com/content/amvo/rosie_leaving_the_view
I'm pretty excited about this turn of events. Maybe now Elisabeth will be able to blindly follow the president without being yelled at.

My Blog

I want to explain a little more about why I resurrected my blog. Everyone knows I want to be a writer-like an actual published, paid writer. Everyone probably also knows that the likelihood of that happening is small. Despite that, I figure that I should at least practice writing if I want to get better. I can at least be in the habit. Writing on here will also allow Husband, Baby, and I to have something to look back on that chronicles these early (kind of hellish) days and nights (which everyone swears will pass). I can engage in discussion of one of my favorite topics-ME. Woo-hoo!
So if you read this blog, you will find: my observations; my experiences; things I find interesting or stupid; things I've written long ago; the occasional picture. Please read. Please enjoy. Please don't think I'm a completely horrible, self-absorbed person. Thank you. Come again.

Who Needs Sleep? Part 1

Baby. Will. Not. Sleep.
Okay, that's a little unfair. Baby will sleep, as he's doing right now. Baby will only sleep if he is physically touching another person. Right now, I'm sitting Indian style on the couch with most of Baby's body draped over my right leg, his head sort of hanging off my right thigh, and his right leg and foot on my left thigh. His right arm is on my stomach, and I am balancing the computer on my left knee. I'd love to take a picture, but to do that, I'd have to get up, and there's no f-ing way I'm going to disturb this delicate balance. At least not until 8:30, when Baby will have to be rudely awakened, quickly fed, and thrown into his carseat because someone is looking at our apartment at 9. Now, if Baby was willing to sleep in his swing or carseat like he did up until last week, I'd be able to get the house into a position where it just looks like we're a little messy. Unfortunately, the house is now in complete squalor because...you guessed it...Baby will only sleep when someone is touching/holding him. I am certainly worried that the state of the apartment will give Landlord another cause to bitch and moan at us. Sigh.