11 January 2009
Sunday
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.
09 January 2009
um, yeah
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!
06 January 2009
What's a girl to do?
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.
05 January 2009
Day 1
I swam! I didn't sink! My swimming teacher said I did well! The endorphins are still going strong!
04 January 2009
The genius of Wii Fit
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.
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.
02 January 2009
I will call him Mini-Me
This is Husband's favorite outfit for himself. When I can get a picture of both of them together, I will post it.
01 January 2009
Hell Day, or in which I give the baby cake for breakfast, ketchup for lunch, and realize I'm not in college anymore
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Murmphsmuruhumphhup, he commiserated.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.
Murmphsmurm? he asked.
No, I replied. I'm really sick.
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!!!!
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.
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.
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.31 December 2008
New Year's Suckin' Eve, or Resolve, updated
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.
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.
23 December 2008
meaning, or thanks, church!
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.
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
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
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
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
13 December 2008
ellful
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.
06 December 2008
a marital impasse
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!
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!
01 November 2008
11 October 2008
Stupid babies need the most love, part 6
What happens when he tries to dress himself...
Those are pants on his arms.
Those are pants on his arms.
after apple picking
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.
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.
03 October 2008
The most wonderful time of the year
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.
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*
*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.
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.
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