Little Things

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

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

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

I will tell him:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Theology

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

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

First, watch the following video.



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

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

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

Faceplant

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

Maintenence

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

Tonight's Target Trip

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

Truth #2

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

Your life is no longer your own.

The Truth About Motherhood

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

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

Dresses

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

Dress #2

Sick

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

Easter '08, Part 1

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

Not me

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

Bliss

Truthiness

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

Dread...

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

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

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

3. Exactly how do people get new eyes?

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

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

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

Baby Watch '08

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

A page from the Britney book of parenting

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

A good friend for the baby

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

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

Needs

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

A Brief History of Valentine's Day

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

Mama's Day Off

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

Fun with online coloring sheets

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

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

I love my ipod

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

Not sure why we spend money on toys...

Clap Clap

He had so much to live for

Resolve

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

Grace’s Book List #1

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


Wish me luck!

My baby doesn't wear socks...

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


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

I'm already aware.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sobbing in My Car

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

Satisfaction

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

We'll do anything!

Just don't hurt the tigger.

Timing

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

First Cheerios

These are a few weeks old.

Monotony

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








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


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

Facing the Fat

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

Excuses

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

Quiche

My quiche was fucking awesome. It was also fucking awesome as lunch today. Go me.

Ambition?

I just made a quiche. I've never made quiche before; in fact, I always thought I hated it until the summer of '99 when I finally tried it on one of my European adventures. But I decided the other day that I wanted quiche, and tonight I finally had a chance to make it. I made a cheese and bacon quiche with an arugula salad and grape vinaigrette. I tried the vinaigrette, and it's a little too vinegary, but not terrible. I'm interested in seeing how it works with the arugula. I'm waiting until Husband comes home from class to try the quiche. I hope it works out, because I do love me some quiche, and 10 p.m. is entirely too late to have to deal with a kitchen failure.

Baby No Sleep

Regardless of bedtime, my child will not sleep past 5 or 5:30. He's cheerful and ready to play, and I'm bitchy and fighting a massive headache.

Coming this holiday season: Teeth

Baby's been working on a tooth for a week now. This is exciting for me because now he occasionally accidentally bites. I didn't expect a bite from a baby to hurt, but it sort of did. I thought he'd be crankier, but he's really been very cheerful. He's usually very cheerful. He's done this whole week without Tylenol or Baby Orajel. I have the awesomest baby ever.*













*Now that I've written these words, they will come back to bite me in the ass and he will no longer be cheerful teething Baby, but will be angry teething Baby. For the next 17 years.

I still feel sick

What I ate yesterday:

Breakfast 1: Bowl of Fruity Pebbles
Breakfast 2: 3-egg omelet with cheese and scallions
1 piece of bacon
cheesy oven potatoes
1 can Cherry Coke
Lunch: 1 can of Spaghetti-os
1/4 bag of Tostidos
1 can Cherry Coke
Snack: 1/4 "medium" bag of M&Ms
Dinner: Turkey
Gravy
Oatmeal Roll
Stuffing with bacon
Dried Cherry/Cranberry Compote
Mashed Potatoes
Corn pudding
1 glass red zinfendel
Dessert: 2 bites apple pie
1 mug mulled red wine/apple cider

I make poor choices sometimes.

We're done

I didn't make it a year. Despite my bitching and moaning about nursing Baby, I really wanted to make it a year. I really wanted to do what's best for him because I am certain that there will be many times in his life that I don't do what's best for him. The no-turning back, no more discussions about this came on Thursday night while I was at cooking class. I ate some peanut brittle and that sealed the decision.
Husband and I had already made the decision earlier that day. I'd gone to my doctor because I had a cold that wasn't going away. She wanted to put me on antibiotics, and since we have some penicillin allergies in my family, I told her I didn't want penicillin. She prescribed something else and then told me that there wasn't enough information to know conclusively what the drug does during lactation. But, it's probably okay, she said. Here's the thing. Husband and I tend to be somewhat laid back people, but we don't do well with "it's probably okay," at least not when it comes to our child.
I'm a lot sadder about this than I expected to be. I've hated nursing, except when it allowed me to get away with reading or watching TV or playing online. But to know that it's never going to happen again is making me strangely sad. I'm not sure why. I've felt more bonded to Baby when we've played or when I rock him before bed or when we nap, rather than when he nursed. I'm going to chalk it all up to hormones.
I haven't had any alcohol yet, nor have I eaten any peanut butter, but the peanut brittle from cooking class is long gone.

The Promised Pictures

Here are the pictures from our hospital adventure two weeks ago.


Needing oxygen Baby



The Baby Cage


Subdued Baby in Hospital Gown


No Longer Subdued Baby Crawling Out of Hospital Gown





Standing Up Baby

I am awesome, or My Dumbassedness

The other night I had my semi-weekly diaper change scheduled. I stripped Baby down threw away his diaper, reached for the diapers on the shelf and found that Not Me hadn't replaced them, meaning I had a neck-ed Baby wiggling on a changing table and nothing to protect me from a potential stream of pee or explosion of poo. I stood Baby in his crib and prayed, please, God, don't let him pee, and sprinted into the other room, grabbed a handful of diapers and sprinted back into Baby's room.
Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, I breathed upon returning to a pee and poo free room. "Baby, why is your boy part wet?" I asked. Yes, I actually said boy part, and I know I should have used the proper terminology. "Maybe you're about to pee," I answered. "I better hurry." Then I noticed the floor about three feet away from Baby's crib. The wet floor. The wet, sticky floor. "Well, kiddo, that's quite the range you've got there. Please don't point that thing at me," I told Baby and sighed.
I diapered Baby and told him never to do something like that again. I wiped up the floor and stripped the sheet from his bed. Since it was close to bedtime, I had to remake the bed. I wiped the mattress and left Baby crawling on the floor while I sprinted to find a new sheet. I was gone approximately 30 seconds. This is what I found upon my return:



Those clothes on the floor? They weren't there when I left.

I made it to level 9

This Traveler IQ challenge is brought to you by the Web's Original Travel Blog

4.96

I mentioned on here the other day that I ran a race this past Saturday. What I didn't mention is that this was a major accomplishment for me. I can't run. I suck at running. I can run 6/10 of a mile before I have to walk, and usually when I run I want to vomit. I also hadn't been able to exercise for about a month due to me being sick and Baby being sick so much. I was really nervous.
For the week leading up to the event, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to do the race, that my cold would just kick my ass too much. When my cold (found out today NOT a cold but bronchitis, awesome) got slightly better I worried that I would come in last or that everyone else would be skinnier than me. I worried that I would vomit on the course or that I'd be kicked out of the race for illegally using my ipod.
None of those worries were founded. I got to the race on Saturday morning and saw some people wearing jeans. When I saw that I felt better. I felt less better when the race began and the people wearing jeans passed me.
I run for the endorphins. I exorcise the demons that haunt my head all the time. The first mile or so was spent getting rid of the demons. I thought about people who've hurt me and prayed for them and prayed that I would stop thinking of them someday. I thought about things that have hurt me and prayed that I would stop thinking of them someday. I thanked God for Husband and Baby and that's when I knew I was set to get this thing done.
I wanted to quit several times, but each time I wanted to quit I thought of how Husband and Baby would be waiting for me when I finished. I thought maybe Husband would be proud of me for doing this and how I'd get to hold my sweet baby very soon. I couldn't wait. I thought of how I was doing this for Baby-to model an active, semi-healthy lifestyle that involves exercise and taking care of myself. I thought of how it was okay that I was doing this alone-I do most things alone these days (these days being the last 3 1/2 years)-because even though I was alone, I was still doing something. And I'd see Husband and Baby very soon. I passed a makeshift pet-a-pet zoo towards the end of the course, I thought that I would take Baby to see the animals and I would take a picture of Baby fascinated with the animals. I couldn't wait. I crossed the finish line and saw my mother with no Husband and no Baby. They weren't there. They hadn't come to see me. I was crushed and told my mother I was fine, in the curt tone I reserve only for people who know me really well.
Husband told me that he'd felt sick and thought it best to stay home. He said it was okay that he stayed home because I'd been saying all week that he didn't have to come. Clearly, he's never met a girl before.
I have a souvenir medal and my race number. I got an email today with a link to pictures of me on the course. You can see me in all my fat dorkdom. My favorites are the ones where I can see me crossing the finish line and someone else crossing the finish line after me. I didn't come in last! Go me. My dad, who's in Africa still, sent me flowers. I love getting flowers, so I was excited.
I think doing races might be addicting. My uncle's girlfriend said she does them because it helps motivate her to exercise if she's got something to train for. Baby and I are planning on doing a 10k up in NoVa in December. This time I might try to coordinate my headband better.

Mmmmm...4 lbs of bacon...

A few months ago I made another babystep into adulthood and joined Costco. I reasoned that it would be cheaper to buy diapers, formula, and 15 gallon vats of olive oil. The first time I went to Costco, Baby and I strolled around the store for 90 minutes, both of us equally mesmerized by the sheer volume of people and bulk products. We came out of that trip $96 poorer, having acquired a 19 pack of dry erase markers, a 100 calorie bulk snack pack, 3,000 Clorox wipes, and 6 boxes of gallon sized freezer bags.
We ran out of formula last night, and I have promised my students a goldfish (the snack that smiles back) party, so I knew it was time for another trip to Costco. I loaded a fussy Baby into the car and drove the 15 minutes past Target, Sam's Club, and Wal-Mart. I circled the parking lot, finally finding a space next to the cart return. As a parent with an infant, a spot next to the cart return is more important to me than a close spot.
I forgot to switch cars with Husband, so I was stuck in my we don't need to get a family friendly car, Husband, it'll be like six years before we have a kid Honda Civic coupe. My first trip to Costco was also in this car and it took some Tetris-like maneuvering to get everything to fit. I was pissed that I'd managed to come to Costco in this car once again. One of the problems with my super fun Civic coupe is that it's a two door. In order to get Baby in or out of the car I have to fold the seat forward, push it all the way up, and yank really hard on the release button on the carseat. At this point, the carseat doesn't budge, and I repeat the process, only this time I brace my foot against the door jamb and pull again, or push, if I'm trying to get him in. Then I find myself actually hunching in the car in a space that's not big enough for both me and a babyseat. I brace myself against the back of the passenger seat and yank until the carseat comes flying at me and hits me on the head. True story. I go through this every day when I come home from picking Baby up from daycare. So I was not thrilled to have to repeat the process, this time with a 400 pack of Gatorade or something like that.
I snagged a cart from the convenient cart return and headed inside. Baby was fussing and squirming, so I started singing him songs like this one, which I made up while he was in the hospital. I made it up because he had this thing on his toe which turned it red. The tune is the same as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer:
Baby, the red toed baby,
Had a very shiny toe.
And if you ever saw it,
You would even say it glowed (like a light bulb)
All of the other babies
Used to laugh and call him names (like Toe-noccio).
They never let poor Baby,
Join in any baby games (like Monopoly).
Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say (ho, ho, ho)
"Baby, with your toe so bright,
Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"
Then how the babies loved him,
As they shouted out with glee (Yippie!)
Baby, the red toed baby,
You'll go down in his-tor-y (like Colombus!)

My song held Baby long enough for me to find the baby formula-not the kind we normally use, but if we're getting an extra 12 ounces for $5 more, he can switch-and throw it in the cart.
Diapers were more of a struggle for me. They had Huggies, which we use, but they had snug fit, not natural fit, and I wasn't sure my Civic had room for 300+ diapers in it. I decided I'd think about it while I found my other purchases.
Husband had asked for snacks, so I wandered through the snack food aisle. I had no direction and a Baby to distract, so it wasn't my most focused snack search. I came up empty handed and before I knew better, I was in the kitchenware section.
I love kitchenwares-overly specific gadgets, storage units, canisters. I really wanted some canisters, but I didn't see any. My kitchen isn't really big enough for canisters anyway. I almost bought a 48 piece set of food storage containers for when I actually get around to making homemade baby food. I talked myself down from that ledge and stumbled upon a selection of tea kettles. I love me a hot cuppa, and I haven't had one since before I got knocked up. I recently decided to part with my beloved electric kettle, and I haven't really felt like I should spend the money on a new stovetop one. But here I was, in Costco, staring at $18 tea kettles. I surveyed the selection. Two colors, blue and red. I chose red and picked one up. Then, I noticed a little sticker on the box: sell by Nov. 11. The tea kettle was expired! Fuck that, I thought. I'm not buying an expired tea kettle. I put it back for some other sucker to purchase and found one that did not have an expiration date sticker on it.
Focus, I told Baby. We've got to focus. We beelined for the food section, determined to find Husband some snacks and Baby some baby food. I wandered through that fucking food section 10 times. I disgustedly looked at a 4lb pack of bacon. Who would eat that? Who would be able to eat bacon after seeing it in 4lb form? I thought. Oh yeah, Husband would. Maybe I should get him 96 mini cream puffs. He likes mini cream puffs. I like mini cream puffs, too. Oooooh, maybe they have mini quiches, and instead of making home made mac and cheese for dinner, I can make mini quiches. Oh, yum.
At the end of this stream of consciousness, I found myself needing to calm an exceedingly fussy Baby and staring at The Cheesecake Factory section. This section sold frozen Cheesecake Factory cheesecakes. The box informed me that each cheesecake weighed 3.5 lbs. I asked myself, do I really need 3.5 lbs of cheesecake? I answered myself, why yes, I do need 3.5 lbs of cheesecake.
I didn't get the cheesecake. At that point Baby only wanted to be held, and I discovered that holding a baby while pushing a shopping cart leads to other Costco shoppers seeing my cha-chas, as the weight of Baby and no hands free equals low cut shirt becoming even lower cut. Good times were had by all.
I made one last frantic search for baby food. Nothing. I sprinted up to the register and put my one can of formula and one tea kettle on the belt. I asked the cashier if they sold baby food, and she directed me towards Sam's Club, right down the road. Maybe next year. I'm not shelling out another $50 just so I can get a three gallon container of mushed up green beans.
After I got home and put Baby to bed, I turned on the stove and placed my new kettle on top. 30 minutes later, my kitchen smelled like gas mixed with homemade mac and cheese and the water still hadn't boiled. I'm still waiting for the water to boil...

The Race

I ran (walked) an 8K today. I will tell more about it when I am not on a painfully slow computer.

Quittin' Time?

People with boy parts of feel like what is coming next might be TMI, you've been warned...

So I haven't nursed Baby in two days. Two days ago, I did my semi-weekly diaper changing and noticed red spots that looked an awful lot like the red spots he had when we got thrush. No fucking way I'm doing this again, I thought, and decided to give him a bottle. When Husband came home from class I told him about the rash and my decision to withhold the boob until after his doctor's appointment the next day. Husband agreed that was sound logic and supported my decision. We discussed whether or not we might be over the whole breastfeeding thing. The pediatrician confirmed the thrush, and I am taking aggressive measures to combat it. I'm not nursing Baby until the rash in his diaper region is cleared up.
The problem lies in that if I don't nurse, my milk might dry up, and we won't make it to the year-mark.
Cause it's me, I'm very conflicted over this. We're supposed to go a year, which means I've got about 4 1/2 months left. It's the best thing for him, and I very much want to do what is best for him. I keep telling myself that. On the other hand, I'm tired of wrestling him every time I try to nurse him. He takes his bottles really well now and just doesn't seem interested in nursing. The pediatrician says it's cause he's not feeling good rather than him trying to wean himself. The hospital said he is trying to wean himself.
To be perfectly honest, I'm kind of over the whole breastfeeding thing. To be even more honest, I've been over it from the beginning. Breastfeeding has been a lot easier for me than it has been for a lot of people, but it's never been something I've enjoyed. I don't feel like I really bonded with Baby because of this. I've bonded with him more by holding him or napping with him or playing with him. And I'm dying for a glass of wine and peanut butter crackers. Not at the same time. I'd love for someone else to occasionally put him to bed.
So Husband and I decided we are going to wait until the thrush clears up and see what happens. If I dry up, I dry up. I'll be gleefully drowning my sorrows in a bottle of pinot grigio.

Willpower

I spent some time in Walgreen's today picking up Baby's latest prescription. I wandered to the pharmacy counter by way of the hair color aisle and was struck with a very strong urge to color my hair red. I haven't colored my hair red since December of 2002, when an aunt of mine, someone I'm no longer associated with, did it for me one Christmas. I haven't colored my hair in general since right before I got married, and I swore I'd never color my hair from a box again.
But there I was, holding the box of Garnier in one hand, a squirmy Baby in the other arm, trying to stifle the urge to become a redhead sometime tonight. I wasn't even going to tell anyone. I was just going to do it.
I'm not sure where the urge came from. I think it was part boredom, part a rebellious streak I've found myself having since Baby was born. The rebellious streak manifests itself in really small ways. When someone has to yield to me at a yield sign, I yell "YIELD, MOTHERFUCKER." I get the urge to take something-like a pack of gum-from a store (I never do). Tonight I had to grab my bag from the car, and as I walked to the street, I thought, I could just leave. Leave and not come back for awhile. It didn't matter that Husband was waiting on me to help give Baby his nebulizer treatment and put him to bed. It didn't matter that I didn't have my wallet, ID, or phone. I had the keys and 1/2 a tank of gas. I could have just left. So I think that's where the urge to dye my hair red came from.
I didn't purchase the hair color just then. I figured that I'd need to come back to actually pick up the prescription, so I could just get it then, along with baby Tylenol, baby Florastor, and various other baby things. I also wondered a little about the dangers of the chemicals, especially while breastfeeding. I knew I had to make a stop at the fundamentalist Christian grocery store, and I thought maybe I'd look in their organic section to see if they had something henna based. I also thought I could duck into the organic natural food market across the street from Walgreen's to see what they had.
The whole time I was debating this, Baby fussed and squirmed in my arms. Eventually I put the box of Garnier down and headed to the pharmacy counter. I dropped off the prescription, wrestled a socksless Baby into his carseat and wondered why I hadn't just walked the 1/2 block to the grocery store. Once in the grocery store, I headed straight for the organic hair color aisle, scrutinized the four choices, sang "Disco Inferno" to a screaming Baby, and decided to focus on my actual task-buying groceries for dinner. I left the grocery store without any red hair dye and headed back to Walgreens.
Back at Walgreens I meandered through the hair care aisle. I checked the warning and cautions and walked to the pharmacy counter with "Pomegranate" in my hand. I thought about $9.99 price tag and felt guilty. I bitch and moan all the time about our lack of money and how we really can't afford for me to spend $9.99 on something so vain. I told myself it's just $10, so why not. My superego and my id argued back and forth about the expense and the vanity and the innate selfishness in this desire. I really really really wanted to color my hair.
My hair is still dishwater brown. Instead of paying $10 for hair coloring, I got a temporary fix by purchasing a tube of Carmex, which I hadn't done since early college. I still want to color my hair, but I can hold out a little longer.

I'm not sure why it's funny, but it is...

Husband has made this the background of his mac.

Our Hospital Adventure

We spent the better part of the last few days in the hospital. What began as a phone call to the after hours pediatrician ended four days later with Husband, me, and Baby ready to gauge each other's eyes out after being trapped in a hospital room waaaaaaaaaaaaay too long.
On Saturday evening, Baby spiked a very high fever. On the advice of my mother in law, via Jen, I called the pediatrician. She said to go to the ER. I didn't freak out or anything, and Husband and I both figured the doctor would see Baby, give him some antibiotics, and send us on our way. That was our naive thinking at 7:30 pm. At 12:30 am (really 1:30 am, but the clocks had been set back) I was being vomited on while in an elevator going to the 6th floor of the hospital-the pediatric wing.
The nurse made up beds for us-chairs that unfolded, a sheet, a crappy pillow and blanket, and examined Baby. She took his blood pressure and temperature and attached something to his toe that monitored the amount of oxygen he was taking in. She put him on oxygen. Husband found us food from the wing's freezer, and we inhaled Healthy Choice dinners. Eventually we all fell into a restless sleep.
We spent Sunday in the hospital. Husband left at dawn to take a shower and returned at lunchtime. I spent the morning reading and holding a sleeping Baby. After lunch, I left to shower and purchase jeans, since the ones I was wearing were covered in vomit and other Baby goo and pretty much had to be destroyed.
We got a roommate Sunday night. She was a two year old who also had RSV and apparently liked to shriek and cry. She and her mother got to the hospital just as Husband and I were finishing our dinner of crappy Chinese food. Baby and two-year old stared and stared at each other. The two-year old seemed very interested in Baby, and he seemed interested in her. Husband left me and went home to sleep. I lay in bed and cried.
The hospital's rule for going home was that Baby had to be off of the oxygen for 24 hours before we could go home. We hoped that he'd make it through Sunday night without needing the oxygen, but on Monday morning, the nurse woke me, apologized, and said we'd have to stay another night. Husband showed up, and I left to shower and pick up some stuff from work. We spent another mind-numbing day in the hospital. Husband got to leave because he had class. Our roommate got released; her mom sprinted out of the hotel room. We encouraged Baby over and over to stay off of the oxygen that night. Husband woke me around 1 am, telling me he had to go home since we were getting a new roommate. He left, and I called him to tell him I thought he should stay in the lobby with the other dads. He disagreed. I lay in my bed and cried. The roommate, a three month old baby, had a mama who looked to be about 19. She was MIA most of the night while her child cried and cried and my child then cried and cried, and I got a few 45 minute stretches that night.
Baby made it through the night, and we made it home yesterday morning. I am exhausted. Baby is cranky, sleepier than usual, not eating, but other than that, back to normal. Let's not let this happen again.

Yippie!

We are home with a much better, although somewhat sleepy/cranky Baby. I will give a full update tomorrow, I hope.

I've failed...

I didn't get to post yesterday. I will not post again today. I don't actually know when I will get to post again, but it's unlikely that it will happen before my kid leaves the hospital.

30 Days of Thanks

I joined a group called 30 Days of Thanks. It's purpose is to post something you're thankful for each day this month. I missed yesterday. I guess I'll go with the obvious today-Husband and Baby.
I also decided to try this with my students. We are writing our names and something we are thankful for on die-cut leaves each day this month. They seemed into it, so I guess I'm thankful for that as well.

And I've posted

We are now the proud owners of a nebulizer.

I swear, it's not a cop out!

Baby is sick again. I've been projectile vomited on twice in the last hour and in between had to listen to his tortured cries as Husband and I gave him a nebulizer treatment. I have 20 spelling tests to grade, 20 reading quizzes to grade, 20 dictations to grade, and 2 story questions to grade. I've not yet eaten dinner, and I inhaled lunch. At noon. I've eaten a twizzlers and half of a fun size hershey bar. My hand still hurts like a bitch. I can't type on here tonight.