Resolve

For the past few years, since I left graduate school, really, I've thought that I don't read enough. I used to read constantly, but I have a really hard time getting iton books these days, what with a real job and a baby and all. But Husband's brother spent a few days with us, and as they tend to do, they spent a lot of time talking about books I haven't read and movies I haven't seen. So I'm going to try to read more. I'll take books in chunks of 20, and when I'm done with one set of 20, I'll make up another set. I'm also trying to find books that I either borrow, already have, or can find at the library because our home library easily tops 2000 books. So here's the first list.

Grace’s Book List #1

1. Paradise-Toni Morrison
2. Beloved-Toni Morrison
3. Intuition-Allegra Goodman
4. David McCullough-The Johnstown Flood
5. Blink-Malcom Gladwell
6. The Professor and the Madman-Simon Winchester
7. Spook-Mary Roach
8. The Kite Runner-Khaled Hosseini
9. Cry, The Beloved Country-Alan Paton
10. She Got Up Off the Couch-Haven Kimmel
11. Wonder Boys-Michael Chabon
12. Everything is Illuminated-Jonathan Saffron Foer
13. His Dark Materials-Philip Pullman (13, 14, and 15)
16. Friday Night Lights-H.G. Bissinger
17. 740 Park-Michael Gross
18. The Almost Moon-Alice Sebold
19. The Ringmaster’s Daughter-Jostein Gaarder
20. Don’t Try This At Home-ed. Kimberly Witherspoon and Andrew Friedman


Wish me luck!

My baby doesn't wear socks...

Confidential to Jen: This post is not in response to your comment on the earlier post.


Here's the thing. I don't need people to tell me how to parent. I don't need strangers at Kroger to tell me that my child isn't wearing socks/a hat/pants/shoes.

I'm already aware.

I'm not sure anyone ever considers that I already know this. I'm not sure the mom who has two children under the age of three and is shopping next to me, comes up to my cart and says to Baby "Where are your socks?" in a baby talk voice (which Husband and I do not do in our house) is aware of the conversations I have with Baby:

Me: Baby, you've got to stop kicking your socks off in the car.
Baby: Gah.
Me: I'm serious. People in the grocery store will give me looks like I am an unfit mama if you kick your socks off.
Baby: Dadada.
Me (sighing): Dadada is at work. He's not here. I just told you that. But if he was here, he'd tell you to keep your socks on so people don't think I'm an unfit mama.
Baby: mamama. (shriek) Goo!

Or his coat. I know my child needs a coat. I also know he sweats profusely, especially when he falls asleep, so Husband and I are very discriminating about when he wears his fabulous coat. Sometimes the 35 seconds of cold he has to tolerate when he goes from the door to the car or the car to the door are preferable to the hour+ of discomfort that he will endure if he wears his coat.

When Baby was two months old, minus two days, Caroline came to visit. We went to Target so I could buy something to wear to my friend Jaimee's wedding. At the time, Baby thought Target was the crappiest place on earth and screamed every time we went. During this particular visit, Baby held up pretty well while Caroline and I did the world's fastest clothes shopping trip. He held up pretty well, that is, until we got to the register. The cashier was particularly slow that day, my guess is due to a hangover or something similar, and Baby started to fuss. We took turns holding him and rocking him. That seemed to make the situation worse. The elderly gentleman in front of us turned around and smiled. "You need to sing to him," he said. Caroline and I just looked at each other. "You need to sing Rock a Bye My Baby to him," the senior citizen continued. Again, Caroline and I looked at each other. Then we looked down at the ground, at Baby, and finally at the parenting instructor. "Go ahead," he encouraged, as Baby's volume steadily increased. Caroline and I gave each other wary looks and started mumbling "Rock a bye baby, in the tree tops..."
"No," the old man interrupted. "You have to do it like this," and belted out "ROCK A BYE MY BABY, WITH A DIXIE MELODY..." and I looked for a hole in the ground big enough for me, Caroline, and Baby to escape.

I try to tell myself that people do things like this because they love babies so much and want to make sure that babies are properly taken care of, but really it just comes across as them judging my parenting.

I know I'm not a perfect mama. I know my house is messy, and I work, a lot, and sometimes I don't feel like playing with Baby. Sometimes I'd rather read a book/take a shower/sleep than do my mama duties. But I put those desires aside and I do what is best for my child. I know my child better than anyone else in the world does, and I know when I need to feed him more or feed him less. I know when it's okay for him to be socksless or jacketless or have green beans on his face. I know when he needs to be cuddled and when he needs to cry it out a bit. I know the cries he makes that require immediate attention and the cries he makes that don't. I know these things because I am his mama. I have spent the last 18 months getting to know this child, and I know how to be the mama he needs.

When I first had Baby, I wasn't confident at all. When I was pregnant, I wasn't sure that I'd even love him. Husband can attest that I'm not a particularly nurturing or comforting presence, but I am with my child. And it took awhile, but I figured out how to be the parent I want to be, and more importantly how to be the parent he needs. I know all of this because I see how my child lights up when he sees me. I know this because I can put him down in his crib at 8 p.m., and it's unlikely that I will hear from him again until 6 a.m. I know all this because he's thriving. He's gaining weight, happy, and interested in everything. My child explores the world and learns as much as he possibly can. He is secure, and his needs are met. I have learned how to take care of him and will continue learning how to take care of him.

I don't tell other people how to parent/quit smoking/get sober/dress/break up with their significant other/stop their child from screaming/get off welfare. So, Random Stranger Who Clearly Knows How to Parent My Child Better than I Do, I'm already aware that "that baby ain't wearing no socks." I'm allowing it. When you spend 9 months vomiting because of this child and another 9 months getting vomited on because of this child, or when you get up with him in the middle of the night and hold him until he goes back to sleep-if he goes back to sleep-or when you make faces with him and dry his tears and make him baby food and get sick because of nursing, THEN you may tell me how to parent or question my abilities and decisions. Until then, your opinion is worthless to me.

Oh yeah, there's this, too...

I neglected to mention, when bragging on my Sangria, that Caroline, Leighann, and I apparently make a mean enchiladas verde. It was really labor intensive but so worth it. The recipe can be found here. We added some lime juice to the sauce to cut the spiciness, but it still needed some sour cream. I'd recommend this recipe to anyone. Oh, yum. We topped of the evening with Caroline's magic brownies, but I can't tell what makes them magic.

Sobbing in My Car

I make a strong effort not to pay attention to the news. I've learned that it's better for all involved if I don't know about impending bird flu, the war on terror, negative campaigning, or credit crises. But I love NPR and hate the radio in general. So when I'm, driving around, either on the way to work in the morning or on the way home from work/the gym, I tend to put NPR on rather than listen to inane prattle and crappy music. So despite my efforts to stick my head in the sand, I hear a fair amount of what's going on in the news.
I turned on NPR this afternoon while Baby and I headed to the liquor store, and I learned of the former prime minister of Pakistan's assassination. I found myself at first distressed by this news and later saddened, saddened to the point that if affected my mood and demeanor for the rest of the day. As I drove to the grocery store to replace some chilies that had gone bad, I heard more news on this subject and found myself in the driver's seat sobbing for a woman I know almost nothing about, from a country I know nothing about. I can't figure this out. I am still devastated by this woman's death. I still want to cry for her, for her family, for her country, and I think I will end up shedding a few more tears for a woman I didn't care about, a country I don't care about. I can't figure out my sadness, except that maybe I'm sad because this is not what the world should be. We should be better than this. I know there's nothing I can do about it, bit I don't want the world to be a place where people are assassinated or blown up or get their houses taken away or can't eat or get educated. I want better. My baby deserves a world better than this.

Satisfaction

Apparently, with the guidance of my brother in law, I make an excellent sangria. Go me.

We'll do anything!

Just don't hurt the tigger.

Timing

Baby has pinkeye and can't go to day care tomorrow. Husband has to be at work at 7 a.m. Tomorrow is the second grade Christmas play. Timing fucking sucks sometimes.

First Cheerios

These are a few weeks old.

Monotony

Sometimes my mother pays me or Husband $15/hour to do jobs she doesn't want to do, doesn't have time to do, or doesn't know she needs to do. I am currently working my way through boxes of old photos. This isn't a new project; Husband and I started it in the summer of 2006, but we only managed to get through 2 boxes. Scanning photographs takes a fucking long time. I started tonight at 9:37, and at 9:51, I'd scanned a mere 10 photos. My mother has requested that not every picture be scanned, rather I should take a "representative sample" from each box or each envelope within the box. Basically what I do is this:
1. Take a box and check the year
2. Create a folder on my computer that corresponds with the years on the box
3. Choose an envelope from the box and create a sub-folder for the envelope
4. Scan picture
5. Name the picture in such a way that people, events, and/or locations are easily identified
6. Replace photos in envelope and envelope in box
6. Repeat the process
It's half mind-numbing, half fun, half embarrassing. I come across my baby and toddler pictures:








I'm currently working on the 1991-1994 box. I'm coming across pictures of before we moved, pictures of my cat who's now dead, and gems such as the following:


This was taken at my 12th birthday party. By the age of 12, I was deeply entrenched in what is commonly known as "The Ugly Phase." Until I went to college, I thought I was the only girl who went through the ugly phase. Turns out EVERY girl goes through the ugly phase. It starts around 4th grade and lasts through middle school, and in some cases runs through high school as well. During the ugly phase, a girl makes poor choices in terms of clothing, hair, and make up, only she doesn't know she's making poor choices until many, many years later when she sees a photograph from this time period and cringes because she's confronted with images she'd spent 10 or 15 years repressing.
I'm about to quit scanning for the night. I've been working for an hour, and I need to get to bed since it's a school night. I'm only four envelopes into the 1991-1994 box, so there's a lot more of the ugly phase to see. I'm taking wine with me tomorrow. There's too much ugly to confront without wine.

Facing the Fat

Jen has been writing about her journey on Weight Watchers for a few weeks now, both on her blog and on Fight the Fluffy. I offhandedly mentioned to my mother that maybe we should do sign up as well, after the holidays, since Jen has had so much success with it. She came home after Thanksgiving and asked if I'd signed up yet. I said I hadn't, and she handed me her credit card. I had so many reasons not to do it. I was waiting until all the Cherry Cokes in the fridge were gone. I wanted to enjoy Christmas. I love food. And when I look in the mirror, I don't see a fat girl. I truly don't see a fat girl in the mirror, but when I see photographs of myself, I do. The way my clothes fit back up the photos' assertions that I am not a skinny girl. One of my students asked me why me and everyone in my family is chubby.
So I signed up. As of November 27, I have been a member of Weight Watchers. I'm not a going to meetings and crying with other women type of member. I'm a sitting at home in front of my computer meticulously entering every single morsel of food I've eaten for the day type of member.
I haven't told anyone, except for one co-worker who offered me some of her granola my first day on the plan, Caroline, and Scottie. For whatever reason, I feel ashamed that I am doing WW. I think it's because signing up, talking about it, forces me to face my weight and face how I look.
I'm hungry all the time, and I've found WW's online system to be a bit addicting. I just spent several minutes trying to figure out how many points 14 M&Ms are worth. In the morning, I experiment with exactly how little cream cheese I can have on my English muffin and still have some taste to it. I've become very disciplined about not going over my alloted 20 points a day, disciplined to the point where I often don't hit my 20 points, which kind of defeats the purpose. I am supposed to hit the 20 points each day.
My 20 points are based on my weight (150 pounds) and my goal weight (110.1 pounds). I am supposed to weigh myself every Monday, and the first week I lost either four or six pounds. I don't remember. I question the reliability of my scale, because I bought it at a little market in New York five years ago, but it gets the job done for now.
I eat very slowly now. I savor each bite, and I try to make my small portions last as long as they possibly can. Everything is measured and will be until I can eyeball what a teaspoon looks like or a cup looks like. I am constantly hungry. I am constantly thinking about food. I think that's a good thing. Before, I used to think about food then go and eat some. Whatever I wanted. Now, I think about food, think about how I'm hungry, and I think about my choices. I eat some grapes or some popcorn.
WW is big on "lite" foods, foods that have been artificially sweetened. I won't do artificial sweeteners, so I've basically given up things like sodas and ice cream, at least for now.
While I both want to be a skinny girl and fit into my clothes again, I'm not really doing this for me. I'm doing this for my kid. It's my responsibility as his Mama to model a healthy lifestyle for him. It's my job to be the best person I can possibly be, and being healthy with food is a small part of that.

Excuses

I've been away for awhile. I've been what we refer to over here as "sad for no reason." I think the generally accepted term is "depressed." I've been fighting that for awhile. The sad for no reason leads me to vary between periods of great lethargy and great productivity. My bedroom is almost clean for the first time since August because of this. I've spent a couple hours most nights tackling laundry that's piled up and trash that's scattered. A few nights I haven't done anything at all. Nothing. Put Baby to bed and just sat.
I've also been very tired. Baby's not sleeping much these days. He wants to go to bed early, but he also wants to wake up early.
Work has me occupied during the day, and work issues have my mind occupied at night.
Husband is working a second job and trying to finish up the semester, so I've been the primary parent even more than usual.
So I've been away for awhile.