Oh My

Thinking of moving on...

2009-08-31T20:21:00.001-05:00

A blog I started in order to hide and be brutally honest in January of '08.

a fair question

2009-04-02T17:59:00.002-05:00

Mrs. G, what's that thing on your face? the seven-year old asked. I knew exactly what she was referring to. It was large enough to have an economy larger than that of the Czech Republic and sustain a standing army.
It's a big zit, I replied calmly. I don't have any cover up, and it was so painful that covering it up at 6:45 a.m. would have hurt much more than letting it die a natural death.
What's a zit? she inquired further.
It's a thing that sometimes grows on grown-ups faces, I explained, still smiling serenely at the child. I hate being a teacher sometimes.
Oh, okay. She skipped down the hall.
I popped it on the way to my car.

"want more fuck" or "no shit mama!"*

2009-02-17T21:35:00.003-05:00

*Note the quotation marks. I have not said a swear word in several months. I did not say these swear words. My not quite two year old did.

I'd heard the stories about small children who make the f-sound instead of the t-sound and how it leads to dirty looks from people whose children were obviously raised properly with a grasp of phonics upon leaving the womb. Since Mr. Independent has been calling trucks "rucks!" for months, I assumed I was safe from dirty looks related to my child's dirty language. This weekend I had an inkling that I might be wrong.
We were in the car. I don't remember where we were going or where we were coming from, but I thought I heard an excited "fuck!" from the backseat. I turned my head slightly and asked, "What's that, baby?"
"Ruck!" came the excited reply. I felt assured that I'd imagined it.
I didn't imagine it today. Driving home from daycare we saw a truck.
"Look, Mr. Independent! It's a truck!"
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he squealed wriggling with delight. His arms waved and his entire body shook with joy as we passed the truck.
Then: "More fuck? More fuck?"
"I don't know, sweet boy. Maybe we'll see more trucks." I honestly didn't know if I wanted to see more or not. I didn't know if I was more amused or mortified by this recent trend.
"More FUCK! WANT MORE FUCK! WANTMOREFUCK!" He became more and more agitated and less and less inclined to accept my insistence that I am not, in fact, in charge of whether or not we see trucks on the drive home. Luckily an airplane distracted him, and he forgot all about the trucks.
But he didn't forget about sitting. Mr. Independent has definite ideas of who should sit, when they should sit, and where they should sit. If I'm sitting, and he doesn't want me to be sitting somewhere, he'll say, "Get up, Mama!" When several "Get up, Mamas!" don't work, he switches tactics. "No shit Mama! No shit!" His volume increases until I am caught in that parenting no-man's land of letting him get what he wants (me getting up) or listening to him yell "No shit Mama!" at Bible study. Tonight, I opted for getting up and leaving.

proud

2009-02-11T21:30:00.001-05:00

This is who I married.
Click

Blogworthy...per Husband's request

2009-02-08T21:41:00.001-05:00

We're so proud.

Is this the end of bubble-neigh?

2009-01-24T20:47:00.002-05:00

For me, one of the best parts of having a kid is watching him acquire language and new abilities. These days it seems like his brain is exploding with new words and sounds and knowledge. We can show him a picture of something and tell him what it is, and he'll repeat it and often remember it.
On Tuesday we talked a lot about Obama, and he can now say Obama and point to Obama if he sees his picture. It's really amazing to watch how he just tests words and sounds and retains them or forgets them.
His words are becoming more refined, as well, and he's losing that toddler incomprehensibility that I've found so endearing this past year. Again is no longer ga-ga, and want to dance isn't uncle dad anymore. I about cried the other day when he pointed to the cat in the hat and said cat-hat, rather than meow-yat.
Out of everything I've experienced being a mama so far, I think this is what I want to hold on to and this is what I will long for. I don't miss the days of holding a sleeping baby or nursing a baby to sleep, nor do I miss that time between about 6 and 9 months where he started learning that he can manipulate his environment, and he can move from place to place on his own. I remember being awed by it, but I don't miss it.
Today, at the zoo, Mr. Independent saw a zebra. Husband asked him if he could say zebra, and he did. He smiled and cried, bye zebra! as we walked to the next exhibit. Until then his only exposure to zebras is his wooden zebra from Africa, placed on a shelf in his room next to a jar of bubbles. Each morning, and occasionally in the middle of the night, he gleefully cries bubble-neigh! and points to the zebra. One day soon, he'll wake up and point, and say zebra! bubbles!

nothing changes

2009-01-23T20:50:00.003-05:00

I had a strange experience at the gym yesterday. All during my time on the treadmill and walking back to the locker room I thought about how I was going to record all the witty thoughts I've been having lately about the trials of having to change clothes at a gym that's frequented by my students' parents. But then the 8th grade girls barged in on me in the locker room, and all my brilliantly funny thoughts died.
My shirt was halfway over my head when a giggling girl tugged on the curtain of my changing stall. Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you she giggled. Can you please tell her-she nodded her head at the giggling, much shorter girl next to her-that she's not fat?
I studied both of them, one short, like my height, the other a head taller, lanky, not quite grown into her limbs yet. Neither of them had a visible ounce of fat on their bodies.
I smiled and told them, Neither of you is fat. You're both lovely.
See, the first girl said to her friend, then turned to me. She's like 90 pounds and she's in eighth grade, and she thinks she's fat. I was like 90 pounds in first grade. If anyone's fat, it's me.
Yeah, I replied. You're really not fat. I wish I had known that when I looked like you. Now that I'm a bit lumpier than I used to be, I wish I'd enjoyed it more when I wasn't.
Oh my God! she giggled. You are not lumpy at all! Thanks for telling her she's not fat. We're sorry we bothered you!
No bother!
Thank you! Bye! They ran off, giggling and arguing over who was fatter.
I wasn't at my loveliest yesterday. I say that as objectively as a female can. My hair was a disaster since I'd gotten up late and couldn't fix it the way I normally do on a Thursday. My shirt fit too tightly, and when I exercise my entire body turns red, as does my face. I'd forgotten my contacts and a hair tie. I am on the lumpy side. Obviously I have the excuse of having a baby, but I think the statute of limitations on that one runs out after a year.
I have a picture taped to my desk at home. I'm looking at it right now. It's me, on a beach when I was 11 or 12. I'm wearing a two piece bathing suit that's not a tankini and striking a pose. My stomach was flat. I had no idea.
In some respects I think I have a healthier self-image than a lot of females because I can leave the house without make-up and I don't think about the way I look a whole lot, but when I do it's a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing (although, with me, what's not a poo-storm of disgust and self-loathing?).
Yesterday, in that locker room, I knew my words to those girls were useless, but I had to say them anyway. I could have told them all sorts of things that I've learned about being fat and being not fat that I've learned in the fifteen years since I've been in eighth grade. It wouldn't have mattered, though. In eighth grade, and ninth, and tenth, and eleventh, and twelfth, and all through college and graduate school and the early years of marriage, I had that conversation, the no, I'm the one who's fat; you're not fat conversation. No amount of people telling me I wasn't fat, that I was beautiful made any sort of difference. I believed what I saw, skewed though it might have been.
My words to those girls have disappeared. They won't come back to them for years, when they've put on a few pounds, maybe had a kid or two and see someone who looks like they once did, someone dissatisfied with their weight and looks. They'll remember. They'll remember they weren't fat, they were beautiful, and they didn't know it.
It's the circle of life.

for you...

2009-01-23T20:49:00.000-05:00

I have to share this link. It might be my new favorite.

not there

2009-01-20T19:26:00.002-05:00

All year I planned on being in DC today, shoving my way into the crowds on the Mall. I didn't care who won; I was going to be there. I told my mother I was going to do that. I told a co-worker I was going to do that.
And then I got scared. I got scared of guns and bombs and people yelling terrible things and doing terrible things and whatif I took Mr. Independent up there and something terrible happened. So I didn't take my personal day. I didn't trek up 95 last night. I swam and went to Book Club and came home. I told myself that my students needed me and that it wasn't good for Mr. Independent to be in the cold for hours on end and that really we can't afford the gas anyway. But really, I got scared. And that's why, in the school gym, watching it on a screen with poor audio hook-up I squeezed my eyes to keep the tears away.

Awesome...

2009-01-18T14:55:00.001-05:00

At Target, the day after Christmas, I saw the following shirt on sale for $5. Was it necessary? No. Is is awesome? Oh, yeah.

This is not a real post...

2009-01-18T14:46:00.005-05:00

a conversation*

2009-01-17T20:05:00.003-05:00

The following is an actual conversation between Husband and Mr. Independent that took place this afternoon:
Husband: Mr. I, Mama doesn't like Daddy very much right now.
Mr. I: jews!
Husband: Mama and Daddy are getting a divorce.
Mr. I: Bye Daddy!

*I am in no way trying to mock anyone who's been through divorce. Nor was Husband.

more words

2009-01-16T22:30:00.003-05:00

As previously mentioned on here, Mr. Independent has an, um, interesting vocabulary. I recently made a comment about one of his daycare teachers, turned to him and said, Can you say 'surly teacher?'
He replied: urly eecher.
So I've tried to watch what I say around him, lest he start saying these things on his own, without prompting.
Most of what he says is endearing, and we get stupidly excited, like last week when he saw two buses and said do bus! (two buses, for those not fluent in toddler). He can't stop talking about his cousins and says their names together, followed with a pause, then 'ma! for Grandma. He can name cars, buses, trucks, bikes, and tractors, and he can also provide sound effects (the all go -roomroom!). He can make the animal sounds for dog, cat, horse, cow, donkey, snake, duck, and porcupette. He can say work and school, shirt, pants, and hat. The other day he pulled out grilled cheese for the first time and often requests reh-ries. Go ahead and send the mom of the year award this way. He knows his name and the name of his friends at daycare and recently pointed to a picture of Leighann and said eeenan. Football is buttball. He can say wine and then point to my mother or say memere wine. He knows that anything from Starbucks is Mama juice and anything in a plastic 20 oz bottle is Daddy juice.
I taught him how to say Daddy's pooping (Daddy poop!). Husband retaliated in kind, and now whenever anyone walks into the bathroom, even if it's just to get a hair tie or lotion, he points to the door and yells Daddy poop!, or occasionally, Mama poop! He says eeeeeeeeeeeewwwww whenever we change his diaper. We should probably start saving for his therapy now.
Occasionally his words are embarrassing, like when he yanks his shoes off in Target and yells Uh-oh, jew! or when he sees clocks (cocks) or decides that he wants to cook, which often comes out as cock as well. Mama cock? he'll ask. Daddy cock?
We can track the origins of most of his words; a lot of them come from us trying to entertain ourselves, like when I asked him if he could say butt, so he did, and the pointed at his butt. Or how his current favorite books talk about hot dog parties, so sometimes he comes up to us and says dog-barbie. We cannot, however, figure out why he knows the word goggles. I'm not sure there's word less useful for an almost two year old than goggles.

Does not use time wisely

2009-01-12T14:16:00.002-05:00

Productive things I've done today:
gone grocery shopping
washed a load of laundry (not dried)
ran the dishwasher (not emptied, am in the hoping someone else will do it mindset)
signed up for the Monument Avenue 1ok
wiped Mr. Independent's snotty nose approximately 643 times

Non-productive things I've done today:
slept until 9:15
ate lunch at Five Guys with Husband and Mr. I
watched Shrek
checked Facebook approximately 643 times
checked my local moms board approximately 643 times
lamented curly hair while looking in the mirror
changed Facebook status 3 times (cause, you know, people care what I do all day long)
ate popcorn

Sunday

2009-01-11T22:15:00.001-05:00

Sundays are tricky. It's a challenge to get everything done, and the idea of the next morning's alarm looms constantly, reminding me that soon a new week will start, soon I will work again, and things planned will have to go undone until the next weekend. One day, I am sure, it will all come together, but this is not the day. One day, I am sure, Sunday will be a day of rest. This is not the day.

um, yeah

2009-01-09T21:28:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure when I became this awesome, but I am seriously considering going to bed right now. At 9:30. On a Friday night. Go me!

What's a girl to do?

2009-01-06T23:19:00.003-05:00

I read Fast Food Nation over break. As a result, I have temporarily given up beef, especially ground beef. Tonight, my mom cooked ground sirloin steaks for dinner.

Day 1

2009-01-05T20:21:00.001-05:00

I swam! I didn't sink! My swimming teacher said I did well! The endorphins are still going strong!

The genius of Wii Fit

2009-01-04T18:27:00.002-05:00

My parents got me a Wii Fit for Christmas. I set it up last night while Husband went to pick up some take out. It's fun and difficult at the same time, and it has all the addictive qualities of a video game. I don't play video games much, but when I do, I find myself saying things like, I'll stop when I get to the next level, or I just have to beat this one thing, then I'll stop. And then it's four hours later.
Wii Fit seems to operate on that same principle. The games are very short-several are about a minute long, and it gives results immediately. So, for example, if I'm playing the game where I have to try to hit soccer balls that my Wii friends and family are throwing at me, while at the same time avoiding the shoes and Panda heads they're also throwing, I can see how I did at the end, and my instinct is to try to beat that score. I suck at that game, but I'm inclined to keep trying. I think I may get skinny after all.

today

2009-01-04T00:40:00.001-05:00

Today was a good day. I took a 2 hour walk. I ate good food. It was a good day.

I will call him Mini-Me

2009-01-02T21:35:00.004-05:00

This is Husband's favorite outfit for himself. When I can get a picture of both of them together, I will post it.

Hell Day, or in which I give the baby cake for breakfast, ketchup for lunch, and realize I'm not in college anymore

2009-01-01T19:42:00.008-05:00

For most of my life, we've spent Thanksgiving in a beach house on Hatteras Island. When I was in elementary school, and middle school, and high school going to Hatteras really sucked. I was never allowed to bring a friend, and the kids from the family we share the house with were all younger than me, and there was an eight year gap between me and the family's daughter. I spent many Thanksgivings bored and restless and resenting my parents for making me come on the stupid trip. College changed all that when I had the freedom to arrive when I chose and leave when I chose. I'd drive down for a night or two, eat my fill, and head home. When Husband started coming around, Thanksgiving improved quite a bit. Finally, I was allowed to have a friend at the beach with me! Finally, I had someone to hang out with and talk to. Since being at Thanksgiving didn't suck anymore, and since my mom started sponsoring spa day, and since the daughter from the other family and I are both adults (sort of), I stopped coming in just for a night or two. This year, I dragged it out as long as I could, getting in late on Tuesday night and leaving on Saturday morning when everyone else left.
I can't remember the last time I was around for the day after Thanksgiving. Apparently, each year, everyone drives for 45 minutes, rides a ferry for 45 minutes, and drives for another 30 minutes to an island that has even less life to it than Hatteras. Husband and I, while not feeling particularly social, didn't want to be rude, and there was the promise of going out to lunch, so we tagged along on this year's outing to Ocracoke Island.
We drove, with four grown people and one small person, in our Civic, until we got to the ferry. Mr. Independent wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy with me since I took his cake away from him earlier that morning. Husband wasn't happy, since he found out that I'd allowed Mr. Independent to eat "gake" for breakfast. I wasn't happy because if Husband didn't want Mr. Independent to eat cake for breakfast, then he could have dragged his butt out of bed at 7:15 like I did and given the child a proper breakfast rather than fussing at me about it.

Exhibit A: Mr. Independent licking the last remnants of cake off of his fingers.

The ferry kept Mr. Independent entertained for awhile, as did Goodnight, Moon (in the middle of the day).

Exhibit B: Me, reading a book, which is not Goodnight, Moon, while Mr. Independent wins the pacifier battle.

He was clearly tired, as evidenced by him getting up at 7:15 that morning, and eating an improper breakfast, but he would not sleep. He preferred fussing and playing the game where he wants to go to whoever is not currently holding him, but only for about a second and then he wants to go to whoever was just holding him. It's an awesome game, I promise.
His mood had deteriorated by the time we got to the restaurant, and he asked over and over and over again for milk. We promised to get him some milk, as well as a grilled cheese sandwich. The milk arrived, and Mr. Independent took a sip, got angry at it, swatted it like a kitten swats a string toy and squawked. We (okay, I) spent the time between when he got his milk and when our food arrived trying to keep Mr. Independent sitting in his high chair and prevent him from getting us kicked out of Howard's Pub. When the food finally did arrive, Mr. Independent glared at it. Then he glared at me, patiently and lovingly tearing his grilled cheese into toddler sized portions. Then he glared at it again, and swatted his plate. It barely stayed on the table. I decided to pour some ketchup onto his plate, thinking that maybe he wanted to dip his grilled cheese in ketchup. He eyed the ketchup, then took his index finger, dipped it in the ketchup and sucked his finger. He repeated with the rest of his fingers. No amount of coaxing could get him to eat anything other than ketchup for lunch that day, and finally, I gave up trying and requested that the Mom of the Year award be sent to me in tequila form.

Exhibit C: ketchup for lunch. I guess it's sort of a vegetable.

We finally left the restaurant, drove around the island, and Mr. Independent finally fell asleep in the car. I informed Husband on the way home that I needed wine, and requested that he stop at Food Lion so I could purchase some Arbor Mist. Usually I don't drink wine like that, but Arbor Mist, set in the freezer for several hours, turns into an Arbor Mist slurpee. It's something we did in college occasionally, and I felt nostalgic. I grabbed a large bottle of blackberry merlot and strawberry something, and we headed home.
Several hours later, the baby was in bed, the parents were in bed, and it was just us kids, but now in semi-grown up form. We had wine, shots of Jaeger, board games, a deck of cards, leftover pizza, and ramen noodles. It was great. I ended the evening in an eyepatch.

Exhibit D: Eyepatches

I didn't feel drunk. I'd tried to match my alcohol with water and food. I went to bed and slept soundly until 5 a.m. when I ran to the bathroom to puke my brains out. I eventually scraped myself off the bathroom floor and crawled into bed whimpering just loud enough to wake Husband.
Murmphsmurm? he asked.
No, I replied. I'm really sick.

Murmphsmuruhumphhup, he commiserated.
I wasn't satisfied with his response, so I did what any good wife would do in my situation. I poked him, repeatedly, until he rolled over, woke up, and started speaking English.
I'm really sick, I repeated. I don't know why. I didn't drink that much.
No, you didn't, he agreed.
I don't know why I'm sick. I feel horrible. I want to die.
You don't want to die, he said.
Yes, I do.
Husband fell back asleep. I didn't. I lay in bed for the next two hours praying that my internal organs would stay internal and that I'd be granted at least a little sleep before the five hour car ride home.
I thought about everything I'd eaten that day. I thought about all I drank. I thought about everything I'd done and watched on TV and read, and somewhere around 8 a.m., it hit me. Blackberry merlot. Merlot is red wine. Red wine makes me violently ill. I'd had blackberry merlot slushies with my husband and friends. Just because it was cheap didn't mean it wasn't still red wine. I woke Husband because I knew he'd want to know as well. I moaned to him what I'd just realized. He shrugged his shoulder, burrowed further under the covers, and mumbled, Why are you telling me this? I didn't know. Why do I ever tell him anything? I thought back to the last time I'd gotten sick off of wine. June 1, 2008. Husband's birthday. We'd gone to a fancy French restaurant. I anguished over the wine list desperately wanting a glass of red, but knowing that red makes me mean-and occasionally ill. I ordered the red anyway and found myself, at 2 a.m. with my head over the toilet praying that my puking would not wake the baby. I think I'm allergic to red wine, I announced to my mother and Husband the next day. As I explained several years of corretaional evidence, the nodded and humored me, and for once didn't tell me that my theory was stupid. I vowed to give it up and stick with white, which doesn't make me ill, and only makes me occasionally mean. And I did, until I forgot that cheap sorority girl red wine is still red wine and red wine makes me violently ill. Lesson learned.

Monster Butts!!!!

2009-01-01T19:17:00.005-05:00

Someone I know has an etsy shop and sells children's clothing and other accessories. One of my favorite items that she sells is called Monster Butts. Check out her etsy shop here. Here is Mr. Independent modeling his Chirstmas Monster Butt.

Climbing, unsupervised, onto his learning tower (aka cage).

Checking out what's in the fruit bowl (fruit, duh).

If I were a good mom, I'd get him down, rather than yelling at him to turn around and look at Mama.

New Year's Suckin' Eve, or Resolve, updated

2008-12-31T21:16:00.002-05:00

I'm home alone on New Year's Eve. The details of why aren't important, nor will I share the awesome events of the pity party I'm currently throwing for my self (guest list: me and a box of doughnuts), but since it is New Year's, I should share how I did in my resolution to read more books-this specific list, and since this blog is about me, me, and me, I'll also share my resolutions for 2009.
So a year ago I posted that I was going to read 20 specific books. I said I'd take the books in chunks of 20 and once I made it through one chunk, I'd post another chunk of 20. Well, I never made it through the first chunk. From my list of 20, I read six. Two of those six (Beloved and Wonder Boys) were read for my book club, a great way to make sure I read. In addition to the six books from my list, I read:
Playing for Pizza by John Grisham (also for Book Club)
Plantation by someone I forget-it sucked (also for Book Club)
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver
River of Doubt by an author I forget-Colleen something, I think. It was about Theodore Roosevelt, and I kind of have a crush on him now.
The Tale of Despereaux by Kate di Camillo, and I ended up teaching it.
Skakespeare: The World as Stage by Bill Bryson
The Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie, and These Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder-it's like comfort food for my brain and heart.
The Doll People by several authors, including Ann M. Martin
Bonk by Mary Roach
A textbook on the Enlightenment and one on European Romanticism
I truly believe there's more that I'm forgetting. I didn't hit every book on my list, but I'm pleased with what I've done. If I finish Gathering Blue tonight, then that'll be one more.

As far as 2009 goes, I've thought about the typical lose weight, be better with money, get closer to God. Those are all good resolutions, and I do hope those things will happen, but I think I work better in specifics. Since we're about 2 hours away from '09, I'll list 9 goals.
1. Pray through the devotional Leighann gave me every day.
2. Lose 35 pounds, and on the way to that, fit into my red dress again.
3. Complete the triathlon in August.
4. Limit eating out to once a week or less.
5. Read more, specifically more fiction. I'm naturally inclined towards non-fiction, so it's a challenge for me to pick up a novel or short stories. I recently discovered there's a place that lets you borrow books for two weeks at a time-for free-so that should help me to read more.
6. Keep my house cleaner, like clean to the point where we don't have to get ourselves into a frenzy if people are coming over.
7. Save enough money to buy a new, fun pair of shoes.
8. Continue to learn more about where my food comes from and make responsible food choices that support ethical practices and local businesses.
9. Write on my blog everyday, even if it's just a sentence to show gratitude for something.

I'll try to update my progress regularly. Happy New Year! A box of doughnuts is calling.

meaning, or thanks, church!

2008-12-23T22:05:00.005-05:00

This Advent, our church has promoted the idea of rejecting the commercialism of Christmas and embracing a simpler version of the holiday, one the focuses on Christ, spending less money, spending more time, and making Christmas more about being with others and doing for others rather than buying for others. I think the attitude is admirable and important, except that it gave Husband some ideas.
Do you think we should make each other presents? he asked on the way home from church a few Sundays ago.
Uh, I replied.
Well, it's something they talked about in church today. Making presents. So since we don't have money to get each other presents, we could just make something for each other, he explained.
My hesitation didn't stem from the idea of receiving a homemade present. I'm female, so I tend to like things that are homemade. I carried around a bag my sister made for me for a year until it broke from over use. I adore the quilt that Leighann and her mom made for Mr. Independent and each night when I tuck him in I ask, do you want me to cover you with your nice warm blanket, and he smiles and nods yes. So I don't mind receiving homemade gifts. I'm happy with pretty much any present I get. I'll be honest. I like presents. I'll be honest again. I felt kind of depressed when we realized that we didn't have the money to get each other presents. And then, my mom told us at dinner one night that my dad wanted to give us money to buy presents for each other, and I think we simultaneously realized that there's nothing we need. At that moment, I couldn't even think of anything tangible that I wanted. All of my wants were intangilbe: better control of finances, more fiscal responsibility, less stress about money, less stress about my job, the depression to go away, the ADD to get better or at least managable, for Mr. Independent to somehow manage to escape the depression and anxiety that has hit at least four generations of my family. And for whatever reason, despite these intangible and possibly unattainable wants, I felt contented at that moment when we explained to my mother that we'd really just prefer to not do presents with each other this year. I have a child who I adore to cliched degrees. He speaks and walks and does what average almost two year olds do. As yet his short, fat genes haven't kicked in. As yet, the depression and anxiety haven't kicked in. He's more interested in reading books than watching television (mee-mo being the exception). I have a husband who comes home every night and who I hope will continue to come home every night for the next 60+ years. He works hard at most of what he does, and he does it without complaining. I have a house-cold no matter the thermostat's setting, but it's more than a lot of people have. I am clearly well fed, and I have clothes to wear, access to books and cable television. I have a job and live in a city that I love. I belong to a church that actually challenges me. I have enough.
Husband and I went around in circles that Sunday in the car, discussing whether or not we should make each other gifts, and do homemade gifts really carry more meaning than store bought gifts. Case in point: I have spent hours making Husband cds over the years that he rarely, if ever listens to. I think he just hasn't liked the music I've put on them. But when I bought him the illustrated Elements of Style a few years ago, he brought it to his classroom for the rest of the year and even used it in some of his class activities. I'm not ready to write off store bought presents as meaningless, especially in our case. We never really made a decision.
But then, I started thinking of Husband not having anything to open on Christmas morning. I thought he probably wouldn't care, but I would feel sad not seeing him open anything from me. So I resolved to make something. I started mentally planning, working up the confidence to make something for someone who has stated over and over that he doesn't really like homemade gifts. Then I got mad at him. Not super mad, just a little annoyed, and decided that I didn't actually want to put effort into making him a gift that would seriously expose me-thoughts and feelings and the like-and that he'd probably hate. I resolved to NOT make him a gift and be content with seeing Mr. Independent rocking in the rocking chair that Santa will bring him. I'd be happy with the breakfast we'd cook together and the visit from family later that day. My mind was as contented as it gets, and I was self-satisfied and smug and a little spiteful thinking about how I wasn't going to have to spend hours laboring over a gift that exposed me (emotionally) that he'd have to fake gratitude for. That's where I was when he left for work yesterday afternoon. Hand on the door, he turned around and said, so, are we making each other presents or not?
If I hadn't given up swearing, I would have said the f-word then. But I have given it up, so instead I just said, I was going to make you something, but now I don't really feel like doing anything, so I'm not. Why, do you want to make each other presents?
It's up to you, came his infuriating reply.
No. I want it to be your decision.
Repeat as needed.
I'm not sure who finally decided that we'd make presents, but I spent three hours working on it last night, and so far another three this evening. I'm almost done, and I'm tired. The present has meaning, but I'm still worried that he'll hate it, then I'll hate myself for making it, for putting myself out there. I'm worried that he'll fake being happy, but he'll secretly wish I'd spent the $50 to buy MarioKart for Wii.
I know this is the sort of thing where I'm supposed to learn a lesson, something about the true meaning of Christmas and togetherness and love or other sappy sentiments, but I'm not sure I have. I know that I don't feel sad anymore when I look at the fireplace and see three empty stockings hanging, two of which will remain empty this year. I feel calm, and contented, and, I'll be honest, a little curious about what he's going to make for me.

my child's words-a pronounciation guide

2008-12-23T01:01:00.002-05:00

again-oh gay (formerly ga-ga)

clock-cock (awesome in public)

be loud- BE LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!

be quiet- see be loud

daddy-da-deeeeeeeeeeee

horse-neigh

cow-moo

cat-meow

dog-dowg

shoe-jew (also awesome in public, especially when yelling "uh-oh! jew!" I'm worried people are going to think I'm raising a bigot)

hot mama-ot mama!

siren-ooooooooooooooohhhhh! woooooooooooooooohhhhhhh!

bus-buh

truck-ruk

yes, please-yeah, plee

yes, ma'am-yeah, mah

yes, sir-yeah, srrr

bird-bur

light-dight

yellow light-yellow dight!

milk-mil

water-mil

fish-fiss, or meemo

a Christmas card

2008-12-23T00:58:00.003-05:00

ENJOY THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON!

This is the text of an email I sent out earlier this evening

Hello-
We're not doing Christmas cards this year. We didn't do them last year either, but the difference is that last year, we actually paid for and received our Christmas cards. Then we never got around to sending them. None of you are surprised, I'm sure, as you've all been victims of our incredible lack of follow-through. I guess I should stop using "we," as Christmasy things tend to fall into my responsibilities. So I thought I'd send them out this year, since I'd already paid for them. I even bought stamps, but when I went to write heartfelt notes on each of the year-old cards, I couldn't find them. Found the envelopes, knew where the stamps were, had a vague idea of where to get addresses, and I couldn't find the actual cards. So Husband told me to send the photo I would have used on the Christmas card attached to a Christmas email. He will be pleased to learn that I have, for the first time in our marriage, done as he's told me. So here it is. Try to imagine this picture with a greeting along the lines of "Hoping you're in the holiday spirit," or something inappropriate like that.
And as we're not really the types to do Christmas newsletters, I won't leave you with anecdotes about the wonderful things my child has done in the past year (if you're that curious, check out my occasionally updated blog at http://rockyorthething.blogspot.com/), but I will tell you that he has recently learned to say the word clock, only he can't quite get the l sound in there, and he's also recently learned to love being loud, so imagine him yelling clock (minus the l sound) over and over and over in some public place, like Target, or the library, and other moms covering their children's ears while glaring at me, and you've got a typical outing with me and Micah. I also won't take your time telling you all of our news from the past year, our acomplishments, obsticales we've overcome, trips we've taken, etc, because that's not really us either, nor is there really much to report. As far as I know, we are healthy. As far as I know we are happy. And we hope you are as well.
Happy Christmas and whatever other holidays you may be celebrating (or boycotting) this year.
Love,
Grace Ellen, Husband, and Mr. Independent

ellful

2008-12-13T18:11:00.002-05:00

Mr. Independent has become Mr. Helpful, in his own way. He loves reminding me how "ellful" he is. One of his favorite games is picking up his basket of Mega Blocks, dumping them out, and singing "neenup! neenup!" He brings in the mail and the newspaper and even tries to bring the rake off the porch and into the house. Trumping all of this, however, if the refrigerator. Mr. Independent loves little more than to help Mama unpack groceries. Which is why, if you ever come over to my house, you'll likely find some ramen noodles, empty gladwares, cans of black beans, and a grocery receipt in the crisper drawer.

a marital impasse

2008-12-06T23:10:00.003-05:00

This is what's in my mudroom right now...

And this is what Wikipedia says:
It should not be taken as an indication of docility, for under serious threat, an opossum will respond ferociously, hissing, screeching, and showing its teeth. But with enough stimulation, the opossum will enter a near coma, which can last up to four hours. It lies on its side, mouth and eyes open, tongue hanging out, emitting both a green fluid from its anus and an odor putrid to most predators.

And yet we're not calling animal control...
I ain't cleaning up any green anal fluid!

New

2008-11-01T15:45:00.001-05:00

New post on Fight the Fluffy.

Stupid babies need the most love, part 6

2008-10-11T22:56:00.006-05:00

What happens when he tries to dress himself...

Those are pants on his arms.

after apple picking

2008-10-11T22:25:00.002-05:00

I dragged Husband and Mr. Independent to Carter Mountain yesterday to pick apples and have family photo ops. We had a good time.

Picking a bah-boole.

He fell a lot.

Showing Dadada his apple

Running through the trees

That blur is my kiddo.

Mr. Independent in the pumpkin patch

The gentleman who took the photo snapped the picture and said, "There's your Christmas card right there!" I didn't have the heart to tell him about last year's card, which I swear I'll send out soon.

The most wonderful time of the year

2008-10-03T21:48:00.004-05:00

I love autumn. Not because the humidity finally starts to dissipate or because school gets back in session or because of football (ha!). I love autumn because I fell in love in autumn. I met Husband in the summer of 2003, but it was that fall that we really fell in love. As the leaves changed and the air started smelling cold up in New York, I started letting go of my reservations and inhibitions, and finally (as my friend Caroline put it), allowed myself to be emotionally available to someone else. It was in the autumn that I really became a girl for the first time.
I couldn't eat if I thought about him. I lost 10 pounds within the first 2 months of our relationship, and we lived six hours apart then. We stayed up way too late having many awkward, and a few not so awkward phone conversations. He sent me emails counting down the days until he could come visit me-October 2. My friend-who is no longer my friend-came over to my apartment before that first visit to straighten my hair. She walked in, took a paper bag from her backpack, and pulled out a bottle of Parrot Bay and a 2-liter of Coke. She looked at me and said You're going to need this. She fed me a rum and coke, made my hair look pretty, and sent me to meet another friend-who is still my friend, I hope-for dinner. She told me stories of her latest travels and watched me nervously pick apart a cheeseburger and drink three beers. She held my hair back as I vomited into a trashcan on 34th Street, not out of drunkenness, but due to nerves. I picked at my fingernails and paced around Penn Station, wondering if I looked okay, wondering if I smelled like beer and throw-up, wondering if he'd even recognize me or if I'd recognize him, and what would I say.
In autumn, I remember all of this. I can still feel the newness, the anticipation of when will he call me, when will he email me, when will we see each other again.
That autumn, five years ago, was the first time anyone had ever said the L word to me-and meant it. I knew very quickly, that I L-ed him, but I questioned whether or not I'd be able to say it back, if he ever said it to me. My friends-who I wish were still my friends-teased me about being in L with him. I claimed I wasn't sure if I was or not. They insisted I was.
In crispy autumn, I remember listening to Vienna Teng repeatedly finding meaning for us in all of her songs, especially "Eric's Song," especially in the line about "reasons for defying reason." There was no logical reason for us to get together, to stay together, but we did.
When the air tastes like October, I remember walking, hands clutching hands, down the streets of New York City to some restaurant or another where I would hardly be able to eat anything because my stomach just wouldn't settle itself. And I remember him telling me, two months into the relationship, that he wanted to marry me. The first time I came to see him, under the guise of seeing my relatives-who I no longer consider my family-I remember picking at a roasted half chicken and smashed potatoes at Bizou and mumbling, um, I guess so, when he asked if he could come to Hatteras Island with me for Thanksgiving. It was the best Thanksgiving of my life so far.
I walked around the City both alone, and occasionally with him, feeling grateful all the time. Things change in five years. The newness is gone, and I miss it. We have settled into our lives together, and I feel thankful for that. Sometimes I miss feeling like the most wonderful, amazing, exciting person on earth, but I think the trade off for losing the excitement of the new is getting to live together and be married and be a family. I am lucky to have someone to talk to before I fall asleep. We've changed, both of us, and I've gotten fat, and more insecure and anxious and have become less happy than I was five years ago, but I have ultimately gained so much more than I lost. In the last five years, I've lost several friends who I loved dearly, I've lost the place that I loved more than anywhere else in the world, I've lost much of what was lovely about myself. I think that's pretty normal as things change. I wouldn't trade any of it.
Every autumn, I remember how it felt; I can still feel exactly how it felt.

Us, five years later, and if anyone ever says anything to me about anything I have written here, I will stop being your friend. Seriously. I'm done being a girl now.

Somewhere north of here*

2008-10-03T20:35:00.006-05:00

*More self-indulgent moping below. You've been warned.

It's like what happens when you run into someone you have managed to forget exists: the widened eyes, the audible gasp, the blinked away tears and the abrupt pivot and near sprint to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible, praying that even though you saw them, they didn't see you.
Tonight, it was the Mr. Softee truck parked on the corner of Broad and Madison.
I'd been missing New York with the raw aching that always comes at this time of year. I pushed Mr. Independent's stroller through sparse crowds at the Second Street Festival and thought this is not San Gannero. And I just wanted to be there; I wanted it to be six years ago, with Debra and Sean and Marek, tasting meat on a stick for the first time, walking around taking photographs that disappeared when my laptop died, then heading for one of the six best margaritas in Manhattan, sharing pitchers and conversation for several hours.
The Second Street Festival sucking royally (too many smokers), Mr. Independent and I moseyed in and out of galleries on the First Fridays Artwalk. It wasn't an ideal outing for a stroller, but we made it work. I fed off the energy of the city, bought a bag that reminded me of the bag I carted around Europe for a summer, bought another bag that's a potential Christmas present for a niece, and stumbled into a gallery that had some very cool photographs of sights around town, and I bought two to hang in my living room. One is a picture of my favorite comfort food restaurant, and the other is of the restaurant where Husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. My living room is barren, and I wanted to support a local endeavor, spice up the decor, and show anyone who enters my living room that I heart my hometown.
I felt very smug and self-righteous, as if saying to myself I don't need New York. I love it here. This is where I want to be. This city is awesome as well. I walked out of the gallery, head held high, feeling not happy, but alive, at least. And, of course, it all changed two blocks later when I saw the truck. It really did knock the wind out of me because it wasn't something I expected to see, and it dredged the longing I carry around with me all the time, even at my happiest. It's a longing for the place, that city, that time.
The thing is, I love where I live. I love it deeply and often without any good reason. I feel wounded when someone insults it. I am proud of how bike-friendly and pedestrian friendly it is and how there's generally something interesting and kid-friendly going on. This is where I want to be. It really is. I don't think I'm just tricking myself. This is where I want to watch my kid grow up and where I want to settle into middle-aged monotony with Husband. We're slowly building ourselves social circles (I hope), and we are very happy here. I don't know I'd even choose to live in New York again, if given the option. I'm not sure it's the best place for Mr. Independent, and I am certain it is not the best place for Husband. But sometimes I wonder what might have been. I toy with where I'd be if my life had gone according to MY plan, and I'd stayed in New York after finishing graduate school. I idealize it because it's the unknown; the grass is always greener syndrome. In the movie Keeping the Faith, Ed Norton's character says something like People who live anywhere else, are, to a certain extent, kidding. Sometimes I feel that way about my life.
It feels like what I imagine getting over the break-up of a serious relationship would feel like (Husband is my first serious relationship, and I hope I don't ever lose that one). It hurts-a lot- at first, but then life continues, and the ache goes away except for occasional brief reminders: a glimpse of a passerby with the same hair color, a street sign that's a reminder of an inside joke, a first date restaurant. But those moments are rare, and while jarring, they pass, but not before once again, bringing up the what might have beens.
I've always wondered (worried) if the old cliche about never really getting over your first love is true. If it is, I'm screwed as a wife, and Richmond is screwed as my home.

Equality

2008-09-26T22:06:00.003-05:00

I think my curiosity beat out my insecurity, I told Husband as I tried to explain my plans for the evening.
But I don't have to attend anything? he clarified.
No, it doesn't involve you at all.
My high school reunion is tomorrow night. I'm not going. I thought about going and had a theory that after 10 years the cool kids (not me) were still going to be the cool kids, and the kids that didn't quite make the cut (me) were still not going to be the cool kids. I'm pretty socially inept; small talk isn't a strength of mine, so I thought best to skip it. I didn't think we'd all be on equal footing just yet.
But then, someone got a Facebook email chain suggesting a smaller get together, and my curiosity kicked in. Without discussing it with Husband, I found myself replying to the email chain. And then, I immediately started fretting. I am 20-30 pounds heavier than I was 10 years ago, and my fashion sense has regressed since then. I didn't know what I'd say to these people that I didn't know all that well back then anyway.
But I went, and it was fun. I rushed around trying to find the perfect pair of jeans to wear tonight, and ended up not having time to change into them. I went anyway, and I enjoyed myself.
I spent the evening with girls who were cooler than I was, who had boyfriends when I didn't, but it wasn't as hard as it was ten years ago. We hung out for about two hours, caught up and ate cake until babies and toddlers needed to go to bed. I am exhausted from trying to be social and funny, and I'd like to think that maybe I'll keep in touch with these girls more frequently than once every ten years and whatever Facebook updates are posted. I wonder how it would be with other people I used to know.
I kind of wish I was going tomorrow night, just to see. After ten years, we are more equal than I expected.

Hanna

2008-09-06T20:42:00.013-05:00

I woke to rain pounding outside. As I hate getting wet, I thought today would be a good day to introduce Mr. Independent to the joys of lounging around watching movies. An active almost 18 month old unfortunately has different ideas.

He wanted to go for a ride in his stroller. I'd brought it inside so it wouldn't blow off the porch in case of heavy winds, so he spend much of the morning climbing up the stroller then boldly teetering on parts that in no way could support a 25 lb child. Then he'd climb into the stroller's seat, look at me commandingly, and say "GO!"

I logged over 200 steps on the pedometer pushing him around the living room.

We built towers out of throw pillows, and he knocked them down. Then he decided to start screaming at me. Nothing I suggested would satisfy him, so eventually I decided that we were going to try to watch a movie anyway. I'm pretty against toddlers watching TV, but we'd already been on our own, cooped up in the house for 45 minutes, and I was getting desperate. I popped the DVD in and he shrieked and whined and screamed some more. I offered to let him cuddle on the couch with me. He wouldn't have any of it, until Sebastian the crab made an appearance. Mr. Independent ran up to the TV, pointed at Sebastian and shrieked, this time out of pleasure.
Sebastian bought us about ten minutes. Mr. Independent started screeching and demanding food. I made him a turkey sandwich, which he proceeded to throw on the floor. At that point, I decided it was naptime-for both of us. I tossed Mr. Independent in his crib, waited a few minutes to make sure he'd fallen asleep, and microwaved some lunch. By 12:15 I was in a leftover chicken taco induced coma, which lasted until 2.
When more screeching woke me at 2, the rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up. Mr. Independent and I were pretty tired of being in the house, as we are both people who enjoy leaving the house and Doing Stuff. So we left, but not before he shrieked at me again. We spent the afternoon at the children's museum, which was infested with grandparents who were supposed to be spending the weekend at the racetrack watching a NASCAR event that got rained out.

We stayed until nearly closing time. We ended up contributing about 75% of the toys that went into the basket marked "Toys that have been in a child's mouth." Awesome.

By the time we left the museum the wind had died down, and the sun was tentatively shining. We drove to a small shopping district and wandered in and out of stores for an hour, including one of the coolest toystores I've ever been in, and the store where I bought the shirt I wore on my first date with Husband. We also picked up some treats for my nieces at a very cool candy store we recently discovered.

We finished our day with a jaunt to PetSmart. Mr. Independent looked at the birds and said "bur!" over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Then we checked out the cats that were up for adoption, and Mr. Independent insisted that they were all actually dogs.

Mr. Independent and I then waited for Husband to get off of work so we could go eat dinner.

He passed the time sitting on a bench, basking in the attention of passersby.

no words

2008-09-05T20:57:00.011-05:00

blemish

2008-08-30T22:36:00.004-05:00

This time it came via ipod. Other times it comes on a billboard, a word or phrase screaming at me, or a certain color or a restaurant menu, but today it came through a song.
I can't listen to this song, I said. I'm really sorry. Leighann immediately moved on to the next song on the playlist. She asked no questions, and I loved her for that. The 1,539th reason she is my friend. Our conversation picked back up, and I was happy, occupied the rest of the 100 mile drive home from the beach and the dinner and visit with her parents.
Then Mr. Independent and I gave hugs, said our goodbyes, and drove away. The shaking started, heartbeat increased, and insides tumbled and rolled and warmed, no longer having the grace of distraction. The song that played briefly, hours ago, now replayed over and over and over and over and over and over in my brain cruelly reminding me that Someone Else was there before me. Someone Else was loved. Someone Else was wanted, desired. Someone Else was devastating. My heart contorted and squeezed until my face felt warm and my breath felt absent.
I managed the 35 minute drive home and managed to say prayers with Mr. Independent and managed a shower and answering emails that needed immediate attention and washing sandy clothes, but now-now that prayers have been said and clothes put in the washer and sand washed out of my salty hair, now I sit in my house nearly silent except for the washer and the fan and my newly created Vienna Teng station on Pandora and think: We've put this behind us. We've talked and talked about this. We have moved on. Things have gotten better. Except they haven't.
I know that five years, two wedding rings, and a child later it shouldn't hurt. Arguably it shouldn't have ever hurt. Things that happened in the past, Before Me, shouldn't affect the present or the future. But they do. And every now and then I'm reminded of that.
Soon he will unlock the door, and he will sit on the couch next to me and ask me about my day at the beach, and I will tell him. I will be tentative, as I always am when this comes up, and he will listen, as he always does, and not say much because he doesn't ever say much, and I will feel better, or at least I will say that I feel better. Then he will put after-sun on my pink back, and I will tell him how the drive didn't feel like any time at all and how Mr. Independent lay in the sand and said "night night" and how he squealed when the waves kissed the bottoms of his feet. Then I will fall into a restless sleep and distract myself, although not completely, not for awhile, but then I will forget, briefly, and life will continue. Until I'm reminded again.

A shore day

2008-08-30T22:30:00.004-05:00

fuck that

2008-08-29T21:35:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure if it was several second graders saying "shit" in class the other day or if it was Mr. Independent learning to say bird (bur!), but I've finally decided that Husband is right, and I need to stop swearing.
We were talking the other night-I was trying to describe exactly how angry a coworker had made me, but I couldn't get through it without dissolving into profanities, sort of like what happens when my parents are asked "Who is the current President?" At one point I used the word shitstorm.
Poopstorm, sweetie, say poopstorm, he corrected.
I gave him the finger. Mr. Independent laughed. But given his enjoyment of repetition, it's only a matter of time before he calls someone a cocksucker or motherfucker. While I'm sure it would be endearing-and hilarious-I guess I don't want my kid to be the kid who drops the f-bomb at daycare or in the middle of The Cheesecake Factory. I want to raise a polite, respectful child, and that starts with what I model to him.
So I'm done. Sadly. Swearing has been such a large part of my life since I was ten. I woke up one morning and for some unknown reason I decided to find out if something bad would actually happen if I said a bad word. Still safe under the covers, I whispered ass. When nothing happened, I whispered damn, and the other words followed soon after.
I have it better than what my mother went through with me. She told me recently that she knew she had to quit when I told my sister to stop her fucking crying because I'd had a really hard day. I was four.
So, I'm quitting. I am going to set a damn fine example for my boy.

Judgment, or growing a pair

2008-08-22T20:51:00.003-05:00

We had a speaker come and talk to us at work the other day. She gave a two hour talk about parenting and told lots of stories of her own upbringing and her own experience as a parent.
After she finished speaking, I went back up to my classroom, called Husband, and started sobbing. I was barely comprehensible. We. Had a. Speaker. Said. Something. Moms who. Ship. Kids off. To daycare. My baby. Said something after. Panic attack. Crazy lady. I cried harder. Husband, understandably, asked me to slow down, start over, and tell him why I was upset.
We had a speaker. She came to talk about parenting. She made a comment about moms who "ship their kids off to daycare." I said something to her after about her comment. But cause I don't do that, I came off as a crazy lady, shaking and not breathing and having a panic attack. I'm still having a panic attack. I. Just. Want. To. Stay. Home. With. Him. I started crying again. My occasional saint of a husband listened as I cried and rambled about how I feel judged because I have to take my kid to daycare, and how I know that it's the best thing for our family but it's so hard to know that he goes and Husband leaves him and he cries, and how even though I'd probably hate being a stay at home mom, I'd still choose to do it in a second if I could. {sidenote: I'm getting all riled up again, so I must go to the kitchen and bring back reinforcements (cookies)}
Am back with cookies.
As I listened to this speaker the other day, who was obviously well-educated and well read, I didn't want to buy into what she said because of her comment. Her comment was nothing more than an item in a list of why parenting is so much tougher these days than in generations past and why kids have so many more problems these days than in generations past. I don't know that anyone else in the audience even caught that remark. But I did, and it weighed on me throughout her talk. And the whole time, I debated whether or not I should say something to her. When she asked for feedback, I decided I should grow a pair and give some polite, respectful feedback about how deeply her comment cut me.
The thing is, I'm not assertive. I try very hard to be polite and agreeable and generally just nod and smile. But I thought of my sweet boy's wails on Monday morning, his first morning back at daycare, and I thought of how I'd give anything to be able to be a stay at home mom, and I thought of how deeply it stings me and other working mamas when someone refers to daycare as "someone else raising your child." I had to give feedback.
What I wanted to say was: Thank you for your talk. It was very informative, and I loved how openly you were able to share your family's stories. I felt, however, that your comment about moms who "ship their kids off to daycare" was a little unfair. I know it's hard when we see moms who hire nannies and go play tennis and get their nails done and don't take opportunities to spend time with their children, but sometimes parents take their kids to daycare because they don't have a choice. Thank you again for spending time with us.
What came out was a little different. Thank you for talking to us. [voice shaking and cracking] One of your comments stung me a little. [deep breath] [blink back tears] Not. Everyone. Who. Takes. Their. I'm sorry. I never. Say anything to. Anyone. Like. This. Child. To. Daycare does. [deep breath] I'm a. Little nervous. I'm sorry. Some of us. Take our kids. To daycare. Because we have to. [small sob (hey, it's what I do)]. I'm sorry.
She looked really shocked. I'm sure she's not used to crazy ladies coming up and criticizing her talks. She and I talked for a few minutes, and I tried very hard to impress on her that I am not actually a crazy, overly emotional lady, that I'm just a mama who misses her child terribly and feels like a crappy mom anyway and doesn't need parent educators making comments that appear to judge mamas who have to do the daycare thing.
She apologized profusely and said she should have been more sensitive, that she was nervous as this was her first time speaking on this particular topic, gave me a hug and appeared to listen open-mindedly as I told her my issues with that attitude and that I truly wasn't crazy, it's just that being assertive is very. Difficult. For. Me.
I wish I'd been able to say my piece without coming off as a crazy crying lady, and I wish I'd been able to call Husband proud of myself for standing up for all the mamas who would give anything to stay at home but can't because the money just isn't there, and the mamas who work because they know that they are better moms because they work-and I truly believe there are lots out there-rather than calling him sobbing because I "ship my kid off to daycare until 6 p.m." and worrying that everyone who looks at me judges me and finds me lacking and unfit and worrying that I hurt this poor speaker's feelings with my criticism.
I believe that the next time she gives this talk, she won't make a flippant remark about daycare. And I'd like to think that in time, I'll grow up, I'll grow a pair, and I'll be able to assert myself in a respectful manner without coming off as a crazy lady. Someday.

Please read

2008-08-22T19:45:00.002-05:00

First this post. Then this one.

I will not describe the emotions these posts caused in me, nor do I want to. I just want you to read.

Baby's night out, part deux

2008-08-15T21:33:00.018-05:00

There's nothing on TV.

I think I'll go out for awhile.

Perhaps I'll grab a bite.

I'll just have one or two.

MORE!

MORE!

I don't know how that got there. Or where my shirt went.

Um, I don't think a goat was there before.

You talking to me?

I said, ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?

Bring it on, bitch.

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I think I'm going to be sick.

Passed out, finally.

For Part 1, click here.

Fun with Picasa

2008-08-15T21:31:00.003-05:00

What my new camera can capture

2008-08-13T16:15:00.018-05:00

Standing

2008-08-11T07:41:00.003-05:00

Husband took me bowling yesterday. I hadn't bowled, other than on the Wii, since I went in grad school almost 5 years ago. Additionally, Husband never plans anything, never suggests doing anything that doesn't involve watching sporting events, television, or movies, so I was thrilled by his suggestion. We arrived at the bowling alley and were assigned to Lane 10. We paid for unlimited games, since Mr. Independent was having a sleepover with his Memere and Pop. Husband and I didn't take much notice of the people around us, and we started taking our turns hurling bowling balls down the aisle and occasionally knocking a pin or two down. A man from the next aisle approached us. Do you know about bowler's etiquette? he asked. We indicated our confusion. Bowler's etiquette, he repeated. Bowler's etiquette is not going at the same time as someone in the next lane. So you take turns. You take your first turn, then one of us takes our turn while you're waiting for your ball to come back. And then you go. So we'll take turns. We go, then you go. Husband and I were a little confused, and a little put off, but I told myself he was just letting us know the local customs, and I'd never want to offend the locals.
Husband and I bowled another frame or two, and we were again interrupted by the same person. You know, there are bumpers you can set up if you want, he suggested to me in a friendly, conversational tone. I guess he'd been watching me bowl between turns. I was shocked. And then-I don't know if it was the French Cosmo and glass of white wine I'd had with dinner or if something in my fairly mild-mannered personality snapped. I turned around and said, I don't really want any advice. It's my birthday, and I'm just trying to have fun.
What? It was his turn to register confusion.
I don't want any advice, I repeated. It's my birthday, and I haven't been bowling in five years. I just want to have fun. I don't want any advice, but I appreciate your kindness. Then I walked back to Husband who was completely mortified by me choosing this moment out of millions of other moments of unwanted, unsolicited advice in our five years together to stand up for myself. I apologized to Husband for embarrassing him, and we finished our first game and bowled another, although it was clear that neither of us were enjoying ourselves. It was probably clear when I said I want to go home. I just want to go home, after each turn.
I'm really not sure why I chose that moment to say something. After awhile I was able to think that maybe the a-hole was trying to be helpful, pass on the wisdom of a more experienced bowler to someone who was so obviously struggling. But I don't think that excuses his presumptive behavior. Usually by now, 12 hours later, I'd be weighted down with guilt and wondering how I could track this person down and apologize to him for my behavior. But this time I'm not sorry. I'm sorry he ruined part of a fun evening out-such a rarity for us, and I'm sorry that my behavior reflected poorly on Husband, but I'm not sorry for what I said.

Communication, or fun with yes and no questions

2008-08-06T20:39:00.003-05:00

Now that Mr. Independent can communicate his wants and needs, parenting has become easier. Sort of. He still uses his sign language, but now he's using it in conjunction with words. His words are:
1. ball (ba!)
2. dog (daaaw-awg!)
3. book (bouh!)
4. shoes (doos!, or joos!)
5. up (uh-uh!)
6. mama
7. dadada
8. no (nay!nay!)
9. boom boom (booboo!)
10. hi
11. bye
12. more (maaaawuh!)
13. all done (aw duh!)
14. baby (bay-bee!)
15. go
Dog is by far his favorite word. EVERYTHING is daaaw-awg!: squirrels, cats, dogs, horses, goats, cars, me. More is his second favorite word. He says more while making the sign for milk or eat. He's dropped the sign for more and says more whenever he wants to eat or drink anything. When I get him out of his crib each morning, he doesn't say hi, he doesn't say mama; he greets me with a "MAAAAWUH!" that becomes more and more shrill the longer I take to get him his more. He also appears to believe that he can do things he's not allowed to do by doing them and saying "nay!nay!" while doing them. This is what he does when he tries to open cabinets, put his fingers in electrical outlets, or go to the forbidden BEHIND THE TV. He'll wander over, nonchalantly, occasionally glancing to see if I'm paying attention, wedge himself in between the wall, the TV stand, and the DVD shelf, look at me and say "nay!nay!" as he pulls wires out of the television, Wii, or DVD player.
In addition to saying words, Mr. Independent has learned to shake his head for no or nod for yes. When he shakes his head, he turns his head back and forth, rapidly with a look of fierce concentration on his face. When he nods for yes, he has that same intense look of concentration, and the top half of his body jerks back and forth. Since we've noticed these abilities, we've had some fun with Mr. Independent.
Me: Mr. I, do you love your dadada?
Mr. I: jerks body or shakes head fiercely, depending on the day, time of day, or what Husband has recently told him he can't do.
Me: Do you love your mama?
Mr. I: jerks body
Me: Do you love your Memere?
Mr. I: jerks body violently and smiles really big
Me: Do you want to go to sleep?
Mr. I: shakes head with a look of terror on his face
Me: Are you sure you don't need to go to bed? You seem pretty cranky.
Mr. I: shakes head with an angry look on his face. Shrieks.
Me: Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?
Mr. I: jerks body while shrieking MAAAAAW!
Me: Do you want your vibrator?
Mr. I: jerks body and points to some indiscernible spot where he thinks the vibrator is.
We're going to visit my in-laws tomorrow, and when we go on car trips, I like to spend some time prepping Mr. Independent for the journey. The first time, our conversation was as follows:
Me: Do you want to see Grandma tomorrow?
Mr. I: jerks body
Me: Do you want to see Grandpa tomorrow?
Mr. I: jerks body
Me: Do you want to see Aunt Jen tomorrow?
Mr. I: jerks body
Me: Do you want to see your seven-year old cousin?
Mr. I: jerks body
Me: Do you want to see Uncle P.? (sidenote: Mr. Independent has an inexplicable adverse reaction to Uncle P. every time he sees him)
Mr. I: jerks body, twice, stops, hesitates, then shakes head violently
Me: Um, okay.
The next time we talked about our upcoming trip, the conversation was a little different.
Me: Do you want to visit Grandma tomorrow?
Mr. I: shakes head
Me: Do you want to see Grandpa tomorrow?
Mr. I: shakes head
Me: Do you want to see Aunt Jen tomorrow?
Mr. I: hesitates, then shakes head
Me: Do you want to see Seven Year Old Cousin?
Mr. I: jerks body
Me: Do you want to see Uncle P.?
Mr. I: shakes head violently
Me: Do you want to see Mama tomorrow?
Mr. I: shakes head violently
Me: Um, okay, so just to clarify, you only want to see Seven Year Old Cousin tomorrow.
Mr. I: jerks body and smiles
Sometimes I like to ask him questions that will be very mean in just a few months.
Me: Do you want a dog to come live at your house with you?
Mr. I: jerks body violently and says "daaaw-awg!"
Me: Um okay, well, that ain't happening. Do you want a baby to come live at your house with you?
Mr. I: jerks body and gets a look of hopefulness on his face
Me: Okay, well, good luck with that one. Do you want a monster to come live at your house with you?
Mr. Independent's answers have evolved on this one. He initially indicated yes, then indicated confusion, and now consistently answers no.

Me: Okay, Sweet Boy, one last question. Who is talking to you right now?
Mr. I: DAAAAW-AG!

14 things that have gone wrong lately

2008-08-05T21:03:00.007-05:00

Disclaimer: I know this post is mopey. I know it's selfish and unattractive. I'm attempting to make myself feel better.

1. My hard drive on my beloved red laptop died.
2. Said hard drive is likely beyond repair.
3. Said hard drive contained important photographs, papers, documents, playlists.
4. I broke my river shoes while in the river. Have no money to replace river shoes.
5. Due to lack of river shoes, I sliced the bottom of my foot on a rock or shell.
That was on Sunday. It still hurts today, and it's a really tiny cut.
6. I have obnoxious shower doors that Husband is irrationally attached to. They are
disgusting. Spent 30 minutes scrubbing them with no discernible change.
7. I am returning to work on August 18.
8. My attempts to prepare to return to work were thwarted, twice, today.
9. My nose piercing looks like a zit, and my hair is awful.
10. Husband was in a bad mood today.
11. I had car trouble yesterday, and I couldn't get in touch with Husband. I ended up
cutting a piece of my car off in 95 degree weather with second grade scissors
while Mr. Independent screamed in the back seat.
12. Returned home from the river to find mold growing on Mr. Independent's ceiling.
Again.
13. I am turning 28 on Sunday.
14. There is a chance that I will have to spend some time this weekend with some
family members I like to pretend don't exist. They hurt me pretty deeply, but my
parents have asked me not to make waves and stay silent on the issue.

So I'm sitting here throwing myself a huge pity party. I've been walking around all mopey-like for the last couple of days or lying curled on the couch, the bed, or the floor in the fetal position telling myself that these things are not such a big deal. They will work themselves out, and at the end of the day, my family's healthy, we have food and a roof over our heads and can't I just be grateful for that. I tend to fall apart and/or flip out when things go wrong. I have a really hard time handling kinks in plans and setbacks. But I didn't lose it this time. I've just been a bit zombielike, unresponsive, mopey, not answering the phone, even though I know that hearing about someone else's life would undoubtedly make me feel better and less like a crappy friend (sorry, Leighann). Then I drove to Target.
The song "Back on the Chain Gang" came on the radio, and I started sobbing when I heard the line "Those were the happiest days of my life," and I realized exactly how upset I am over losing my hard drive, and everything else that is going awry these days just compounds it.
My hard drive had (has?) all of my photographs from Europe, graduate school, and when Husband and I were dating, not to mention all of my pictures of Mr. Independent. Initially I was upset about losing the pictures of Mr. Independent, but I realized tonight, in my car, that I'm ultimately upset about losing those pictures from Europe and graduate school, losing my thesis, losing the IMs (remember AIM?) that Husband and I exchanged during the early days of our relationship. While I understand that they are just things, they hold more meaning than that for me. Those things are a composite of the happiest point in my life so far, a part of my life that I long for every single day with a longing deeper than anything I've ever in my life experienced. It's not like I dwell on New York or graduate school, but I miss it. I miss the people that were in my life, temporarily, and that are gone from my life forever. I miss the excitement of the city, the simple blessing of being in school, full-time, the newness of my relationship with Husband. Those things that were on my hard drive represent a different time in my life, one where I was happier, more hopeful, and where I had so much potential and possibility abounded. Those things represent a freedom I no longer have because I have a child, a husband, a mortgage, and a job. I'm not ungrateful for that, but in choosing that particular path, I gave up the life I had and the freedoms I had. I rarely looked at the pictures or the IMs, but I knew they were there if I wanted them. It's almost like they were proof that this other me existed-the one who was optimistic with disposable income, friends, and freedom. Now that they're gone, I don't have anything other than fuzzy memories to remind me that I was fully happy once, therefore I can be fully happy again. Someday.
And so I cried, hard, on the way to Target. I pulled myself together because I certainly was not going to be the girl who cries in her car in the parking lot. Then I came home and realized what it was that I wanted, what would make me feel better.
I wanted my husband. I wanted him to turn off the TV (thus indicating that I am, in fact, more important than the World Series of Poker) and say, Let's go to Bruster's. Or give me a hug with the TV off, or earlier this afternoon take Mr. Independent and go to the fundamentalist grocery store or the neighborhood flower shop and buy me red roses or pink roses. No one's ever bought me roses before. I wanted him to tell me he'd take the shower doors off tomorrow and why don't I go and buy a shower curtain and while I'm at it a landline so that I have a better chance of getting in touch with him should I have an emergency again. I wanted all of that without having to say all of that. I wanted him to understand, to just know.
But I know that he doesn't understand; he doesn't just know, and I believe that the understanding, the just knowing, doesn't actually exist. So I retreated to my purple bedroom, lay on the bed, and quietly cried alone.
Soon, I will emerge from my purple bedroom, hand the computer over to Husband, and go take a shower as hot as I can tolerate, and when I am done, it will be nearly midnight, almost a new day with new possibilities and new opportunities to be better, to remedy what's gone wrong lately, and it will be time for my pity party to be over and time for my sucking it up to begin. I am sure everything will be okay, but right now, very little is okay, and for my own sanity, I have to acknowledge that.

PSA

2008-08-04T16:36:00.002-05:00

My Public Service Announcement for the day:
Go back up whatever is on your hard drive. Do it now, please. Thank you.

Why the baby was in the tattoo parlor, or no, it's actually not a zit on my nose

2008-07-26T20:57:00.002-05:00

In retrospect, red was a poor choice on my part.

Conflicting satires, or judge not

2008-07-22T20:48:00.007-05:00

Disclaimers: This might not be interesting to those of you without children. Or those of you with children. And it won't make much sense without reading the links.

A few days ago, a friend sent me here. Go ahead and read it. And read the follow-up. I'll wait. To be honest, I thought it was pretty funny. I didn't get the impression that she actually hates her kids. Maybe I'm too naive, but I don't think someone who truly hated their child would go around advertising it. I think she was trying to make a point that being a mom is tough. Sometimes moms want to quit, and sometimes we might wish, just for a bit, that we didn't have to attend to someone else's needs every second of every day. And to be honest, some of my reasons for not having another child-ever-are similar to this list. I'm tired of doing laundry all the time, of seeing a basket of Legos I just picked up dumped out, again, of apologizing to waiters, waitresses, and other restaurant patrons as my child hurls his vibrator across the restaurant, again. Each time we pass through a developmental stage, I feel relieved. I love my sweet boy dearly; I think he's the most wonderful child in the world, but I also know I'm selfish. I pour so much of myself into my child (who I know adores me, most of the time), and I still feel like I come up short compared to other moms.

Then, today, I read this blog for the first time. Go ahead. I'll wait again. I read the top post ("Child Empowerment") and found myself thinking of other parents and smiling a little. Then I read some of the other posts, particularly the ones about baby wearing, online parenting forums (a godsend for me), and baby sign language. The satire wasn't quite so funny this time, probably because I am guilty (for lack of a better word) of many of the actions and sentiments this blog was targeting. (Or maybe it just wasn't funny. Husband says it's poor satire)

Both the article and the blog intend to be funny and satirical, but maybe they're ultimately just judgmental or defensive or something. I don't know. But it got me thinking about something I've been thinking about a lot lately-how easily we judge parents and their parenting techniques. Recently I've been pondering two things: first, while I started out being very open and honest and using this little blog as a way of processing my thoughts, I've come to deeply censor what I put on here; secondly, it's made me really evaluate my own thinking and speaking. I'm really quick to criticize other people, to the point where I often don't even realize I'm gossiping, but lately I've started thinking about what if what I said were to get back to them? Would I say the same thing to their face, or is what I'm thinking something I'd only say to Husband/Mr. Independent/my mother/Caroline and Leighann? If it is something I wouldn't say to their face, then should it even be said (the answer to that, in my opinion, is a resounding no way, Jose)? How would I feel if someone said this about me (the answer to this one is: I'd feel truly terrible. I would be crushed if people were to discuss my parenting behind my back)?
It's really easy to judge other parents, especially in the guise of exploring and examining my own parenting philosophies and what I will or will not do. I can come home and tell Husband about something I observed at Target and say, well, at least my kid doesn't chew gum at sixteen months, but who's to say that parent isn't going home and saying well, at least my kid doesn't stand up in the shopping cart and screech. I say things about other parents and feel like a better parent, like a better person, and then I remember, there are people out there who disagree with many of my parenting decisions, for example, diners who just wanted to eat their fucking dinner in peace and why couldn't that mother control her damn child and make him shut the hell up.
My guess is that most, if not all parents, just want to give their child the best possible life, though they way they choose to do it varies greatly. At the end of the day, parenting is hard. For all the grace and mercy we receive as parents, it is a difficult job. Is it really anyone else's business how we choose to do that job?

The no-car experiment: days 1 and 2

2008-07-17T21:35:00.002-05:00

I am exhausted. I smell bad. It takes a minimum of 90 minutes to grocery shop.

Continuing to bitch, but doing something about it

2008-07-15T23:39:00.003-05:00

Disclaimer: I recognize that we're all saturated with discussion (bitching and moaning) about gas prices, where the blame lies, and what to do about them. I'm adding to it anyway.

I remember talking to Leighann on the phone almost three years ago, right after Hurricane Katrina, and fretting over having just paid $30 to fill up my Civic. I fretted to Leighann because I'd already called Husband, and he wasn't sufficiently outraged. She was. I felt outraged by the cost of fuel, especially as I commuted 120 miles a day to work, but I adopted Husband's what are you going to do about it attitude. They-the void that held responsibility for the gas prices-had us by the balls, and the realities of our lives prevented us from doing anything about it or even caring to do anything about it other than bitch.
Now, almost three years later, I've unexpectedly found myself in a position where I'm outraged enough and physically able to do something about gas in my own little way.
I started riding my bike to class because I felt a little panickier each time I filled up my Civic and watched the numbers slowly tick towards, then past $40. $40! It's a fucking Civic! $40! I knew it wouldn't be much, but I figured it would be something.
I found I enjoyed biking and soon started nagging Husband until he finally begrudgingly agreed to let me purchase a baby seat for my bike.
Mr. Independent and I have been getting used to doing our normal activities on bike rather than by car. If I get just what I need for that evening's dinner, I can sort of fit everything into my basket. We can bike to a couple of playgrounds, play until he starts throwing mulch, and ride home while he kicks and screams and gives off the general impression to strangers that I am, in fact, torturing him. I (and I think he) know that I will inevitably forget to strap his feet in on the ride home, and we will spend the return trip fighting over which has more right to the seat, his feet or my ass. We biked to the library and Five Guys and the farmers market. Since it's summer, I can spare 2 hours to bike to the grocery store for a half gallon of milk.
And once I proved to myself that I can realistically get around town on my bike, I started working on Husband. I proposed that we pick a week and go as car free as possible. He could make an exception for work, because he works at a bookstore and understandably doesn't want to be a sweat monster in front of customers, but other than that, we needed to either do without or figure out a way of getting there without using our cars.
Our week starts tomorrow. I hope that this experience will cause us to actually be active and creative, but I fear that we'll just become shut-ins for a week, ordering all our meals from Papa John's. I don't have any predictions, other than I predict that our house will kind of smell like a gym for a week. I'll try to do a day-by-day update, and feel free to check in and hold me accountable. I really want to make this work.

Five

2008-07-15T21:24:00.002-05:00

July and August are really important months to me. They are the months that I met and fell in love with my husband. Five days ago, July 10, was the five year anniversary of the day I met my husband, or as I like to refer to it: the day I just wanted him to shut the fuck up and stop talking to me so I could listen to my ipod and read my People magazine. Coincidentally, July 10 is also the anniversary of the day I found out I was knocked up.
Today marks another five year anniversary: five years of blogging for me. I think only two or three people know that I blogged long before this. I know I haven't blogged continually for five years, but it was five years ago today that I first ventured onto the bloggy scene. I did it because my friend Kara had visited me and shown me her blog. I loved her blog, and at the time I was certain that I was being called to write, so I signed up myself. It's odd-kind of unsettling-to go back and look at what I wrote as a hopeful almost 23 year old graduate student living in the Bronx. I was so certain then.

Pickin'

2008-07-13T21:18:00.010-05:00

Last weekend I decided to take Mr. Independent berry picking. In retrospect I was stupid to think that it would be a good idea to do this alone, but as I was angry with my entire family, and Husband had some chores to do for my parents, I had to fly solo.
We drove 40 minutes to the Westmoreland Berry Farm and bought our buckets.

We saw goats while we waited for the tractor to come take us to the fields. Despite me explaining to him several times that the animals he kept trying to run to were goats, Mr. Independent insisted that they were "daaaaaw." Each time I corrected him he got louder until he yelled "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWW!" so loudly that judgmental strangers with well-behaved children shot me judgmental looks that said I'd never allow my child to yell like that, but of course, I am a good parent, and she's obviously not.

We rode on the tractor to the fields.

This is us on the tractor. Again, it probably would have been better to have another adult there.

We had the option of picking cherries and blackberries, but we opted for just the blackberries. Some strangers let us sample some of their cherries, and of course, Mr. Independent demanded more. It would have been hypocritical of me to explain the don't take candy from strangers rule just then.

We got to the blackberry fields and got to work.

It was tough trying to corral a 15 month old and pick three buckets o'blackberries, so we gave up and headed home after one bucket full.

On the way home, one of us fell asleep, and one of us listened to Caedmon's Call and got us lost.

In my defense, the directions were wrong.

Mr. Independent's haul

My haul

Husband and I enjoyed a delicious blackberry cobbler that evening.

Gone churchin', or I heart this city

2008-07-12T22:42:00.000-05:00

Husband, Toddler, and I did something completely out of character a couple weeks ago. We went to a church picnic. Going to a church picnic would be out of character for us even if we were active, involved members of an established church, as we tend to be nervous in situations where we don't know anyone. We're not so much church picnic type people; we're more cookouts in our own backyard or game night in our living room type of people. So attending a picnic where we literally knew no one, for a church that hasn't actually been established was a little odd for us.
I read about the picnic on a local mom's online forum, and I checked out the church's website. There wasn't anything on the website that seemed to indicate that attendees should bring their own snakes, so I told Husband that Toddler and I would be going. In a moment of I don't know what-stupidity? kindness? mega-brain fart?-Husband said, "Do you want me to go with you? I'll go with you if you want." Now, Husband tends to be very supportive of my crazy schemes-after mocking them and convincing me to give up on them-then he becomes supportive-so I immediately accepted his offer. I didn't even do that thing that I do where I muddle over it and say things like, Well, if you want to, or You really don't have to, or No, we'll be fine, you just do what you want to do.
We arrived at the park, and I for one, had a vomit-inducing knot in my stomach. We sat in the parking lot debating turning the car around, going home, and having a quiet afternoon in which we'd take turns trying to get the baby to sleep. I'm not sure what kept me from telling Husband to back out of the parking space and drive home as fast as he could. I got out of the car, slapped sunscreen on Toddler and clung to Husband's hand.
We made awkward small talk with new people for about 90 minutes, while we ate cookout food including some of the most amazing spoonbread I'd ever tasted in my life, and I tried to keep my child from terrorizing other small children. Sidenote: he really really really really really really really likes to share, but he also really really really really really really really really likes to take things that other people are currently using or eating.
Husband and I were basically just waiting for the talk where we'd learn more about the church and its mission. Eventually the prospective pastor began his talk*:
I've always felt called to start a church. And we thought about a lot of different cities. We looked at some really cool cities, cities that are kind of sexy, attractive. And then there's our city. And all I can really say is that in comparison, well, our city's got a great personality. We've got great restaurants, mediocre public transportation, in the summer it feels like we're living inside a dog's mouth, and then there's the crime and crippling poverty.
You walk around and see people wearing those shirts that say "I Heart New York." And it's true. Everyone hearts NY. It's easy to heart NY. What we want is people who heart this city as much as other people heart NY. That's what we want our church to do. We want to really reach out and love this city. We believe that this church can really impact this city for the better.
The pastor's words really resounded with me. This, I thought, is what I've been feeling. This is what I've been trying to express all these months. These are sentiments I can get behind.
I sort of felt like a failure when we moved back to my hometown. I was supposed to go out and travel the world and live in fabulous cities, and there was no room in this for a husband, a child, or a house, and there was definitely no room for coming back home. But I did. And I fell passionately in love with my hometown in a way that shocked me and in a way that I could not articulate. I have no friends here. We're not living in one of the more urban areas of the city. I got yelled at my a crazy man while on my bike this afternoon. People use the sidewalks as their own personal rubbish bins, and I'm constantly dodging shit and broken glass when I bike or run or go on walks. I heart this city for reasons I cannot comprehend, and I am excited that there are people out there who feel the same way.

*paraphrased a few weeks after the fact

Time

2008-07-12T21:32:00.007-05:00

I picked up Mr. Independent (yeah, we're changing his name again)from a visit with Aunt Jen last week, and found my sweet boy's hair in ponytails.
Husband and I decided it was time. We spent the next several days arguing over who would do the deed. I first advocated taking him somewhere, then advocated having someone we know do it, then advocated taking him somewhere that another mom said had done a good job with her kid, and finally succumbed to the lowest common denominator and suggested taking him to Hair Cuttery (I imagine a shudder from anyone who reads this). The whole time, Husband insisted that he could do it himself. Doubting his skill as a barber, I secretly emailed the other mom to get the scoop on her barber.
Then, I stepped out of the shower on Tuesday afternoon. Husband walked over to me and told me to hold out my hand. I obliged, and he shoved a wad of Mr. Independent's hair into my palm. I screamed, and they laughed.
I thought you wanted me to do it, Husband insisted. I was trying to do something nice for you. I was just trying to give you a nice surprise.
Uh...you know how I feel about surprises, I replied.
It would be a lot easier if he'd just stand still, Husband complained. We put Mr. Independent into his chair and strapped him down. I grabbed the camera, and Husband got to work.

It took some getting used to, and Husband insisted that I could take it somewhere to get it fixed, but I'm going to leave it. He's 15 months old, not running for best hair of the year.

Why, yes, I did take my child to a tattoo parlor last night

2008-07-12T20:16:00.002-05:00

'Nuff said.

The Verdict

2008-07-01T11:08:00.002-05:00

To bike or not to bike...

2008-06-27T10:52:00.002-05:00

I posed a similar question on a local moms message board that I belong to. Here's the more expanded version of what I wrote there:

There has been an ongoing discussion in my house for about a month. My husband and I are currently banging our heads against the wall over this issue. Every few days, I'll come to Husband with a serious, focused expression on my face and say, urgently, I really need to talk to you. His voice will adopt a concerned tone, and he'll ask what's wrong, and what it is that I need to talk to him about, and I tell him and the concern disappears and gets replaced with annoyance. It's about the whole bike thing again.
We are trying to decide if a) we should get something for our bikes so we can ride with Toddler (I guess I can't call him Baby anymore, so we'll officially change it to Toddler on here), and b) if we were to get something, should we get a trailer or a baby seat.
I've been to several bike stores and talked to several helpful employees, as well as one bike store where NOBODY talked to me until I was on my way out the door, despite me being in there for 10 minutes and hanging around the baby seat with the most dumbfounded expression I could muster and I've had mixed responses to the question: What is least likely to kill my child? Some bike store employees have said they'd feel more comfortable with a trailer; some have advocated the baby seat.
If I were to make a practical list, the trailer wins out because:
1. Micah could read his books or have his cup with him on the ride
2. It's lower to the ground, so he wouldn't fall far in the event of a crash
3. Many trailers turn into strollers, which would be practical for things like biking to local museums or parks or farmers markets
4. Many trailers have some sort of storage space
5. Trailers can seat 2 children
Despite all those pros, instinctively (having never tried either), I am more comfortable with the seat. Having biked to class the first week, I noticed that I did a lot of maneuvering on and off of the sidewalk, and I think that would be lost with a trailer. And I think maneuverability will be key when riding in the city, which is what we would be doing. The sidewalks on many parts of A Very Busy Street don't seem like they'd be able to accommodate a trailer, and I don't think I'd be comfortable riding on the road on A Very Busy Street. From my neighborhood I'd have to be on A Very Busy Street for some amount of time. Plus, each day we become more and more sure we're done having kids, so there's not really a need to transport multiple children.
So despite these concerns, we're still having a discussion as to whether or not we should get something. The pros are:
1. We could ride to the grocery store, library, farmer's markets, museums, parks, rather than drive
2. Exercise
3. We'd be modeling to Toddler in some small way that we don't need to be completely dependent on cars. I think that if we start showing him now, rather than when he's 8 that there are alternatives, it might end up being the norm for him.
4. He'd probably enjoy it (Husband interjects: He'd probably enjoy playing with knives as well, but we're sure as hell not going to let him play with knives.)
5. My mother is an avid biker and baby seats and trailers are designed to easily go from one bike to another, so it's something she could do with him as well
The cons are:
1. He could die
2. He could be horribly injured
Neither of us wants to be responsible for the death or injury of our child, especially one that we could have prevented. And the death or horrible permanent injury of my child is certainly a catalyst for my crippling anxiety and a good argument for prudence. But, I also don't want to live my life in fear that something I do could possibly be terrible for my child. If you break it down like that, there are so many reasons not to do anything, a gazillion reasons to stay indoors every day. I spent too many years living like that, and I'm working very hard to stop. It's certainly not the life I want to live or model for my kid.
I have found the following websites http://www.whycycle.co.uk/cycling_with_children/baby_carrying_seats/
http://www.ibike.org/education/infant.htm
that address some of my concerns, but we're still not convinced either way. We're not risk takers over here, so doing something like putting Toddler on a bike would be a huge step for us.
This is the sort of thing were prayer and logic elude me. Should we give up the idea because we can't come to a consensus, or should we be persistent? Do the cons win, or are the pros worth risking?

Best Birth Control Ever

2008-06-20T22:55:00.001-05:00

Gems

2008-06-20T22:12:00.009-05:00

My mother pays me $15/hour to scan photos. Our home warranty payment is due in a couple of weeks, so I'm working through the 1991-1994 box.

Christmas, 1991, when my mother accidentally got me Christian mystery novels.

Christmas, 1993

My 13th birthday

Thanksgiving, 1993

Me, before the 8th Grade Dance

My Goth Sister

June, so far

2008-06-20T20:30:00.009-05:00

Truth, or stupid babies need the most love, part 5

2008-06-20T19:44:00.003-05:00

My kid has words now. He says ball, down, done, dog, and today he said beep after Husband said it first. Though his spoken vocabulary is somewhat limited, he will not shut up.
Ball was his first word, but dog is by far his favorite. He doesn't pronounce dog the way most people would. Instead he draws out the word and mangles sounds a bit so that it comes out sounding like daw-aug.
He says it when he hears a dog, sees a dog, sees a house where a dog lives, sees a neighbor who happens to own a dog or two or sees any other type of animal or mode of transportation. A typical day goes something like this:
Hears a dog bark at breakfast: daw-aug!
Me: Yes, Baby, that's a dog barking.
Reading The Very Busy Spider, the page with the dog: daw-aug!
Reading The Very Busy Spider, the page with any other animal: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby. That's a spider-sheep-goat-cow-horse-rooster-cat-owl.
Getting into the car and seeing the neighbor's cat: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby. That's a cat.
Going on a walk and seeing a squirrel or bird: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby. That's a squirrel. And that's a bird.
Pointing at the animals on his sheets: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby. That's an elephant. No, Baby, that's a monkey. No, Baby, that's a giraffe.
Pointing at the animals on his wall: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby. That's a zebra. No, Baby. That's an elephant. No, Baby, that's a whale.
Playing with his Ark: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby. That's Noah. No, Baby, that's Mrs. Noah.
Climbing on the unused stroller: daw-aug!
Me: No, Baby, that's a stroller.
And so on.
The other day Husband and I had an almost tense discussion about my conversations with Baby.
I think you're being too hard on him, he chastised.
But if I don't tell him the right words, how will he know? I argued.
Sweetie. He sighed. He's a baby. He sighed again. He'll get there.
But I don't want him using the wrong vocabulary. I don't see any harm in correcting him.
Okay, he said, in that way that people say okay when they know their position is the correct one but they say okay so the other party will stop talking and let them go back to watching soccer undisturbed.
Leighann agrees with Husband on this one. Eh, she said. Dog, cat, four legs, tail, who cares? I pictured her shrugging and taking another sip of wine.
I'm not correcting him because I have a paranoia that him not correctly identifying a cat from a dog or a knife from a dog at 15 months will keep him out of Harvard. I correct him in order to instruct and converse with him, and I always tell him when he's right.
But it does get old sometimes. Sometimes, he'll point to a squirrel for the 80th time on our stroll to the playground, say daw-aug!, and I'll find myself sighing and saying, yes, Baby. That's a dog.

more. eat. please.

2008-06-20T19:11:00.004-05:00

About a month ago language exploded in my household. We've been working on signs with him since he was about five months, and he's consistently produced more, milk, done, and eat. We've had less success with please, thank you, bath, ball, book, sleep, mama, and dad. On a Tuesday night at a Mexican restaurant, something connected. Around 7:30 p.m., he asked for more. I asked him if he could say please, showing him the sign again. He enthusiastically started rubbing his open palm on his chest in a circle. My mother and I got very excited, as he'd never, ever done that before. We clapped enthusiastically and gave him more and thanked him for his politeness.
A few minutes later, he cocked his head to the left and rested it on his palm. "Do you think he's trying to tell us he wants to go to sleep?" I asked.
"Well, he does look tired," my mother commented.
"Baby, do you want to go to sleep?" I asked, making the sign. He rested his head on his palm.
"Okay, well, you can't do that now. We're eating dinner. Plus you have to go home and take your bath." I made circles with my fists over my chest. He smiled, and his fists vigorously circled his chest.
The next day, he asked for more at dinner. "Can you say please?" I asked and made the sign.
He replied: More. Eat. Please.
His language skills aren't limited to signs now. He can also shake his head no and point to things in response to questions. For example, Husband or I might say, "Okay, baby, do you want up, down, Dad, Mom, your cup, The Foot Book, Sock Monkey, banana?" or any other thing that he could possibly intend. He'll smile and shake his head so hard that I worry about brain damage. Or this afternoon, when he wouldn't stop crying. He'd screamed at me for upwards of ten minutes because I wouldn't give him more milk. Nothing I did calmed him. By the time Husband walked in the door, I was on my back, on the floor, head on a pillow contemplating running away to Italy. Baby waddled over to him, still screaming and pathetically held out his arms for up. Husband picked him up and he nestled into his dad's arms and glared at me from above.
"Baby, what's wrong?" Husband cooed. "Why are you crying?"
He sniffed, then gulped, and pointed at me.

Punished

2008-06-20T19:08:00.002-05:00

FTF

2008-06-14T07:13:00.000-05:00

New post, by me, on Fight the Fluffy.

26 minutes, or I just don't feel like it

2008-05-23T22:24:00.004-05:00

To be perfectly honest, I've been on the couch since 7:30. I've gotten up to pee once, and I've gotten up to put a DVD in once. I can get away with this because my husband is at work until midnight. On nights when he works, I can do whatever I want. I spent the evening laying on the couch. I ate a dinner that was part mac and cheese, part pasta and tomatoes (there weren't enough of either to make a full meal, so I alternated between the two), with some palate cleansing Thin Mints in between. I watched the movie Wonder Boys since I finished reading the book on Wednesday, in anticipation of Book Club. Then I fucked around on the internet some and halfway watched "Florida's Top 10 Beaches" on the Travel Channel. Now I'm watching Most Haunted on the Travel Channel and wondering why British people are so much better at sounding ominous than Americans. I think both of these shows are idiotic*, but I'm watching them, fucking around on the internet some more, and decidedly not done any of the simple tasks my husband has requested that I do. He's asked me to wash some socks for him and iron a shirt and two ties.
What I've failed to mention so far is that I walked in the door at 12:20 this afternoon and saw my husband sitting on the couch in a t-shirt and boxers staring catatonically at the blank, silent television. Papers were strewn all over the entranceway, and the baby was sitting on the floor, wearing his pajama shirt and mismatched sweatpants, smiling and waving a tampon as though it was the Olympic torch. It had clearly been a rough morning. I thought: When he goes to work, I will clean the house so he has a nice, calm environment to return to. Maybe if it's neat in the house when he comes home, he won't feel stressed about not yet finishing Anna Karenina. There are toys on the floor. There's food on the floor from all of the baby's meals and snacks today, the laundry's not folded, and there are dishes in the sink.
He gets off at midnight. Since it's 11:38, I've got a good fifteen minutes before I actually have to get up and do anything.

UPDATE: He came home fifteen minutes early! Eeek!

*I just switched the channel from Most Haunted to whatever the Food Network is showing. I was starting to get scared.

Little Things

2008-05-09T22:48:00.004-05:00

You used to laugh when I tried to teach you to spit, I will tell him. I used to lean over the sink and spit. PUH, I'd say, and spit into the sink, and you'd laugh and laugh.

When you were first born you loved lights, I will say. We'd take turns holding holding you in the kitchen so you could gaze at the light above the stove. We'd turn the fan on, too. Sometimes the light and the fan were all that would calm you.

Your dad made up songs for you. You cried when you rode in the car, so he sang to you, I will say. The songs didn't help you much, but they distracted me some. You cried a lot.

I will tell him:

You loved to clap, and you loved when people clapped for you. When you smiled you showed your dimples, dimples you definitely didn't get from me. And when you smiled, I smiled too. I made the signs for 'Mama loves you,' and you clapped. One day you stopped clapping when I made the sign. I kept making it anyway.

When we took walks, we would tip the stroller up-like wheelies-and smile at you. Your teeth showed, and your eyes crinkled, and we knew you were happy.

You loved outside. Sometimes I held you on the porch, just held you, and that was enough. Enough to make you smile.

You talked before you had words. You held conversations with us. "Dougledougle," you'd say. "Duckaday." "Gleeeee!" Your conversations had the intonations and pauses of a real language, one we couldn't ever understand.

When you got angry you picked up toys and threw them on the floor. You reached out for whatever toy I offered to appease you, to calm you. You took it and threw it on the floor or swatted it out of my hand. When you didn't want to eat your food, you threw it on the floor. You picked it up in your little fist, raised your fist, and threw it to the floor with a force surprising for a baby. I watched as time I spent making food, warming it, cutting it into small pieces splattered into disconnected heaps I would have to sweep up. Again.

You gave zerbits and kisses-kiss kiss we called them. You opened your mouth and put it on a belly or an arm or a cheek of whoever you loved at that moment. They were the most slobbery, disgusting kisses, but we were thrilled any time we were on the receiving end.

When you were a few days shy of fourteen months, you learned to stick out your tongue. You imitated anyone who stuck their tongue out at you. When you saw me touch my nose with my tongue, you tried so hard to do the same. We adored each new trick you showed us.

I will tell him these things because he won't remember, and I won't allow myself to forget.

Bad Theology

2008-05-09T21:34:00.002-05:00

"Where's Spiky Sam?" I asked Husband. "I want to sing to the baby."
"Oh, he's on the Ark with all the other dinosaurs," he replied, and handed me the baby.
I shook my head. "Oh, Baby, that's just bad theology. Everyone knows the dinosaurs wouldn't fit on the Ark. That's why they went extinct."

Pavlov's Baby, or Stupid babies need the most love, Part 4

2008-05-09T17:57:00.003-05:00

First, watch the following video.

Between the three of us, Husband, my mother, and I appear to have classically conditioned my kid. I'm not quite sure how it started. I think it was my mother trying to teach him to talk around seven months. Since I talked at nine months, and my first word was light, she's been on top of this kid to say light.
Say light! she'll coo.
Lelelelelele, he replies.
That's right! she says, in perfect motherese. Light!
Eventually this kid started looking up at the light when she asked him to say light. Then we started noticing that he could point. So we began asking him to point to the light. At first he looked at us cluelessly. Then he started looking at the light. One day something connected and his index finger shot out and his arm extended with the enthusiasm of a Nazi, affirming allegiance to the Fuhrer.*
Being semi-doting parents and a very overly-doting grandmother, we made a huge deal over this. We clapped and cheered like idiots. Loudly. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly. My kid got a huge smile on his face, which of course suckered the three of us in. We began asking him to point to the light wherever we were. He did it in the dining room while eating. He did it in the living room, bathroom, and bedrooms. He pointed to lights at grocery stores and restaurants. We clapped, he clapped, and all were happy.
One day he stopped pointing. Out of nowhere. We asked, whined, begged for him to point to the light, and he just wouldn't do it. Initially he just gave us a look that said are you people really so stupid that you don't know where the fucking light is? Then he went straight from the question to the clapping and smiling.
We weren't concerned at first. We just tried reasoning with him.
No, Baby, we explained. If you want clap-clap, you have to point to the light.
We thought maybe he just needed to be redirected and reminded of how this clap-clap thing works. He didn't point.
Baby, we sighed, can you please point to the light? He didn't point.
Then we did that thing that adults do that kids love-once-and then get sick of and think the adult is much stupider than the kids themselves.
Baby, can you help us out, please? Mama and Dad don't know where the light is. Can you point to the light?
He clapped and smiled.
I started to worry. Husband, I whimpered. I think he's regressing.
Why?
Because he can't point to the light anymore. He used to be able to do that, and now he can't. My eyes got teary as I thought of years of IEPs and child-study meetings, if he was even functional enough to go to school.
Sweetie. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Again. He's not getting dumber. He's a baby. Babies do whatever they want.
But I knew the truth. I knew he was getting dumber. I added it to the list of reasons my kid would, in no way, ever have the capability to be a productive member of society:
1. Cries every time he's strapped into carseat, even though carseat reasons have been explained to him multiple times.
2. Dances, even when there is no music on.
3. Couldn't walk or talk at the same age I talked and walked (9 months).
4. Thinks books are to be read upside down.
5. Stands and tries to walk in the bath.
6. Continually picks up the extension cord in the living room.
7. Thinks Behind the TV Stand is an appropriate place for a baby to go.
8. Makes the sign for more when he wants to eat.
9. Makes the sign for milk, even when he is drinking water.
10. Makes the sign for "How the fuck do I know?" when telling us he's finished.
11. Can't point to the light.

But I kept trying. I wasn't going to end up with a kid who can't point to the fucking light. He continued to smile and clap, and I continued to explain that I ain't clap-clapping if he ain't producing. If he managed to get a point, or even a glance in the direction of the light, I clapped as excitedly as I would at a BNL concert.
Then I thought about my psychology class in college, Principles of Learning, and wondered if we'd created the baby equivalent of Pavlov's dogs. What if we had conditioned the baby to clap when asked to point to the light? I tested my theory on a visit to the 8th Circle last week.
Okay, Baby, where's the light?
Clap and smile.
Okay, Baby, where's the...
Clap and smile.
Baby, baby, I didn't even finish my question. Then it hit me, and I ran some more tests.
Where's the tampons?
Clap and smile.
Where's the formula?
Clap and smile.
Where's the fatass?
Clap and smile.
Where's mama?
Clap and smile.
Where's the Trojans**?
Clap and smile.
Where's the redneck?
Clap and smile.
And so on. I amused myself for a good ten minutes, and my kid was happy, as evidenced by all the clapping and smiling.
Finally, Okay, Baby. I paused for dramatic effect. Where?
Clap and smile.
Yep. I have conditioned my child to clap when someone says the word where to him.
It's not like we could have afforded college anyway.

*I can't wait to see what statcounter turns up for this one.
**Or this one.

Faceplant

2008-04-20T10:20:00.002-05:00

I think there are some moments, as a mom, that are completely unpreventable. These moments, although unpreventable, still cause one to feel like a crappy, negligent mom. Just now, for example. My kid is learning to walk. He took several steps on January 31, then didn't do it again. For 2 1/2 months. My husband and mom believed that he could walk, but that's about it. I even started to doubt it. We'd stand him up and he'd immediately buckle. He's been content to crawl, cruise, and teeter while tentatively holding my hands or the TV stand or the sofa. He'd happily take off running while pushing his toy basket or his push toy. But steps, standing and walking? Never again. I thought maybe my kid was regressing. Getting dumber. It seemed consistent with the trend. He did it with the lights and the trees. At first we'd say, "Baby, where's the light? Can you point to the light?" He'd get a huge smile of his face and point to the light, then we'd clap and cheer and he'd clap and look oh-so-proud. Same with trees. Now when we say, "Baby, can you point to the light? Show mama the light," he gets a big smile on his face and claps his hands with the bliss of an ABB supporter on January 20, 2009 (can't wait to see what StatCounter pulls up from that link). Daycare sent me subtle hints and some not so subtle hints. "Try shoes with harder soles," the suggested one day. I went out and got some shoes with harder soles. "Try shoes with harder soles and more ankle support," the prodded. "Shoes like Stride Rites." I went out that evening and shelled over $80 for two pairs of Stride Rites. A few days later: "Well, L-didn't walk for a long time. And B-wow! It took him FOREVER to learn to walk. He'll get there when he's ready." But I wanted him to be ready then. My baby's retarded, I lamented to coworkers and my husband. I really think he's getting stupider. They rolled their eyes and sighed, as most people do when they are around me and I speak. At the one year check up, the pediatrician asked all of the usual questions about my kid's development. Then he asked about my kid's head size. I went through the same speech I go through at every doctor's appointment, and the pediatrician started muttering, and I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself, "Well, I don't think we need to be ultrasounding heads just yet, but if he's not walking by his next checkup," and trailed off. My dad-the once a quarter that we see him-theorized a few weeks ago that the baby's not walking due to his head size. "His center of gravity's off, his body can't support that thing." I got angry, but bit my tongue.
So I fretted. Until this week. He's standing on his own. He's dancing on his own, and he's taking several steps on his own. We clap for him when he walks to one of us, pick him up and toss him in the air and give big hugs, but I don't think he's connected it with the walking just yet. He took steps in the living room and on the porch and in the back yard. I felt vindicated that my child would actually be able to hit this developmental milestone soon. And then, after having cleaned him up from his snack of bananas and bunny grahams and Kix, I set him on the other side of the gate and climbed over myself. He stood, looked at me, and took off for the couch. I glipmpsed the camera with my peripheral vision, feeling very smug about soon being able to post videos of my kid's steps. I was going to post them on YouTube. And my blog. And my Facebook page. And my kid's Facebook page. And then I'd email links to the videos and everyone I know would know that my kid can walk. So there.
My kid's steps got a little wobblier the closer he got to the couch. I stood two feet away from him, watching him, telling him he's almost there, and then, thud. A thud louder than my husband's Victorian novels hitting the ground. A thud, then silence, then a scream. He hit the couch with his upper lip. The hard wooden part of the couch, the part right below the cushions, connected with my sweet baby's head, and he was in pain. I ran over to pick him up. My husband came running from the bedroom where he was reading Jane Eyre. My baby cried and screamed and cried and when he threw his head back we saw blood coming out of both sides of his mouth. I don't like to see blood coming from anywhere on my baby. We did the best we could to see where the blood was coming from, and we discerned his top teeth. We couldn't tell if they were loose or misplaced because the baby kept screaming. My husband did the best he could to clean up the blood, and eventually it stopped. My kid was still worked up into a tizzy, so we gave him some Tylenol to help the pain, and once he stopped crying put him down for a nap.
There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. I don't think I could have gotten to him before he stumbled. I wasn't on Facebook or Yahoo or anything else. I was allowing him independence and the freedom to move around unattached to anything except himself. And I know accidents are part of parenting, especially part of parenting active boys. It's not my fault my kid got hurt. But he still got hurt, and it happened on my watch. And that is a pretty crappy feeling, and I suspect it's a feeling that most moms get.

Maintenence

2008-04-16T20:27:00.003-05:00

"So he'll get this once a day. You can either give it to him as part as your morning routine or at night," the pediatrician told me.
"Okay."
"For the next four or five days, just combine it with one of his other treatments. Once you finish that, you'll just do this one by itself."
"Okay," I nodded.
"Now, this is a steroid. But it's a very low does steroid."
"Okay." The doctor started to write a prescription.
"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't mean to be completely stupid, but I have a few questions. So is this like asthma? Does he have asthma?"
"Well, yeah, it's a lot like asthma. We're doing this in hopes that it won't develop into asthma. And most kids who get asthma grow out of it. Of course, I can't guarantee anything."
"Okay. So is his brain being damaged? If he's having to work so hard to breathe, is his brain getting enough oxygen?"
The pediatrician looked at me with more patience than I'd seen from him since my first visit there. "His brain is getting plenty of oxygen. Just because his breathing is laboured doesn't mean he's not getting enough air. Human lungs can function at about 1% of their full capacity. It just means that the lungs have to work a lot harder than normal, which makes other things harder. Look at him. We can hear that he's active, he's moving, but it's harder than it should be. We can tell by his breathing."
"And the steroids? Is his little face going to become all puffy?"
"No. He's not going to turn into Arnold Schwarzenegger or have baby roid rage or anything like that. He's not going to look like a weightlifter or body builder or anything." The doctor's patience was waning.
"So just to clarify," I said. "We're doing this indefintely?"
"Indefinitely," repeated the doctor. Then he paused. "Well, at least for the next two or three years. Definitely until July. I've written you a 30 day prescription with one refill. This is the maintenence medicine I said we'd hold off on at the last visit. It's necessary now."
"Okay, so that should take us until the end of June. We're scheduled for a checkup then."
"Great. After July, I might take him off of it, IF he's doing better, I'll take him off of it for the summer then start him back up in the fall, when the weather starts to turn. By doing this for the next few years we hope that his lungs will be able to work at full capacity later on."
I pictured my baby at 12, not able to play soccer because his lungs don't work properly, and I thought of the daily wrestling matches our family would have to endure: turn nebulizer on. Hold the baby's arms down. Hold his head still. Pat his head. Explain that this is for his own good. Try to watch whatever's on the Food Network or Bravo during the 20 minute ordeal. Remind him (and myself) that with each treatment, we are one day closer to being finished. Turn the nebulizer off and try to catch a squirming baby. Explain that we are not, in fact, finished and that he does not have a choice on this. Try to carry on conversation with other adult in the room, over the roar of the nebulizer motor. Give up, turn nebulizer off, comfort sobbing baby.
Every day. Indefinitely.
I think we are being punished for mocking this commercial so often.

Tonight's Target Trip

2008-04-11T19:31:00.001-05:00

My kid and I were in Target tonight-the one that employs the world's oldest crackwhore. We got in the express line and waited our turn. I had to carry Micah because he kept standing up in the cart and trying to climb out into my arms. The strap does not hold him. I tried very hard to manage my cart and squirming one-year old. Then he leaned over and spit up on the floor. The line had not moved. Being me, I was completely unprepared, carrying only my child, my keys, my wallet, and my phone. I didn't know what to do. I was embarrassed, and I thought the chances of trying to find someone with a mop were slim. Besides, I didn't want to lose my place in line. So I put my wallet and keys in the cart, kneeled down, and proceeded to try to wipe the brown milk and Cheerios baby vomit up with the knee of my jeans. It turns out that jeans aren't the most absorbent material. So I stretched the corner of my cotton t-shirt as far as it would go while precariously balancing my child. While I did all of this, two women, clearly well-off, and clearly well past the age where they would find themselves using the clothes they were wearing to wipe up their child's spit up off the floor of Target, cut in front of me. No "Excuse me," no "Are you in line?" Nothing. They just brazenly walked past my bright red cart, my tettering baby, and my vomit splattered self. I straightened up and adjusted my baby and the cart. The woman closest to me kept turning around and smiling at my kid. I spent the next five minutes thinking angry thoughts at the women for being so rude and so privileged and angry thoughts at myself for being too polite to stand up for myself and my child and our position in line. If they'd asked, "Are you in line?" I would have told them to go ahead. But they never even asked.
And if you were at Target tonight, around 6:40, I was the one on the floor wiping up spit up with my jeans.

Truth #2

2008-03-30T19:32:00.001-05:00

Another truth about motherhood (and marriage, I suppose).

Your life is no longer your own.

The Truth About Motherhood

2008-03-30T19:09:00.002-05:00

Her Bad Mother linked to an invitation put forth by PBN and Discovery Health. The task is to tell the truth about motherhood. I'm going with HBM's challenge of doing it in twelve words or less.

You can't ever quit, but color-changing spoons can avert disaster.

Dresses

2008-03-19T19:45:00.002-05:00

I just went shopping for a dress to wear for a friend's wedding and had great success.
I ended up purchasing two dresses, neither of them are dresses I'd traditionally wear, so I am excited.
Dress #1

Dress #2

Sick

2008-03-15T16:17:00.003-05:00

He slept fourteen hours last night. Fourteen hours from a child who doesn't ever sleep more than eleven. He took a three hour nap this afternoon, was up for an hour, and has been down for another hour. He doesn't want to play. He doesn't want to drink. He only wants to eat a little. His body temperature has ranged from 101-103.7. Today he's lethargic and cuddly and has been content to just sit on the couch. He makes a few attempts to make me laugh-thinking he's tickling my neck, trying to share his pacifier and his juice-before flopping his head back against my chest and closing his eyes. The eyes open groggily as he tries to fight the tired, and he points to the light or out the window and says "da" or "duck" with no apparent energy. He doesn't protest when I strip off his shirt and lay him in his crib. He doesn't protest when I give him a kiss, then hand him his sock monkey and blanket and leave the room.

Easter '08, Part 1

2008-03-14T21:12:00.003-05:00

This year Easter falls on the day before my kid's birthday, so someone (me) had the brilliant idea that Easter should be held at my house. Like with us hosting. It was definitely a moment of stupidity or brazen ambition, that caused me to suggest hosting. So in about a week we have the following coming over:
my parents
Husband's parents
Husband's grandmother
Auntie Caroline and Matt
Auntie Leighann
my sister
Dick (my cantankerous grandfather)
my uncle
Jen +3
my other sister-in-law and her husband
So counting me, Husband, and our child, we've got seventeen people. I'm not sure my house can even fit seventeen people.
I'm working on the menu right now. I think it's a little ambitious. Luckily my sister is taking care of the cake, and I think my mom will be around to help me a bit. Husband has requested that I make pork tenderloin for the main part of the meal, but three of us can tear through one, so fixing it to serve 14 or 15 (assuming children aren't interested) is slightly daunting. I'm not worried, though. I like to cook, and I've been known to be pretty good at it. And we've got all our information stored on papajohns.com.

Not me

2008-03-14T20:46:00.003-05:00

Someone left the refrigerator door open for several hours last night. Because I'm not my mom, I tend to be pretty picky about things going bad, so I knew I'd have to throw away everything except unopened alcohol. I filled four trash bags about half-full and placed them by the door for Husband to take out when he sees fit.
My fridge now contains: the wine cube Husband got me for Christmas, a bottle of champagne my parents left here at some point, and five beers. It's five beers not because I needed sustenance for the task of throwing away corn tortillas, goat cheese, milk, juice, jelly, cream cheese, slimy rotten salad greens, the cous-cous I wasn't able to take for lunch today, the lunchmeat I continue to buy for Husband even though he prefers to get lunch out, several yogurts, horseradish, and several different mustards and salsas. It's five beers because I bought beer for the SuperBowl and decided after about half a beer that I was already drunk and didn't like the beer I'd purchased.
So tomorrow, I have to suck it up and go to Kroger. I've been avoiding it for about six weeks now.

Bliss

2008-03-11T21:36:00.002-05:00

Truthiness

2008-03-06T21:56:00.004-05:00

As a teacher, I am often in a position where I have to choose my words very carefully. The other day I was teaching about something-fractions, maybe-and one of my students raised their hand and said, "Other Student says Santa Claus doesn't exist."
"Hmmm," I replied mildly. "I think that's Other Student's problem."
"But they said it," the First Student continued. "Mrs. G, is it true?"
In situations like these, I like to do a very teacher type thing and turn the question back on to the student. I put down my dry erase marker and looked at the worried student, who looked as though they'd just been informed that there was not, Virginia, a Santa Claus.
"Do you think it's true?" I asked First Student.
"Well, no," First Student hesitated.
"Then does it matter what Other Student says?"
"Well, no." First Student started to relax a bit. Then Other Student revved their engines.
"Your mom is the one who buys the presents and puts them under the tree and just says they're from Santa," Other Student argued passionately. First Student and several other students appeared to be close to weeping, and I dreaded the flurry of emails that would no doubt come my way that afternoon.
"Uh," I stammered. I scanned my brain for something reassuring to say, something that wouldn't be a lie, but wouldn't crush these children's worldviews. As I searched, I was saved by First Student.
"Anyways," First Student countered, "That's how I know it's not my mom. My brother got an ipod touch for Christmas, and there's NO WAY my mom would let my brother have an ipod touch." I was relieved the conversation was over. And then...
"Mrs. G, do you believe there's a Santa Claus?" Oh, shit. I don't think I can distract my way out of this one. I wondered where the integrity lies in a situation such as this. Eighteen faces staring at me looking for confirmation either way. The ones who know or suspect might have their suspicions confirmed. And the ones who don't know, well, they've lasted this long. They will find out sooner or later.
"Oh, absolutely."

Dread...

2008-03-06T20:46:00.002-05:00

Things one doesn't want to hear from a second grader's mouth...

1. So, Mrs. G, I'm looking in the dictionary, and I found the word virgin...

2. So, Mrs. G, when you were giving birth...

3. Exactly how do people get new eyes?

4. Do you have to be married to have a baby?

5. Do you have to have your stomach cut open to have a baby? Isn't that what happens?

6. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE TOOTH FAIRY'S YOUR MOM?????

Baby Watch '08

2008-03-06T20:27:00.001-05:00

My future daughter-in-law is on her way!

A page from the Britney book of parenting

2008-02-24T20:14:00.002-05:00

On more than one occasion I've been the mama who takes her baby into the liquor store. I always feel like maybe my clothes should be more than a little tighter than they are, my fat should be spilling out more than it currently does, one or two teeth should be missing, and I should be sporting a mullet when I do this. Normal people don't bring their babies to the liquor store, but when I am the one who does all the errands and most of the childcare, it is inevitable that my baby will occasionally end up in the liquor store. When this happens, I don't linger. I get what I need quickly, so as to minimize the time I spend under the judgmental eyes of the store clerk. I give a half-assed smile when they make a joke along the lines of "Can I see his ID?" or "That baby's proof enough for me," as I struggle with a liter of vodka, the baby bag, and my drivers license.
Side note: I am not hitting the ABC store on a regular basis. I've probably gone two or three times in the last year.
Well, last Monday I further solidified my not getting mama of the year award and took my baby to a tattoo parlor. I've been wanting to go all Angelina Jolie and get a third, commemorating my beloved child, but I had some design questions and wanted a professional opinion. So after a thoroughly disheartening meeting, I threw Baby in the car and drove 20 minutes to a tattoo parlor that had been recommended to me via an online forum.
I pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car trying to discern if the tattoo parlor was open and if I should actually go in. A girl noticed my indecision and beckoned me in. I unpacked Baby and headed in, clutching my phone and the designs I'd come up with on the computer.
I told the guy that I just wanted some advice right now, and he nodded. I asked a few questions, and he grunted a few replies that really didn't tell me much. The parlor was dark and dingy and looked as though it might be a place where one could not only get tattoos and "exotic piercings," as their website advertised, but also get chlamydia at no extra charge. We left after about 2 1/2 minutes, and I knew that I am an awesome mom.

A good friend for the baby

2008-02-24T20:01:00.002-05:00

When I told him this story, Husband said, "Well, that sounds like a blog post," so here it is:

I was walking into Barnes and Noble tonight, and this guy came up to me wearing a trench coat and smoking a cigarette. It was somewhat open, so I knew it wasn't one of those trench coats. He stopped me and said, "Do you want a pit bull?"
"Excuse me?" I replied politely.
"Do you want a pit bull puppy?" he asked again, opening his coat wider. Inside was a pit bull puppy.
I was too shocked to say anything, so I just stood there. Finally I said, "Um?"
"It would make a great friend for the baby," he urged, nodding at my child.
I was too stunned to say anything, so I just squeaked "No, thank you," and walked into the store as fast as I could.
Later, I was struck by the fact that this guy was walking around a parking lot carrying a pit bull puppy and trying to donate it to strangers. That's more of a New York thing, not a Virginia thing.

Needs

2008-02-24T16:23:00.002-05:00

I am currently putting my child's needs ahead of my own. All weekend I wanted to go to a local museum, two actually, and get a little culture. Yesterday Baby was in great spirits, but timing didn't work out, due to the fact that he is actually sleeping in his cribs for naps. I decided I want to reinforce that as much as possible, especially since he's trying to prove to his day care friends that naps are for babies and doesn't really do it during the week. So I didn't go yesterday. He took two solid naps, and I took one. I also managed to whip up a batch of 3 bean chili (my own invention), so I'd have some lunches to freeze.
Today Baby has not been in great spirits. I had a lot of plans, which included going to Kroger to get ingredients to make slow cooker risotto (not my own invention), getting a book for my book club, and once again going to a museum or two. This morning, Baby slept for 1 hour and 50 minutes in his crib. Husband and I slept during that time as well. We all slept solidly, and we got up and restarted our day at 11:30. Husband and I took turns taking care of Baby while the other got dressed. By 1 p.m., we'd left the house and were headed to Qdoba. My plan was to drop Husband off at school, then Baby and I would hit one of the museums, Second Debut, Kroger, and Barnes and Noble. We'd head home, and I'd quickly throw the risotto together. Then we'd play in the living room and have a snack.
I haven't made it to the museum, Second Debut, Kroger, or Barnes and Noble. Since Baby was uncharacteristically fussy during lunch, I debated what I should do. I drove towards the museum, which was also towards my house. I drove in the left lane, since I'd need to turn left to get to the museum. Then, hearing heavy breathing from the backseat, I got into the right lane and headed home. Baby ate a bottle and went down in his crib without protest. Since we've been home, I've created a Word document with summer camp info for Husband, swept the dining room, changed into a new t-shirt, put all my recipes into page protectors and a binder, and now I'm whipping up a batch of this to freeze and have on hand.
It's been about two hours since I've been home, and the kid's still sleeping soundly. In a few minutes I will have to wake him, as we do actually have to go to the bookstore and grocery store before picking up Husband. I am so proud of how far my kid has come in regards to the whole sleeping thing, and I guess it's worth missing the museum for some alone time. We can always try again next weekend.

A Brief History of Valentine's Day

2008-02-13T20:58:00.000-05:00

I hate Valentine's Day. I think it's a stupid, made-up holiday that
really does more harm than good. For years it made me miserable, as I was the girl who didn't get notes on her locker or have plans when all the roommates did. My parents always gave me presents, which was nice, but I always waited for the day when I'd be the girl who got red roses and could brag about a fabulous date with a fabulous guy the next day.
I was stupid.
The best Valentine's Day I ever celebrated was in 2003, when I lived in New York. Leighann, some of her grad school friends, and I went out to get some sangria at Panchitos. We spent several hours there, very few of which I remember, and stumbled home to call Caroline, fresh from a date with her future husband. The only male we spoke to all night was the waiter. It was great.
2004 brought my first ever Valentine's Day with a boyfriend. I was secretly excited, anticipating whatever surprise he'd bring with him/plan on his trip to visit me for the weekend. I was certain there'd be some sort of romantic surprise, even though (attempting to be a cool girlfriend) I'd assured him that I thought Valentine's Day was a stupid, made-up holiday. We spent the evening cooking tacos and watching Signs with my roommate.
By 2005 the boyfriend from 2004 had evolved into a fiance. I took the day off of work to surprise him with a day of hanging out. That year, the big day fell on a Monday. By the previous Friday evening, we were engaged in a weekend-long argument over the holiday. We went round and round having conversations like this:
Him: I don't understand why you're upset.
Me: Because you celebrated it with her.
Him: Well, yes, but
Me: Well, why did you want to celebrate it with her and not me?
Him: Um, maybe it was her idea to celebrate it in the first place? Besides, you told me you hate Valentine's Day.
Me: I do hate it. But you still celebrated it with her and not with me. Was it her idea?
Him: I don't remember. This conversation is stupid.
Me: So?
Him: I think it's a stupid holiday. So do you!
Me: I know, but you still celebrated it with her.
Him (sighing): I know that. It wasn't a big deal. She bought me a book I already owned.
Me: Well, what book was it? Why do you still have it?
etc, until we were exhausted and it was time to eat or sleep or something like that.
Eventually we made up, but not before this conversation, which occurred shortly after I told him I'd used one of my precious personal days.
Him: Well, do you want to go get breakfast or something?
Me: Is that what you do on Valentine's Day? Is that, like, your thing?
Him: What are you talking about?
Me: Well, that's what you did before. You know, with her.
Him: I did?
Me: That's what you told me.
Him: Okay. I don't really remember.
Me: Well, I don't really want to go to breakfast.
Him: Fine.
We ended up getting lunch and having a civil day together before he had to go to class, and I had to go to work at my other job.
In 2006, the fiance had evolved into a husband, and based on the previous two years, I decided I'd just ignore the whole thing. Pretend the stupid day didn't exist. Instead of trying to be the cool girlfriend, I was actually going to be the cool wife. I didn't mention it in the weeks leading up to the holiday. I didn't say anything as I painstakingly wrote out 19 individual Valentines signed, Love, Mrs. G. I didn't say anything as I got ready for work that morning. He grabbed my arm as I turned to walk out the bedroom door. "I got you a present," he said.
"Why?" I replied.
"Cause it's Valentine's Day," he reminded me.
"We don't do that. And I didn't get you anything."
"That's okay. It's nothing big. But I wanted to get you something," he said.
"Um, I have to go to work," and I sprinted out the door.
I spent the entire day freaking out, wondering what he could have possibly gotten me and debating with myself over stopping to get him a present. I eventually decided that I wouldn't stop because I didn't want to insult either of our intelligences. I got my present when I got home. He'd written me a letter. I'm a sucker for that sort of thing.
Last year, I wasn't going to let history repeat. My friends Katie and Jamiee and I had started getting together for semi-monthly dinners at each others houses on Wednesday evenings. One of our dinners happened to fall on the big day.
"Well, I can do dinner that night," I said cheerfully. "I ain't got plans." Katie and I looked at Jaimee, who was engaged.
"I can do the 14th as well," she said, and that settled it. When I got home, I told my husband of my plans. "I figured you wouldn't mind," I told him.
"Well, I guess I can change my plans to a different day," he said, a bit sulkily. Oh shit. What did I do?
I didn't cancel my plans with my friends. I'd been that girl too many times in the earlier stages of our relationship, and I'm still paying for it. We had a lovely dinner, and two days later, my husband surprised me with a home-cooked meal. That is, a meal that he cooked, completely on his own. He made pasta with chicken and red sauce, garlic bread, and salad. It was yummy, and, at least to my knowledge, the most complicated meal he's ever cooked, and the only meal he's cooked, by himself, for another person.
We had a conversation later that night about Valentine's Day. "I still think it's a stupid, made-up holiday," I told him. "But I feel bad that I didn't do anything for you."
"You don't have to do anything for me," he replied. "I can just do something for you."
I don't know what tomorrow holds. Keeping with the tradition of my parents, I had my husband get the baby some books as a Valentine's Day present. Then I told him to take the books back because a conversation I had with one of my students had me freaking out over my child growing into one who expects presents every V-Day. My retelling of the conversation with the student turned into a rant about about our materialistic culture which ended with me saying "You know, I really don't want to be the mean mom who writes 'no gifts, please,' on the birthday party invitations, but I really see no other way around it," and my husband reminding me that it's just two books, he's a baby, and to him, it's just going to be another day and another thing to put in his mouth.

Mama's Day Off

2008-02-13T18:25:00.002-05:00

I’m slightly ashamed of this, but right now I’m sort of enjoying the cold that is tearing up my body. This is the first time since way before the baby was born that I have been sick and not had to worry about anything else. Granted, that will change soon, but today, the hours between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. are all mine.
Okay, so yes, I feel like crap. My head’s so stuffy I feel like I can barely breathe, and walking from bed to the bathroom is exhausting. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I choked down 32 oz of orange juice for the second day in a row. But the day’s been MINE. Mine in a way that I haven’t experienced in as long as I can remember. No worries about when someone has to eat or get a diaper. No concerns about anyone needing to be entertained. I have spent the day in bed with a 32 oz bottle of water, a book, the laptop, and a DVD.
I’m appreciating my alone time while it lasts. Soon, I’ll have to go out in the rain, in the cold, to pick up a baby from daycare. The next 2 1/2-3 hours will be devoted to him and his needs. At some point after that, I will have to remember that I am a teacher and do some work for school tomorrow. But until then, I am enjoying every moment of my day.

Fun with online coloring sheets

2008-02-10T20:58:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm a dork who is easily amused.

http://www.apples4theteacher.com/coloring-pages/presidents-day/george-washington.html

I love my ipod

2008-02-09T22:44:00.000-05:00

I did a 3 mile run this morning. My ipod told me I ran 3.71 miles. While I accept that my ipod is clearly not calibrated correctly, I'm going to choose to believe what the ipod tells me. It's good for my self-esteem. Go me!

Not sure why we spend money on toys...

2008-02-09T22:05:00.000-05:00

Clap Clap

2008-02-09T21:58:00.000-05:00

He had so much to live for

2008-02-09T21:56:00.001-05:00

Resolve

2007-12-31T14:16:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-12-29T21:57:00.001-05:00

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...

2007-12-28T11:28:00.001-05:00

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

2007-12-28T01:18:00.001-05:00

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

2007-12-28T01:06:00.000-05:00

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

We'll do anything!

2007-12-19T20:45:00.000-05:00

Just don't hurt the tigger.