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.

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.

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

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

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.

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!

New

New post on Fight the Fluffy.

Stupid babies need the most love, part 6

What happens when he tries to dress himself...











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.

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.

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.

Equality

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

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

blemish

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

fuck that

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

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

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

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

What my new camera can capture