Rural Restaurant Review, Part 1

Since Husband and I are living the simple life in the Northern Neck area of Virginia for the summer, I have decided that, as much as possible, I am going to explore local culture and immerse myself in country living. I am anticipating a less slutty Paris and Nicole type summer, full of hilarious misunderstandings and blunders.
Okay, so I understand that the Northern Neck (an area of Virginia that borders the Chesapeake Bay and spans something like eight counties) is not actually some backwoods, unrefined area where the locals are missing teeth and toes. I think it’s actually more full of people like my parents, people who have more money than they know what to do with and have solved their mid-life crises by building a weekend home and buying a truck and a boat. That said, I’m interested in getting to know the area. My first step was going to church on Sunday. My second step was eating at a local Mexican restaurant on Monday.
My mother’s paying me to do odd jobs around the house this summer, so as part of my work, I had to go to a flooring store about 45 minutes away. From where we are, everything is 45 minutes away. Husband rode along with me and Baby, jumping at the chance to go out to lunch. He’s been dying to try Wendy’s new burger, “The Baconator.” The Baconator has something like four hamburger patties and sixteen pieces of bacon and is a burger I would never dream of eating, but he can’t wait. I didn’t really want to go to Wendy’s though. I figure, that while we’re here this summer, we should sample some of the local fare.
About halfway to the flooring store, we passed a Chinese restaurant. “How about Chinese food?” I proposed.
“Where?” Husband asked.
“Hong Kong. It’s right next to the Food Lion.”
“Um…I don’t really want to eat at a Chinese restaurant that’s right next to a Food Lion.”
“I can’t believe I married someone with no sense of adventure,” I said.
“Okay, so now eating Chinese food at a restaurant next to Food Lion in Warsaw, Virginia is having a sense of adventure? You wouldn’t eat Chinese food in the Bronx.”
“Um, yeah I would. I did it every day,” I confessed. “You have no sense of adventure,” I repeated.
“Well, I think I broke you of that habit.”
“No you didn’t,” I countered. “I just never did it when you were around. But it was great. I paid $5 and had food for two days.”
“I want the Baconator,” he reminded me.
A few minutes later, we spotted a Wendy’s. Husband was all set to immerse himself in the bacon food heaven he’s been talking about for three weeks. He was practically doing the Homer Simpson drool: Mmmmmm….Baconator. And then I spotted a Mexican restaurant right next to Wendy’s. “Ooooh! How about Mexican?” I suggested.
Husband sighted. “I want the Baconator. Fine. I guess I can do Mexican.”
The restaurant was pretty generic as far as Mexican restaurants go. It had none of the qualities that make Rosa Mexicano, Nacho Mama’s, Rancho, Mary Ann’s, or any number of Mexican places I’ve eaten over the years stand out. The chips were good; Husband reported that the Coke was not. He was happy that his carne asada came with five tacos, and he ate all of them. The rice clumped together in little yellow clumps, and the waiter thought I didn’t want beans, so I have nothing to say about them. My cheese enchiladas were the color of vodka sauce, and had a taste that was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Vodka sauce, maybe?
So the generic Northern Neck Mexican restaurant was fine. Nothing spectacular, nothing interesting, except for the Caucasian family at the next table who insisted their children speak Spanish to the wait staff. I don’t think I’ll need to go back, although I probably would choose it over the Crapplebee’s across the street.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, Husband noticed a sign on a window at Wendy’s. Through gritted teeth, he said, “They have the Baconator.”

Baby's Sleep Training, Part 3

Baby did an initial five hour stretch in his crib last night. Five hours! He woke up, drank four oz. of formula, then did a two hour stretch. He woke again around 5 a.m., and I dragged my tired ass out of bed, fed him even though I thought he wasn't actually hungry, and put him back to bed for almost two more hours. He woke up a little before 7 a.m., and played in his crib until almost 7:30. Amount of time spent in my bed? Zero! Woo-hoo!

My Husband's Child

Husband loves to be right, and when I've said or done something especially dorky or stupid, he likes to prove me wrong. See my post about the reverse dictionary for an example of this. Today, when we gave Baby some "Tummy Time," which all babies are supposed to have in order to strengthen their muscles, he immediately rolled from his stomach to his back. That's not abnormal; he's been doing that for at least six weeks now. I got excited because he's been getting faster and faster at it, and he doesn't fuss as much as he used to when we put him on his belly. After Baby's roll over, Husband put him back on his stomach to see if he'd do it again. "He hardly ever rolls over twice in one session, " I said confidently. I had hardly finished saying the words, when Baby was on his back, smiling at Husband, and giving me a look that said "Haha, Mama, I made you look dumb." I think Husband and Baby bonded over this, and I definitely think Husband's now looking forward to a lifetime of him and Baby being right.

My Guilt Book

When I was 20, my mother took me to Asheville, North Carolina. I’d wanted to go there since a high school friend decided to attend the local college/hippie commune. She said Asheville was a really artsy town with lots of interesting shops. I took that to mean that Asheville was a smaller version of the Village, complete with Gaps and Starbucks. So when my mother took me on a day trip, I expected a day full of her purchasing clothing for me so I could return to GMU for my last year looking hip and stylish.

Asheville wasn’t quite what I expected. We ate lunch at a South American restaurant where plantains came standard with each entrée. I then learned what a plantain was, and have avoided all things plantain since. And to my disappointment, we didn’t find a Gap, Old Navy, or Urban Outfitters, but we did find a used bookstore.

I love used bookstores. I spent a couple hours wandering through one in London four years ago and came out with two of my now favorite books, The Christmas Mystery by Jostein Gaarder and Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. I loved going to the Strand when I lived in New York, and for the past few years have attended the yearly book sale the local library (the same one where I got my parking ticket) holds and come out with more books than I could actually carry.

Anyway, we spent some time in the used bookstore in Asheville. I picked out a few books-I don’t remember what they were-and then my mother handed me a book. “I read this recently, and I want you to read it,” she said. I think she’d actually sought the book out, hoping she’d find it to give to me. She paid for our purchases, and we left.

I didn’t read the book, but over the last six years, it’s haunted me. I tried and tried to read it soon after she bought it for me, but I could never get through the first few pages. I gave up, knowing I never intended to read this book, but I couldn’t manage to give the book away. It followed me through every move for the last several years-first back to Fairfax, then to New York, and finally back to Virginia and my married apartment. I kept it on my shelves partially so my mother wouldn’t see it left at home and partially to remind myself of what a disappointment I am.

A few weeks ago, Husband and I undertook the daunting task of sorting through and packing up our books. We’ve never counted, but I think each of us must have brought at least 750 books, if not more, to the marriage. We packed up all of our books, except for the ones we expected to read this summer. When we came across Stones from the River, by Ursula Hegi, I moaned and groaned, and curled up on the floor in the fetal position. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I replied.

“Um….”

“Okay, see, this book,” I started. “My mom bought it for me like six years ago, and I’ve never actually read it, and I’ve felt guilty for not ever reading it, but I’m really not interested in it, and I don’t really want to keep it, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it because I feel so bad because she really wanted me to read it, and I never did.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“A German midget.”

“Um, okay,” he said, and thought for a minute. “Why don’t you make this one of your summer reading books. Then you have to read it.”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I yelled. “Well, okay. Fine.”

So I read it. After six years, I finally read the damn book about the German midget, and I loved it. It was one of those books where, once I started reading it, I couldn’t stop. I tried to make Baby eat longer at each stretch in order to be able to read just a little more. I even read in the car, even though reading in the car makes me dizzy and queasy. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, but it was certainly worth a read, and now I don’t have to feel guilty every time I see it.

But now the book’s made guilty for another reason. Part of the story takes place during World War II, and the main character and her father help Jews and others being persecuted by the Nazis. I’ve always had a secret fear that I would have made a good Nazi, or if not a Nazi, an ordinary citizen who didn’t do anything to help those being persecuted by the Nazis and after the war said they were just following orders or trying not to disrupt the status quo. I’ve always feared this because I like rules so much, and I generally try to follow rules or stay within the existing parameters. I don’t really like to stir things up or do things that will make me stick out terribly. Plus, I can be really mean if I want to, and sometimes, even if I don’t want to.

I’d really like to think that if I were in a situation where some grave injustice-like the Holocaust- were occurring I’d be brave enough to do something about it, like hide people in my attic (if I had one) or give away my car to someone who needed it more or deliver secret messages or whatever was necessary to curtail the evil that was happening. After all, as a Christian, countering injustice is something I’m called to do. As a Christian, I’m not supposed to tolerate any type of injustice, much less inflict it upon others. But when I’m confronted with something, such as Stones from the River, which causes me to think about what I would do in frightening situations, life-risking situations, I can’t honestly say I’d do what was right. I hope I would, but I also know myself well enough to know that I am lazy. I am complacent, and I am terrified, even though I am an almost 27 year old, of doing something that will get me in trouble or kill me.

I didn’t feel particularly inspired by the fictional tale of the German midget, but it did make me think, once again, about what I would do in her situation. I really can’t say what I’d do. I’m weak enough to hope that I’m never confronted with anything like that, and I’m smart enough to know that I can’t accurately predict what I’d do. I hope that if I am faced with a scary choice, a life altering choice, I will do what’s right, that I will do whatever I can to erase the injustices. I have to believe that my God, and the people around me, will help me find some strength I’m not sure exists.

Baby's Sleep Training, Part 2

Two nights ago, Baby slept for four hours in his crib. Four hours straight. I got up, nursed him, and put him back in his crib for another three hours. At 4 a.m., Husband got Baby up, brought him to me, and I fed him and let him stay in our bed the rest of the night because I was just too tired to get up.
Last night didn't go so well. We put him in his crib, and I watched him fall asleep, but two hours later he was up. Then he was up two hours after that, and two hours after that, until finally, at 3 a.m., I got him out of bed and gave him all night access to his food and slept fitfully until 7:16.
Today, during the day was a little better. He had the three naps that are supposed to be standard for a baby his age, and only one of them was in my arms. One nap was even an hour, which is rare for this child. When he woke up, he was smiling and cheerful, and I made a big deal over how proud I was of him for napping in his crib. I know he can't understand it, but I praised him anyway.
Tonight we put him in his crib, awake, at 9:20. I turned on the cd player and was out of the room before the first song was over. He's been in his crib for a little over an hour. I expect that we've got another long night ahead of us, and we're going to try to give Baby formula when he wakes up and see how he does with that.
I know a day doesn't indicate a change or a pattern, so I am trying not to be too excited about this. Still, I can't help but be slightly encouraged and very thankful for the reprieve he's given us.

Hiatus...

My blog might be taking a temporary break. I was just now able to post for the first time in several days. Since Husband and I have decided to be country bumpkins for the summer, we are living in a house where we have to dial into the internet via AOL. AOL makes me angry, especially dial-up AOL. I really love being kicked off with no warning or waiting 15 minutes for my email to load. On the upside, I am honing my spider solitaire skills.
We have also worked out an elaborate system of diving the day into units of free time/child care time, and it changes each day, so some days I don't get much time to myself. We're doing a lot of summer reading, so my free time is usually spent reading, rather than swearing at AOL.
So I'll write when I can, but it might be August before I'm back regularly.

Baby's Sleep Training, Part 1

After gathering lots and lots of opinions on childrearing and sleeping and waiting until Baby turned 12 weeks old, Husband and I decided to start sleep training. Unable to bear the thought of letting Baby cry it out just yet, I bought and read The No Cry Sleep Solution by Elizabeth Pantley. Her thesis is that babies can learn to sleep on their own without turning it into a battle of wills, as long as parents have the discipline to be patient and the follow-through to be disciplined. I'm not sure I have either.
So we started Baby on a routine last week. We take him upstairs, put him in his pajamas, Husband reads to him while I rock/nurse/give him his pacifier and rub his head. Once he's sleepy, I get up, turn on the cd player, and walk him around the room. Once he's even sleepier, I put him in his crib. He startles, fusses, and I pick him up, walk him around, and put him back in his crib. Over and over and over again, until we finally give up and let him sleep on us. Last week, we had a night where we'd each try to soothe Baby for about 40 minutes before thrusting him at the other and saying, "Here. You deal with him. Please."
Tonight the routine went smoothly. He had a bath before everything else. He hates baths; I think they scare the shit out of him, so he was crying before he ate. He calmed down quickly, and for the first time ever, at least since all these problems started two months ago, I was able to put him in his crib while he was sleepy, and I actually watched him go to sleep without me helping him. I'm trying not to hold on to this too tightly. Just like the night last week when Baby slept for 3 hours and 45 minutes in his crib, one night does not make a pattern. The little drooler was probably exhausted from not napping all day. He's been in his crib for 2 hours and 59 minutes now, and I'm really interested in seeing how much longer he'll last.

Be my reading buddy!

Caroline and Leighann sent me a website-www.goodreads.com. It's sort of like netflix for books, only without the paying money and getting stuff in the mail. Please come find me and be my friend.

The Church Lady, Part 1

I haven't been going to church, basically since I got married. This is problematic for a few reasons. First of all, I'm not getting any type of spiritual nourishment. Nobody's challenging me or prompting me to think theologically. Secondly, I can't set a good example for Baby in this area if I'm refusing to suck it up myself. Third, I teach Catholic school. I need to be going to church in order to not be a complete hypocrite with my students. Finally, in my opinion, going to church is something God asks of me. Even though I chose a faith full of rules, I feel like God actually asks very little of me: love Him, love others, tell others about Him, and get together regularly with others who also love Him. If I can't give an hour of my time each week to worship God in a public place designated specifically for that activity, then my innate selfishness becomes clear.
So after several years of half-assing it, phoning it in, and making excuses when it comes to church attendance, I've decided to go back. I'm going to take the summer to visit different churches in rural Virginia. After I visit one, I'll try to post a review. I'm hoping this will challenge me to go all the Sundays between now and August. And if I end up accomplishing this goal, once we move permanently, maybe I'll keep up the church thing. One can only hope.
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Today was day one of what I consider to be half spiritual quest, half anthropological observation. I went to church this morning. I started with the closest Catholic church, a church called St. Paul's. It's about five minutes from my parents' house, on a small hill where three country roads come together in a way that truly made me believe I'd die on my way out. St. Paul's doesn't have a parking lot. Congregants apparently park in semi-orderly rows going up the hill. My Honda Civic balanced precariously on the hill and looked like it was going to topple into the ditch while I was inside. From the outside, the church itself looks like it might have once been someone's house. The inside resembles a big living room, but I kind of liked that, especially since the early churches met in people's houses. Several rows of folding chairs were set up for the worshipers' comfort. I tripped over an old lady who'd taken up the aisle seat, then tripped over her again when I had to get up to get a hymnal, then tripped over her a third time as I stumbled back to my seat with said hymnal.
Before Mass started, the lector gave a few announcements. I couldn't really hear what he said because lots of small children were running around making noise. I caught him say the words "If you want to receive Holy Communion," and then give some sort of instruction to do something by the doors, but I didn't really hear what I was supposed to do, so sadly, I skipped what is often, to outsiders, one of the creepier rituals of my faith.
Then Mass itself began. Someone forgot to tell the priest that the 70's ended a long, long time ago and that his mustache/haircut combo is no longer acceptable. He rushed through the parts of the Mass, saying the parts that I'm used to singing, and reminding me of a priest who once told me that they could get through an entire Mass in 14 minutes. This guy was close. He finished in 31.
After the Gospel reading, the priest traditionally gives a homily. Not this guy, at least not right away. He spent several minutes on announcements about a new priest, summer schedules, new Mass times, no coffee and donuts, pretty much everything except the Gospel reading. When he finally did get to his 30 second homily, he talked only about the Gospel, did not connect it to the other readings, and didn't challenge the congregation to do anything other than pray to John the Baptist.
I wasn't impressed, and I can see why my uncle's girlfriend doesn't like this church much. It wasn't even that it sucked, which it did, but it didn't even suck in an interesting way. For me, that's the worst kind of sucking because I can't even leave with a sarcastic or cynical thought in my mind. Maybe next week's Methodist church will come through for me.

My Self Loathing, Part 3*

Act I
When I was six, my dad brought a kitten home for me. I named the orange and white striped boy kitten Tiger, after the kitten in My First Kitten, which was my favorite book at the time. I think it's out of print now. We left Tiger at home and went out in the cold October rain to buy supplies. After stopping at Giant to buy a litter box, etc, we went out to dinner at Anitas. My love for Mexican food started at a very early age. If I remember what happened next correctly, I'm sure I mortified my parents. I walked around to several tables and explained to the diners trying to enjoy a cheap meal on a Friday night that my dad had just brought me home a kitten. I told them I was naming the kitten Tiger and we'd just been to Giant to purchase kitten supplies.
Act II
It's about 21 years later, Tiger is dead, and I no longer speak to strangers in restaurants. As I learned at breakfast the other day, I am incapable of it. Husband and I went out to enjoy one of our last meals in town. As we waited to get seated, we noticed a woman, about our age, holding a baby much smaller than ours. She was getting her baby together and noticed us with our baby. She asked how old Baby was, and I squeaked out, "Twelve weeks," then said nothing else. Nothing. The five of us stood in awkward silence. Well, three of us felt awkward. The babies were fascinated by the bright red hair, or maybe the massive breasts, of another diner. After a millennium of awkward silence, the other mama said, "My baby's ten weeks old." I smiled and nodded, but my smile seemed fake, even though I couldn't actually see it. She and her ten week old baby walked out the door, and Husband, Baby, and I got settled at our table.
Part of the way through my scrambled eggs, grits, toast, and Pepsi, I blurted out, "That's why I can't stand myself. I couldn't think of anything to say."
"Yeah," he replied. "That was weird. You couldn't even ask her how old her baby was."
"If I were Leighann," I continued angrily, "I'd have an appointment to go have coffee with her next week."
"Well, you're not Leighann," he said in between bites of corned beef hash.
"I can't do this. I have to have friends when we move. I cannot go continue to go through this," I moaned.
"Do we need to practice? Like you talking to people?" he asked.
"Are you serious?" I replied.
"Um......yeah, kind of," he said. "Hey, look, Baby's really interested in your Pepsi can."
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I am freakishly shy. In ninth grade, one of my teachers "nominated" me for a guidance department run support group for shy people. Even then I found that a little illogical. I'm guessing that most shy people are too shy to join a support group about how shy they are. I'm not sure what changed from the six year old who found it perfectly acceptable to terrorize other diners or even the toddler who told a stranger on the church steps that I didn't go to church because Mommy didn't believe in God. I honestly don't know how I got to where I am now.
I know, despite a few isolated moments of boldness, I've always been shy. With shyness comes a social ineptitude. With social ineptitude comes loneliness. Lots and lots of loneliness.
I've spent the last three years living a minimum of two hours away from my friends. In the three years I've lived here, I've had maybe three friends. I've bitched and moaned about how lonely I am, and Husband's fluctuated between very irritated and wonderfully patient. Resentment was a major theme our first year of marriage, as I spent a lot of time blaming him for my loneliness, even though it's not really his fault. While people have admitted to me that meeting people in this town is very difficult, I can't say I made a whole lot of effort.
I can't continue to do this. Once we get settled, I have to find friends. I'm just not sure how. I am a very social person. I love going out, seeing plays, eating at restaurants, browsing shops and street fairs, drinking coffee or beer, or just wandering around. I thrive on stuff like this. Much of the time since I left New York has been draining, as I've had very little outlets for my socialness.
Despite being a very social person, social situations, especially ones where I have to meet new people or make small talk create a lot of anxiety with me. Simply emailing someone I don't know very well to see if they want to have dinner or grab a coffee can take me upwards of an hour, and then I fret over whether or not Potential New Friend will want to hang out with me, or if they do, I then worry about whether or not I will have anything to say to Potential New Friend. Anytime Husband and I have gone out with his coworkers, I've had a boulder sit in my belly for the duration of the outing. I can't think of anything to say, and I pressure and pressure myself to come up with something witty, and when I can't, I start freaking out about what they must think of me: boring, stupid, ugly, fat, weird. And here's a secret. I do the same thing, only worse, with his family members. I've been coming around for almost four years now, and I've officially been part of the family for two. But at large family gatherings, and even sometimes at smaller ones, I clam up. It's easier in a way because there's so much conversation going on, I can just sit and listen for the most part. While I'm listening to the conversations flow around me, though, my mind says terrible things to me: They wish he hadn't married you. They wish he'd married Former Girlfriend. They liked Former Girlfriend much more than they like you. She'd be able to talk. They can't believe he picked someone like you to marry. Why did you wear that outfit? You look fat in it. Your curls are looking especially frizzy today. You could really use a manicure. You seem really dumb just sitting here. Why did you answer that question like that? Nobody's interested in what you've got to say. And so on. For hours and hours and hours.
So what to do when I move? I could take a class, find some sort of volunteer opportunity that would allow me to take Baby, take knitting or sewing lessons, join a church, invite coworkers to hang out, etc. But knowing me, I'd just sit there, like a life-sized Gracie statue, then go home and berate myself for my behavior.
I can't do that for the rest of my life, nor can I simply rely on Husband for my social interaction. I need to be around people and talk about Interesting Things and Important Ideas, and I need to be able to do it without it becoming a full-scale panic attack. Obviously, it's not healthy, and I want Baby to grow up with a Mama who can volunteer on his field trips and not be the weird Mama who stays by herself and doesn't talk to anyone. I keep trying to convince Husband that this problem will be solved by sending me to Europe for at least a month, but sadly, he's not buying it.

*I'm not sure what happened to "My Self Loathing, Part 1." I guess it went to blog heaven. No biggie. Just wanted to clarify that I can actually count.

Ooops

I just did something that might not make Husband happy. I just bought the Mary Poppins soundtrack. While I do enjoy me some occasional showtunes, I've not become a devotee of 1960's movie-musicals. Even though we less than three gig on our hard drive and have to constantly clean out our files in order to make room for new songs, photos, etc, I bought the cd because itunes makes it so damn easy to blow money, and because I thought it would be good for Baby.
For some reason Baby likes my singing voice. He'll learn soon enough not to, but for now, I find myself singing to him a lot. Sometimes I make up songs that go something like:
We're changing your diaper, Baby-boo,
We're changing your diaper, my sweet boy,
We're changing your diaper, Baby-boo,
Because you smell like shit.

or

You are my baby, my baby boy,
I think you're so great.
You are my baby, my baby boy,
You're better than any toy.

As you can see, I'm not really musically inclined, but if you're reading this, you probably already know that about me.
Sometimes I pull out songs from when I was a kindergarten aide. These songs take the tunes from traditional children's (or other) songs and change the words to make the song more of a learning experience. Dr. Jean is one mind-numbing example of someone who does this. My two favorites are "Days of the Week," which basically teaches kids the days of the week to the tune of the Addams Family theme song, and "Weather Helper," which is sung to the tune of "Clementine." I like singing the kindergarten songs to Baby because I like to think I'm helping him learn, even though I know he's too young to understand how plants grow or what today's date is. My problem here is that I can't remember all of them, so I end up singing "Days of the Week" over and over and over again. It gets old, fast, and after the fourth, or maybe fifteenth rendition, Baby starts to look at me as though I've got four heads.
I didn't know what else to do, so one day I downloaded $17 worth of Veggie Tales songs. I enjoy Veggie Tales immensely. I think they're amusing. Sometimes I will turn on itunes and Baby and I will dance to various fruits and vegetables singing inane but hilarious songs.
Today I ran out of songs to sing to Baby. We were having fun, making faces at each other and playing "You Licked My Finger!" and "You Drooled on Me!" and I ran out of songs. I contemplated turning on my itunes playlist, but then I thought that as much as I swear, Ani Difranco probably isn't good for Baby's young ears.
Which brings me to Mary Poppins. I realized there was an alternative to my music, which can often be full of angst and swearing, and children's music, which tends to be complete crap. If you don't believe me, listen to some of the itunes samples in their children's music category. It makes me want to drill a hole through my toe rather than listen to it. I started singing the "Let's Go Fly a Kite," song, only I wasn't sure I was getting the words correct. I visited itunes and figured I might as well just buy the whole soundtrack, since it's such a fabulous movie. I remember the songs being fun and singing along with them when I watched the movie as a child.
While the songs were downloading, I continued to butcher the words to "Let's Go Fly a Kite." As soon as it loaded, I played it and started singing, my off-key notes echoing through the house. Baby loved it. I got off to a great start, and all of a sudden the singers changed, the way the song was sung changed, and I couldn't keep up. What I expected to be a fun sing-along type of song seemed more like a Broadway number complete with complex vocal tricks and an orchestral interlude. I was a little disheartened, but moved on to a different song. It, unfortunately was no better. Nor was the third and final song, "A Spoonful of Sugar," I tried. It was 2:40, and the last minute was just instrumental! I kept getting my lungs ready for a rousing chorus that never came. I was very disappointed, because these were clearly not the Mary Poppins songs I remembered, so to cheer myself up, I sang along with Blake to "You Give Love a Bad Name," while Baby smiled his smile that seems to say, "I'm enjoying this, but Mama, you sure are a jackass." I'm glad I made the kid smile, but I'm not sure it was worth losing whatever it is we will have to delete in order to keep the 16 Mary Poppins tracks.

Sidenote: Jenny McCarthy talks about singing to her baby in her book Baby Laughs. I recommend it.

Cleaning out my closet

Last week I wrote about my niece coming over and helping me clean out my closet. What I didn't write about was just how painful that experience was. Oh my, it hurt.
Having my niece help me wasn't the painful part, the actual act of getting rid of my stuff was. Like most other girls, I love clothes, I want clothes, and I need clothes. Husband, being a guy, doesn't understand why I need more than one pair of jeans, one pair of khakis, a skirt, and a couple of shirts. Nor does he understand why I need several pairs of colorful tennis shoes or several different pairs of flip flops, as well as sandals. I can't even remember all the fights we've had over the number of bags I need. I'm not lying. They usually start with Husband saying something like, "Why do you need so many bags? Isn't one enough?" and end with me getting completely exasperated over having to explain-again-why having options in terms of bags is important. Plus, most of my clothes have some sort of emotional attachment. But the closets in the house where I think we will be living are very, very tiny, tiny to the point of almost non-existent, so I knew I had to be tough.
I tried to look at my closet as though my clothes were, at best, neutral to me, and at worst, someone who had caused me great pain. I thought that would make it easier to get rid of them. I was so ready to do part with my clothes, shoes, bags, and hats. I expected to have an Oprah-like moment of clarity and simplicity. Then my niece started pulling things out of the closet. A sarong my dad brought me back from Cambodia. True, it's about 18 inches too long for me to ever wear, but it's beautiful, royal blue with gold and pink detailing. And it's the thought that counts. My bridesmaid's dress from Caroline's wedding, a brown, strapless, classic-looking dress that can be worn to cocktail parties for years to come. Except I don't go to cocktail parties, and I'm guessing I'll never be the girl who does. Both went into the Goodwill (i.e. dress-up clothes for niece) pile, and I started to feel a bit of pain. Maternity clothes were easy to get rid of, as I am not planning to have another child, at least not via pregnancy and c-section. I kept the ones that pass for normal people clothes because they look like normal people clothes, only they're 100x more comfortable. I got rid of clothes that had a 2 on them, because, really, who am I kidding? Then my niece pulled out polos and other shirts from when I was a skinnier girl, and I sighed and told her to donate them. Which she did. To herself. I almost shed tears when she showed me a pair of corduroys. I asked her to check to see if there was a hole in the butt. There was. I explained that although they were my very favorite pair of pants ever and I loved them more than any other pants ever, they would have to be given away because I am no longer going to wear clothes with holes in the butt. She claimed them, because, "you loved them so much, Aunt Grace." Then came the shoes. The first, and most painful casualty were my red boots. Caroline and Leighann were very surprised that my red boots ended up in the giveaway pile. I bought those boots at a Sketchers store in New York, and I wore them all through grad school, even when clunky boots exited the fashion scene and pointy toed boots made their debut. I wore them my first two years of teaching. I wore them once last year, when I was pregnant, finally deciding that I can't be a pregnant teacher and wear those boots. Then, I decided I probably shouldn't be a teacher who wears clunky red boots if I want to be pain-free at the end of the day.
When the giving away got too painful, we took a break. During the break, we sent my niece downstairs to get Baby's bag. She asked what it looked like, and we told her it was a black bag. She yelled up, "But there are so many black bags!" Husband looked at me and quietly said, "I have no fucking comment on that." I laughed, rather than try to explain-again-why it's important to have more than one black bag.
This closet cleaning was horribly painful, but I'm proud of the effort I made, and I'm glad some of my more beloved items went to a good home. My clothes now fit in maybe four crates and a suitcase. I may have less than 15 pairs of shoes now. Since I'm not done packing for the move, I may end up giving away even more stuff once I do some laundry. Not bags, though. I am definitely keeping my bags.

Scorpions

Do they live in Virginia? Does anyone know? I just saw something that looked like a baby ant with claws in my house and am once again picturing all the ways Baby and I can die. I'd leave the house, but the kid's sleeping (for once), and he needs it badly, so I hate to wake him and put him in his wretched carseat. I am sitting very still, my eyes scanning the sofa and living room, and I am ready to throw the laptop down, jump up, thus waking Baby who is asleep on my lap at the first sign of something scary.

An Honor Just to be Nominated...

My sister-in-law, who writes Jen on the Edge, gave me a Thinking Blogger Award. Woo-hoo! The last award I got was when I was three years old. I'm not lying. I got the "Best Costume" award in my grandparents' neighborhood Halloween parade. I was a tiger. This is what I looked like. That's me in the tiger costume. The very tired looking person trying to restrain me is my mom.

That costume won me a trophy. Go, me!
My childhood achievements aren't the point here. The point is that my sister-in-law gave me an award. But since the rules of accepting the award are giving the award to five other people who write blogs that make me think, I'm shit out o'luck here. I only read Jen's blog and ask moxie (referred to me by my friend Trish). I like Jen's because it is funny and usually contains stories about people I know. Occasionally I can see pictures of my baby on there, too. I will often go back and read posts that have made me laugh. Ask moxie is a good resource for parenting and helps to quell the freakouts a bit. Not completely, but it's great to know there's a resource out that to assure me that my baby is just a normal baby.
So I'd advise checking these blogs out, if you're so inclined. And you know of any other good ones-celeb gossip, parenting babies, pop culture, thoughtful religion, or just interesting, please let me know.

Moving...

We are moving on Saturday. Part of our help fell through. Is anyone aside from Leighann available to help or know anyone who'd be available to help? Does anyone beside Jen read this?

Another Perspective on Yesterday Afternoon

To read Jen's take on Younger Niece's visit and view photos, click.

Who Needs Sleep, Part 3

I got my first sleep lecture last night. I get lectured a lot, mostly by Husband or my parents, but generally my lecturers are awake when they lecture me. Last night, Husband lectured me in his sleep. Since I was also asleep, my recall of the situation is a little fuzzy. I woke up sometime after 2 a.m. Husband said, angrily, "That blanket is like a centimeter away from his face."
Me: Whaaa?
Husband (throwing the duvet to the foot of the bed): Do you want something to happen to him?
Me: I'm really tired.
Husband: Would you rather be tired or have something terrible happen to him?
Me: I don't think I can get out of bed.
Husband: Something could happen to him.
Me: No, I'm serious. I don't think I'm physically capable of getting out of bed right now.
Husband: Snore...

So yeah. Baby's still in our bed. I was really encouraged a few nights ago when he had a series of doing very short stints in our bed and lengthy periods of sleeping in his swing. On Saturday night he slept for 5 1/2 hours in his swing, woke up and nursed, and went back in his swing until 9 a.m. I was delighted. He did something similar on Sunday night, and on Monday night his sleeping was a little more erratic, and he spent more time in my bed, but he essentially slept until 10:15. I like it when Baby sleeps late. It makes my day a lot shorter.
Well, we've regressed. Baby's moro reflex seems to be in overdrive. (Sidenote: I read the Wikipedia page I just referenced and the sentence that says, "in individuals with cerebral palsy, persistence and exacerbation of this reflex is common," and I'm now certain my child has cerebral palsy. I don't even really know what cerebral palsy is, but there's no way in hell I'm looking up its Wikipedia page. I don't need to get any more ideas.) Similar to what I observed the last time I was at my parents house, his arms just can't seem to rest. Neither can his legs. Eventually it wakes him up. We'd had so many better days, and he'd been sleeping for longer chunks in a designated place.
Yesterday morning, I noticed that he seemed to be trying to roll himself over while in his swing. This prompted us to start strapping him into his swing. Then he started startling every time we tried to put him down. We'd rock him or walk around with him or feed him until he went to sleep, then we'd put him down, and within five minutes he was awake again. Last night, he sucked down six ounces of soy formula, and I was certain he'd sleep for several hours, especially since he'd done it so many previous nights. He slept for two hours and forty minutes in his co-sleeper. He spent the rest of the night in my bed.
I don't want him in my bed. I don't need any more anxiety, and I'm not sure it's good for me physically. I am an active sleeper, but I'm trying to be completely still when he's in my bed so as not to disturb or hurt him. I wake up in severe pain when he's slept in my bed. And when Baby sleeps with us, I find myself weighed down with thoughts of all the terrible things that could happen to him. That said, being curled up with me is often the only way he will sleep, and I know he needs to sleep in order to be healthy and thrive. And I certainly want him healthy and thriving.
Tonight, he sucked down eight ounces of soy formula at 10 p.m., and I didn't put him in his swing until 12:15. That's after only sleeping for maybe two hours since 8 a.m. Husband even looked online to see if we should let him cry it out but determined that Baby is still too young. I don't know if I could have handled that anyway. I'm so anxious about warping him, and having my genes I'm already worried that he's going to struggle with anxiety and depression, so I want to make him as secure as possible. So we're still at an impasse with the whole sleep thing. My friend Trish told me that with a newborn things get better, but then they get worse before getting better again. I guess we're just in that getting worse stage. I hope we get to the getting better part soon.

My Helper

My six and a half year old-the and a half is very important-niece came over today to help me and Husband pack. We are moving in a week, and we have a two-bedroom townhouse worth of stuff to organize, sort, and pack. I tapped my niece to be my helper because her older sister had her tonsils removed yesterday, and I figured Older Niece could use some quiet this afternoon. And I could use the help. So Younger Niece came over.
Husband and I picked up Younger Niece and drove her to our house. In the car she gave us updates on Baby, like "He's still crying," or "He has one eye open all the way, but the other eye is only open half way," and wowed us with her mad math skills. She was able to tell us the answer to: 1000 1/2-2. I was impressed. When we got to the house, she read us The Monster at the End of This Book, and then we got to work. Since I had to feed Baby, who'd only slept 20 minutes since 8 a.m., my job was more of a supervisory one. Husband decided Younger Neice and I should go through my closet and decide what to keep and what to give away, a daunting task for any female. We initially had three groups. The first was for clothes I'd use this summer. The second was a crate for clothes I wouldn't need for awhile. The third was a trashbag for Goodwill. Husband was very encouraging of me putting clothes in the trashbag.
I sat in the rocker and fed Baby while Younger Niece held up items of clothing from my closet. I told her that if she wanted anything that I designated for the trashbag, she could have it. Since I dress like a frumpy troll, I figured she'd go home with a skirt and maybe a pair of heels. Oh no. I misunderestimated Younger Niece. She put the first two trashbag items in a box we set aside for her and said something to me that no one's ever said before. She breathed, "I love your clothes." Then, with a brisk businesslike tone, she said, "I think I'll put all the trashbag clothes in my box." Husband and I reminded Younger Niece that she didn't have to take all the trashbag clothes; she could really just claim the ones she really liked. Younger Niece reiterated that she loved my clothes.
Then she started hinting. She wasn't subtle. She'd hold up a dress and say, "I LOVE this dress, Aunt Grace." I'd say, "Me too. That's why I bought it." Once she held up a pair of sparkly, high-heeled flip flops and said, "I really like these sparkly high-heeled flip flops." I said, "Me too." She replied, "I really wish I had a pair of sparkly high-heeled flip flops." I asked, "Just like those?" She said, "Yep, just like those." Then I asked her to please put them in the crate. By the time we finished with my closet, she had something like thirty items of clothing and four pairs of shoes including my favorite red boots that I feel like I can no longer justify owning since I am a teacher, and it's a pain in the ass to wear boots when teaching. Husband and I hung our heads in shame over having let a six and a half year old have almost free reign in my closet, and called her mom to explain the situation. We have so much to learn. Her mom told her to limit her choices to ten items of clothing and two pairs of shoes.
After the closet, we decided to take a bit of a break. During this break, Younger Niece read the book Pat the Bunny. Several times. She's a really expressive reader, so she'd emphasize all the places she was supposed to emphasize. I loved it. She got to the page where the book informs the reader that they can look in the mirror. She paused and said disparagingly, "Everyone can look in the mirror." Pause. "Well, not blind people. They can't see to look in the mirror." She's right.
We paid her $5 for her efforts; she really was a great help. When I gave her the money, she was excited because she said she'd never had a $5 bill before. Then she remembered that she had. She tried to get me to give her another dollar that she could give to Older Niece, but she settled for one of Husband's old socks instead. I am not lying. Once she had her money in her hands, she stuck it in the waistband of her skort. I hope she doesn't have a future in Vegas.
I don't know about Husband and Younger Niece, but I had a great time this afternoon. She was funny, helpful, and productive, and I'd hire her anytime.

Shit Happens

Scrubs was right. Everything does come down to poo.
I don't like poo. I like to pretend it doesn't exist unless I am using poo humor to connect with my second graders. I am completely grossed out by it. If someone tries to talk to me about it, I generally just bear the conversation uncomfortably while thinking about peaceful things like kittens and rainbows and Panera's strawberry-poppyseed salad. Yum. Unfortunately, having a baby means I am confronted by poo on a daily basis. Multiple times. When Baby was first born, we had so many visitors that I could just pan him off on someone else, and they'd deal with his poo. I don't think I changed a diaper for at least the first week. I knew when I had a baby that I'd have to deal with poo, but I pictured it as something that would be easily cleaned up, like spilled grape juice in a Resolve Carpet Cleaner commecial. And since my friend told me breastfed babies' poo doesn't smell, I wasn't too worried. Ha. It's gross and smelly and messy and I'm learning all sorts of new colors I didn't know existed. I am confronting poo in a way I never imagined.
Baby has pooed on me four times now. Actually on me. The first time it happened Baby was just two weeks old. I was holding him on my knees when I heard an explosion. Then another. Then a third. With the final explosion, I felt something warm running down the side of my abdomen and started screaming. I yelled to Husband that I'd just been shit on, and he started laughing. "Stop laughing! Go fix this!" I yelled. Husband's solution was to keep laughing and get a roll of paper towels. He swaddled Baby in paper towels while I sat on the couch yelling and swearing. When I told the story the next day, my brother-in-law looked at me and said, "You really thought that wouldn't happen?" It's not that I thought it wouldn't happen, it's more like the thought of being pooed on never crossed my mind until it happened. I told this story to my second graders, and they thought it was hillarious. When I went to visit them a second time, they asked if I'd been pooed on again. I said no, because I hadn't, and the next day, Baby took a dump on me again. The third time he emptied himself onto me was Monday, as in two days ago. I'm not sure how or when it happened, but when I got up from playing with him, I noticed a huge amber colored stain on my white shirt, and a smaller stain on my pajama pants. I was home with Baby alone, so I couldn't even take a shower. I was grossed out by myself all day.
Today was the most recent time. Again, I was just playing with Baby, and as part of his fun, he decided to let me experience his most recent meal's trip through his immature digestive system. Husband went for the paper towels and merely said, "So that makes us 3-0 now, right?" I glumly reminded him that we are actually 4-0. He's not been as fortunate as I am in this respect. I guess, on the bright side, at least it gave me a chance to shower today.
I really can't believe this keeps happening to me. I am the worst person in the world to deal with this, because, again, I really like to pretend poo doesn't exist. Maybe I'm being punished for being so modest? prudish? I'm not sure what the right word is here.
So if you don't have children, think long and hard about this before you decide to procreate. You, too, may be pooed on. Nobody ever told me that, but I don't want you to be surprised. And if you do have children, I know you're probably out there in computer land mocking my naivete on this matter. It's okay, I deserve it, and I now mock me, too.
And now I must leave the computer and curl up in the fetal position out of shame that I just wrote an entire post about poo. Or I would if poo existed. Which it doesn't.

Yea, Husband!

Husband is great. Knowing my deep loathing of Oprah, he saved this article for me.

Worst Walk Ever

Each day I try to walk at least three miles. It usually takes me about an hour, sometimes a little more, and it's a surefire way of guaranteeing that I will be in, if not a cheerful mood, at least a civil mood when Husband comes home. Walking also allows Baby an opportunity to sleep, since he doesn't do it that often during the day, unless he's curled up against me with on demand access to the boob, or in the stroller or car. I love being outside, and the route I take is challenging but manageable. I'm generally happier if I can go for a walk.
Until today, I hadn't been able to go for a walk since Thursday. We spent Friday running around for hours and hours doing chores. By the time we got home, I had to feed Baby and shower so we could go out for Husband's birthday. I spent Saturday at the Leesburg Outlets with some friends from college. So I did spend some time walking, but it wasn't the briskly paced three+ miles I've come to rely on. Rain thwarted my walking attempts yesterday. Miserable, cold, heavy, March-like rain. Husband and I planned on going on a four mile hike-a hike we were supposed to do a week ago-but we woke up to an unhappy baby and buckets of rain.
I was really excited about being able to go for a walk today. I checked weather.com and received a good report. Temperatures in the 70s and 80s, not getting hotter than 84. Great. I even decided to go in the morning because Baby wouldn't go to sleep, and I wasn't going to spend my day with a baby who refuses sleep. I got my shorts on. I found some clean socks. I put my shoes on and got the bag ready. Then I remembered my ipod. Music is essential for me when I exercise. I will pretty much shut down if I don't have music. I've made it to the gym several times, only to realize I'd left my ipod at home, given a ten minute half-assed attempt on the treadmill or elliptical, given up, and gone home. Today I searched for twenty minutes and still didn't find my ipod. Baby's cries got increasingly louder, and even though I tried to explain the situation, he wouldn't have any of it. I gave up and fed him. It was a giving up and feeding him kind of day.
When Husband got home he encouraged me to go on my walk. Getting me and Baby out of the house allowed him to get some packing done, and I really needed to exercise in order to pull myself out of my four day funk. Husband told me where I could find my ipod, I got ready and headed out. Things went wrong almost immediately. When I parked and started walking, I almost immediately noticed a big, scary dog. I've been afraid of dogs all my life. When I say afraid, I mean completely frozen in terror afraid. When I come across a dog that looks like this,













I see this. So the black lab lounging lazily under a tree caused me to quickly turn the stroller around and cross to the other side of the street. It didn't matter much that there was no crosswalk. While I'm pretty sure my protective mothering instinct will cause me to jump in between the stroller and an out of control SUV, I'm sad to say that I'm not sure it's powerful enough to cause me to jump between my baby and a big scary dog.
Crossing the street was dumb, though, because the sidewalk ended almost immediately, so I had to cross back. I got annoyed. Then I got a couple of phone calls and discovered that I could not, in fact, push a stroller and talk on the phone. I'm just not that talented. After that, I managed to have a Gatorade erupt all over me and the stroller. Red Gatorade filled the cupholder to the point where I had to dig through what was once my hip schoolbag and has now become my matronly diaper bag to find a onesie so I could mop up the Gatorade. Gatorade is sticky. I spent the rest of the walk with my sticky hands touching my sticky stroller and being generally cranky. Then my stomach started to feel funny. Not nauseous or crampy, just funny. I couldn't place the sensation for awhile, and then, as I passed a row of restaurants and didn't have the urge to enter any of them, I realized I was full. Overstuffed. I think the Gatorade filled me up. The Gatorade that didn't end up in the cupholder or all over me, that is. So I felt like ass for the rest of the walk. I trudged along, stopping to rest every 50 feet or so. On a three mile walk, that adds up to a lot of stopping to rest. It sucked. And although the endorphins kicked in, they didn't bring the happy thoughts with them. I spent the entire time listening to my ipod and thinking, at best, neutral thoughts. Most of my thoughts weren't neutral, though. They were anxious and sad and insecure. I wondered what the point of exercising was if the happy thoughts weren't going to come.
After almost 90 minutes of walking, I ended up back at my car, hot, sweaty, sticky, and crankier than I was before I exercised.