I used to suffer from the phenomenon of post-Christmas letdown. The last of the presents would be opened, dinner would be through, and I would feel depressed. All of December there was this intense energy, these frantic preparations, this whole month of effort, culminating in only a few hours of fun. And then it was over.
But as the Johnson & Johnson commercial says, a baby changes everything. This year, Christmas is over, and I AM SO GLAD. I am relieved. I am honestly looking forward to the dull winter months of nothing. Nothing is not such a bad thing anymore.
However, that also means I don't have anything interesting to blog about . . .
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Christmastime revelation #2: I am so uncool
Pregnancy stole my fashion sense.
I am a firm believer in the concept that the price you pay for a piece of clothing should be relative to the number of times, or the length of time, you will wear it. And I refuse to drop more than $30 on anything I would/will be wearing for less than five months. Consequently, I spent the second and third trimesters of pregnancy in jeans, T-shirts, and tank tops from Motherhood Maternity and Old Navy. I should also mention that my birthday is on Christmas Day, so I have essentially one shot at getting any clothing or accessories that I cannot justify buying for myself. Since last year I received only maternity clothes -- per my wish list -- I haven't had many new non-pregnancy clothes in the last two years.
Last night at the mall it finally occurred me: I am just not cool anymore. Once upon a time -- and I am talking way back, like middle school days -- the mall was the center of the fashion universe. You wore, like, your coolest, raddest clothes for a day at the mall with your friends. And then there were those annoying adults in their jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers taking up space with their baby strollers, giving you dirty looks for acting stupid and obnoxious.
I was not wearing sneakers, per se, but I was wearing comfortable, sensible shoes. I also did not actually give any teenagers dirty looks -- but I thought mean looks at them. Because they're stupid and obnoxious.
Feeling down, I went into Express to look for jewelry for my brother's hip girlfriend. Nothing but long, dangly earrings that Ghoulie would love to yank out of my ears. Perfect for B., of course, but no longer practical for me. *Sigh.*
On to Victoria's Secret, strictly for body wash and lotion. Guess what? Victoria's Secret is not set up to accomodate new mothers! Not only do they depress you by displaying half a zillion cute outfits that just would not look quite as good on you as they used to, but they set up their displays about 18 inches apart from one another, covered in long, sweeping satin cloths that get caught and tangled in stroller wheels. No I am not kidding about this. We almost took out the entire Very Sexy collection.
Now I have two New Year's resolutions. The first, decided a good month ago now, is to quit the red meat habit. Again. (Pregnancy not only took my coolness, it also turned me into a meat-eater.) My second resolution, made at the Express jewelry rack at 8 pm last night, is to get rid of this uncoolness. Or, at least, return to some minor semblance of fashion. So family, if you have any shopping left to do, make me hip again.
I am a firm believer in the concept that the price you pay for a piece of clothing should be relative to the number of times, or the length of time, you will wear it. And I refuse to drop more than $30 on anything I would/will be wearing for less than five months. Consequently, I spent the second and third trimesters of pregnancy in jeans, T-shirts, and tank tops from Motherhood Maternity and Old Navy. I should also mention that my birthday is on Christmas Day, so I have essentially one shot at getting any clothing or accessories that I cannot justify buying for myself. Since last year I received only maternity clothes -- per my wish list -- I haven't had many new non-pregnancy clothes in the last two years.
Last night at the mall it finally occurred me: I am just not cool anymore. Once upon a time -- and I am talking way back, like middle school days -- the mall was the center of the fashion universe. You wore, like, your coolest, raddest clothes for a day at the mall with your friends. And then there were those annoying adults in their jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers taking up space with their baby strollers, giving you dirty looks for acting stupid and obnoxious.
I was not wearing sneakers, per se, but I was wearing comfortable, sensible shoes. I also did not actually give any teenagers dirty looks -- but I thought mean looks at them. Because they're stupid and obnoxious.
Feeling down, I went into Express to look for jewelry for my brother's hip girlfriend. Nothing but long, dangly earrings that Ghoulie would love to yank out of my ears. Perfect for B., of course, but no longer practical for me. *Sigh.*
On to Victoria's Secret, strictly for body wash and lotion. Guess what? Victoria's Secret is not set up to accomodate new mothers! Not only do they depress you by displaying half a zillion cute outfits that just would not look quite as good on you as they used to, but they set up their displays about 18 inches apart from one another, covered in long, sweeping satin cloths that get caught and tangled in stroller wheels. No I am not kidding about this. We almost took out the entire Very Sexy collection.
Now I have two New Year's resolutions. The first, decided a good month ago now, is to quit the red meat habit. Again. (Pregnancy not only took my coolness, it also turned me into a meat-eater.) My second resolution, made at the Express jewelry rack at 8 pm last night, is to get rid of this uncoolness. Or, at least, return to some minor semblance of fashion. So family, if you have any shopping left to do, make me hip again.
Monday, December 11, 2006
fa la la freakin' fa la la
My latest new-mom, Christmas shopping pet peeve: Able-bodied individuals who insist on forgoing the stairs at the mall, instead sauntering s-l-o-w-l-y up the single-file ramps, and leaving we stroller-users to wait at the bottom. . . and wait. . . and wait. . .
Ditto for that perky lady who virtually skipped out of the elevator. . .
Ditto for that perky lady who virtually skipped out of the elevator. . .
Thursday, December 07, 2006
it takes a whole hell of a lot more than a village
Hilary Rodham Clinton only gave us the shorthand version. What she should have said is, It takes a village full of like-minded, forward-thinking, well-informed friends, family, neighbors, and acquaintances, to raise a child successfully.
God help us.
Since our return to New Hampsha', we've been blessed to be a small part of four living generations, on both Jake's side and mine. And 98% of the time, when I say blessed, I really mean blessed. It's the other 2% of the time that might do us in.
My mother and my mother-in-law, I have to acknowledge, back me up 100% of the time. If they have ever once disagreed with mine and Jake's parenting philosophy, I haven't known it, because they haven't said a word. And even their mothers and mothers-in-law generally don't offer their opinions. Not often. (Although Jake is getting fed up with his time with Ghoulie being referred to as "babysitting" by certain ancient parties.)
And then there was last Sunday. Ghoulie's dedication day, which is the Protestant answer to a christening. Beautiful ceremony, officiated by my father and attended by several representatives of each of the aforementioned generations. Afterwards, brunch at my parents' house. For the first half of the afternoon, Ghoulie was content to be passed around between several family members. At one point, this allowed Jake and I to catch up with a very close friend of mine, and to get to know her new boyfriend. Ghoulie was being cuddled and cooed at by two members of the eldest generation, who shall remain nameless. We gazed at her across the room as we talked. (You know, Jake and I probably are not very good in adult conversations with others lately.)
During a lull in our adult conversation, I noticed Ghoulie gumming at something. From the other side of the living room, I asked, "What's in her mouth?"
One of the two cuddle-and-cooers gave a little laugh at Ghoulie's cuteness and replied light-heartedly, "Oh, we just gave her a little bite of quiche."
Cheese and eggs to our seventh month old. We were dumbfounded. The town crier, apparently, has not effectively spread the word on baby dietary rules to this particular village. He has his work cut out for him. . .
Now, if only we can get someone in this family to take on the town crier role.
God help us.
Since our return to New Hampsha', we've been blessed to be a small part of four living generations, on both Jake's side and mine. And 98% of the time, when I say blessed, I really mean blessed. It's the other 2% of the time that might do us in.
My mother and my mother-in-law, I have to acknowledge, back me up 100% of the time. If they have ever once disagreed with mine and Jake's parenting philosophy, I haven't known it, because they haven't said a word. And even their mothers and mothers-in-law generally don't offer their opinions. Not often. (Although Jake is getting fed up with his time with Ghoulie being referred to as "babysitting" by certain ancient parties.)
And then there was last Sunday. Ghoulie's dedication day, which is the Protestant answer to a christening. Beautiful ceremony, officiated by my father and attended by several representatives of each of the aforementioned generations. Afterwards, brunch at my parents' house. For the first half of the afternoon, Ghoulie was content to be passed around between several family members. At one point, this allowed Jake and I to catch up with a very close friend of mine, and to get to know her new boyfriend. Ghoulie was being cuddled and cooed at by two members of the eldest generation, who shall remain nameless. We gazed at her across the room as we talked. (You know, Jake and I probably are not very good in adult conversations with others lately.)
During a lull in our adult conversation, I noticed Ghoulie gumming at something. From the other side of the living room, I asked, "What's in her mouth?"
One of the two cuddle-and-cooers gave a little laugh at Ghoulie's cuteness and replied light-heartedly, "Oh, we just gave her a little bite of quiche."
Cheese and eggs to our seventh month old. We were dumbfounded. The town crier, apparently, has not effectively spread the word on baby dietary rules to this particular village. He has his work cut out for him. . .
Now, if only we can get someone in this family to take on the town crier role.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BLOG???
. . . I know you're all asking. Answer: Life happened. Good life. Which always, it seems, equals busy life.
Up until last week, I was just the yoga teacher at work. 6 1/2 hours each week, or 8 on the weekends I offer the Introductory class. No big deal. Starting last week, though, I also became the office administrator, for an extra couple hundred a week. I'm enjoying it, and my mom and company (AKA my siblings who are now, incidentally, one terrific aunt and three doting uncles -- plus a couple of girlfriends and one foster brother and anyone else who might happen along) are taking care of Ghoulie.
Now I am officially juggling.
Oh, and one more "official" bit of news: As of last Saturday, when he signed his Academy paperwork, I'm officially a cop's wife. And, if I may brag for just a sentence or two, I have to mention that of 550 applicants, 5 were hired. Total. Yes, that's right, 1%. And my husband was at the top of the list. Go Jake! I love you.
Ghoulie is asleep, finally. Today was well-baby and immunization day (except for the flu shot, which we've decided against). She's a trooper when it comes to shots. Cried for about 10 seconds, then pouted for another 15 or so. After that, you wouldn't know she'd had anything. We've also decided we love our new pediatrics practice.
Augh, now I'm annoying myself with my rambling. Goodnight, and I will try not to let real life get in the way of my computer anymore.
Hardy har har.
Up until last week, I was just the yoga teacher at work. 6 1/2 hours each week, or 8 on the weekends I offer the Introductory class. No big deal. Starting last week, though, I also became the office administrator, for an extra couple hundred a week. I'm enjoying it, and my mom and company (AKA my siblings who are now, incidentally, one terrific aunt and three doting uncles -- plus a couple of girlfriends and one foster brother and anyone else who might happen along) are taking care of Ghoulie.
Now I am officially juggling.
Oh, and one more "official" bit of news: As of last Saturday, when he signed his Academy paperwork, I'm officially a cop's wife. And, if I may brag for just a sentence or two, I have to mention that of 550 applicants, 5 were hired. Total. Yes, that's right, 1%. And my husband was at the top of the list. Go Jake! I love you.
Ghoulie is asleep, finally. Today was well-baby and immunization day (except for the flu shot, which we've decided against). She's a trooper when it comes to shots. Cried for about 10 seconds, then pouted for another 15 or so. After that, you wouldn't know she'd had anything. We've also decided we love our new pediatrics practice.
Augh, now I'm annoying myself with my rambling. Goodnight, and I will try not to let real life get in the way of my computer anymore.
Hardy har har.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
it worked!
Captain's Log, Stardate 2006:
The first attempt was a success. Subject remained in bed from 8:00 pm to 8:30 am. Any thoughts of fully awakening were quickly remedied with nursing back to sleep before both eyes opened. The length of each sleep stretch is unknown, as this writer chose to turn the clock away from the bed. The fact remains, however, that subject did not stay awake until 1 am.
The one downside to the success of this experiment is that some time around 2:30 am, this writer discovered that the sleeping subject's diaper was very, very wet. Guiltily debated whether to wake subject for a diaper change, at the risk of subject staying awake indefinitely, or pretending not to know and hoping that this would not lead to a rash. This writer chose the latter route, which led to a period of guilty wakefulness over the decision. Still no diaper rash as of this writing.
Tonight we'll see if the success continues . . .
The first attempt was a success. Subject remained in bed from 8:00 pm to 8:30 am. Any thoughts of fully awakening were quickly remedied with nursing back to sleep before both eyes opened. The length of each sleep stretch is unknown, as this writer chose to turn the clock away from the bed. The fact remains, however, that subject did not stay awake until 1 am.
The one downside to the success of this experiment is that some time around 2:30 am, this writer discovered that the sleeping subject's diaper was very, very wet. Guiltily debated whether to wake subject for a diaper change, at the risk of subject staying awake indefinitely, or pretending not to know and hoping that this would not lead to a rash. This writer chose the latter route, which led to a period of guilty wakefulness over the decision. Still no diaper rash as of this writing.
Tonight we'll see if the success continues . . .
Monday, November 27, 2006
bedtime: the saga continues
Last night, bedtime lasted two and a half hours. It started with soft Christmas music, Goodnight Moon, and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." It ended, as usual, with nursing in our bed at 1 am. I have rehashed everything that happened in between far too many times today. But bear in mind, by bedtime I mean, when I want Ghoulie to fall asleep. I am not even counting the hour and a half beforehand that she was bathed, cuddled, nursed, and cuddled some more.
A huge, huge part of this bedtime problem is our fault; we have trouble creating the idea that it is nighttime before 11:00. To us it's nighttime -- but to Ghoulie, it's all the same. People to catnap on, then wake up and play with. Lights and TV and conversation. Who could sleep?
So I am taking responsibility and creating a very loose sleep schedule that will work for Ghoulie. I woke her up this morning at 9:00. She was pretty pissed about it. After short naps during the day -- no, I don't advocate short naps, but apparently Ghoulie does. One thing at a time here, okay? -- she was rubbing her head on my shoulder at 6:30. I cruelly kept her awake by playing with her until 7:45, at which time she fell asleep in the car on the drive home from my parents'.
Now, at 8:30, she is asleep in our bed, where she will stay for the night. She already woke up once to nurse, but she drifted off once she was finished.
For now, I'm thinking of it as an experiment. Keep your fingers crossed for happy results. I'll report on my findings tomorrow.
A huge, huge part of this bedtime problem is our fault; we have trouble creating the idea that it is nighttime before 11:00. To us it's nighttime -- but to Ghoulie, it's all the same. People to catnap on, then wake up and play with. Lights and TV and conversation. Who could sleep?
So I am taking responsibility and creating a very loose sleep schedule that will work for Ghoulie. I woke her up this morning at 9:00. She was pretty pissed about it. After short naps during the day -- no, I don't advocate short naps, but apparently Ghoulie does. One thing at a time here, okay? -- she was rubbing her head on my shoulder at 6:30. I cruelly kept her awake by playing with her until 7:45, at which time she fell asleep in the car on the drive home from my parents'.
Now, at 8:30, she is asleep in our bed, where she will stay for the night. She already woke up once to nurse, but she drifted off once she was finished.
For now, I'm thinking of it as an experiment. Keep your fingers crossed for happy results. I'll report on my findings tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
appearances can be deceiving
The Little Ghoulie is, at first glance, a delicate little thing. Slightly small for her age, nice and round but still petite. Her eyes are big and somber, the rest of her features are -- dare I say it? -- dainty. Little nose, little mouth, little ears. (Little hair, too, but we've already covered that.) When she meets new people, she gives them a dainty little grin and they think she is so sweet and innocent and fragile.
Her Daddy and I never bought into that act.
And lately, we have proven ourselves right. Ghoulie has two favorite new tricks: First, the biggest, loudest raspberries in the world. I mean, the kind that makes giant bubbles on her chin. That trick is, admittedly, hilarious and adorable. The second, though, I could do without.
She grunts.
A lot.
Loud, long grunts that at first made both grandmothers ask when she had last pooped. But then she pooped, and kept right on grunting. She has taken to doing this in grocery store lines, in church during prayer time, and in the middle of pivotal scenes during Law and Order: SVU. And in the middle of her mommy desperately trying to blog for once.
The grunting appears to accompany teething pain, tiredness, hunger, diaper wetness, and general boredom. It also surfaces when Ghoulie does not get what she wants -- which tonight was popcorn and Craisins. If she sees anyone else eating something, she wants it. (The very same reason her Daddy now insists that her Mommy order a separate dessert when they go out, instead of saying, "Just bring a second spoon.") And if by some chance Ghoulie gets a taste of something, but then that something is taken away, look out. All hell with be broken loose by the delicate six-month-old flower.
Between Jake and I, we figured we were bound to have an opinionated, willful child. We just didn't expect that fact to surface just yet.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
dream meanings for dummies
My sister, my mother, and I had something of a morning ritual when I was younger. We still return to it when we are all together over the holidays or during random weekend visits. Over coffee, in our pajamas, we tell each other any interesting dreams we had the night before. Once the dreamer has described any bizarre nightly imaginings, the listeners wrinkle their noses and wonder, "What do you think it means?" Usually, we find the answer. Sometimes we need to wait until my psychologist aunt comes for a visit of her own, if the dream is too strange for us to handle. But most of the time, we come up with some brilliant explanation.
My sister and her husband are scheduled to arrive here from Cleveland tomorrow morning, and apparently my subconscious is gearing up for the visit:
Today Ghoulie and I did one of our favorite things: we took a nap together. And it was a nice nap, a good nap, the kind that includes real, deep sleep. Which has been in short supply around here for the last, oh, six, seven, maybe eight months.
Such deep sleep, and such a long nap, that I actually had a dream. I can't remember the last time I had a dream. That is not even an exaggeration, sadly -- I really can't think of one time since my little all-night nurser was born that I have had a dream I could remember once I woke up. Being a little rusty on the interpretation end of things, my subconscious decided to be nice and obvious for my mom, my sister, and myself. I don't think we'll even need a cup of coffee first to interpret this one.
First of all, in real life, Ghoulie is busily mastering the art of sitting up. (She's quite good.) Also, we were discussing Target this morning. I'm not sure why -- yes I am. We were contemplating where to buy a highchair, and I was railing against the national chain store in which we registered for baby needs, which shall remain nameless but does not associate itself with a cartoon giraffe. Actually it associates itself with coats. And it stopped selling the highchair we wanted for Ghoulie, weeks before my baby shower. But nevermind all that. Let's move on to my dream world.
I'm outside a department store, looking for a carriage. Since Ghoulie can sit up, I decide to leave her sling in the car, and put her in the front of the carriage -- like a big girl! But, I have a hell of a time finding a carriage that works for us. First I find one that has a great seat for a baby in the front -- but it turns out to be a jogging stroller, and won't hold all the things I need to buy. Next, I find a clean, new, big carriage -- but it doesn't have any place to put a baby. Finally I find a corral full of carriages perfect for shopping with a baby -- but they are all broken in some way, or wheel-less or otherwise falling apart. I cannot find one carriage, despite searching the entire store and the vast parking lot, THAT WILL MEET THE NEEDS OF BOTH GHOULIE AND MYSELF.
And of course, the entire, very long carriage searching experience is continuously interuppted by well-meaning strangers wanting to help, other customers at the store getting in my way, and random old ladies wanting to hold my baby for their own gratification. It is all very stressful. Here I am supposed to be shopping for all our household needs, and I've been at the store for like two hours and have not managed to find even one of the many items I am here to buy, because I am so occupied with trying to find the perfect arrangement for Ghoulie and me. And it JUST ISN'T WORKING.
My sister and her husband are scheduled to arrive here from Cleveland tomorrow morning, and apparently my subconscious is gearing up for the visit:
Today Ghoulie and I did one of our favorite things: we took a nap together. And it was a nice nap, a good nap, the kind that includes real, deep sleep. Which has been in short supply around here for the last, oh, six, seven, maybe eight months.
Such deep sleep, and such a long nap, that I actually had a dream. I can't remember the last time I had a dream. That is not even an exaggeration, sadly -- I really can't think of one time since my little all-night nurser was born that I have had a dream I could remember once I woke up. Being a little rusty on the interpretation end of things, my subconscious decided to be nice and obvious for my mom, my sister, and myself. I don't think we'll even need a cup of coffee first to interpret this one.
First of all, in real life, Ghoulie is busily mastering the art of sitting up. (She's quite good.) Also, we were discussing Target this morning. I'm not sure why -- yes I am. We were contemplating where to buy a highchair, and I was railing against the national chain store in which we registered for baby needs, which shall remain nameless but does not associate itself with a cartoon giraffe. Actually it associates itself with coats. And it stopped selling the highchair we wanted for Ghoulie, weeks before my baby shower. But nevermind all that. Let's move on to my dream world.
I'm outside a department store, looking for a carriage. Since Ghoulie can sit up, I decide to leave her sling in the car, and put her in the front of the carriage -- like a big girl! But, I have a hell of a time finding a carriage that works for us. First I find one that has a great seat for a baby in the front -- but it turns out to be a jogging stroller, and won't hold all the things I need to buy. Next, I find a clean, new, big carriage -- but it doesn't have any place to put a baby. Finally I find a corral full of carriages perfect for shopping with a baby -- but they are all broken in some way, or wheel-less or otherwise falling apart. I cannot find one carriage, despite searching the entire store and the vast parking lot, THAT WILL MEET THE NEEDS OF BOTH GHOULIE AND MYSELF.
And of course, the entire, very long carriage searching experience is continuously interuppted by well-meaning strangers wanting to help, other customers at the store getting in my way, and random old ladies wanting to hold my baby for their own gratification. It is all very stressful. Here I am supposed to be shopping for all our household needs, and I've been at the store for like two hours and have not managed to find even one of the many items I am here to buy, because I am so occupied with trying to find the perfect arrangement for Ghoulie and me. And it JUST ISN'T WORKING.
Back to the real world, where Ghoulie is a little annoyed that I've been benignfully neglecting her for the last 20 minutes. Can't wait to discuss the dream with my mom and sis -- over a pot of decaf.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
"motherhood -- it's hot!"
Have you ever seen the Livestrong bands they sell at Motherhood Maternity, to benefit the March of Dimes? They're red and they have the afore-quoted sweet saying emblazoned on one side. Jake wore one when I was pregnant. It was cute.
The reality of it, however, I must call into question.
Ghoulie appears to be approaching her six-month growth spurt. She's nursing every two hours or so, all night long. On top of that, we're all recovering from a nasty cold that seems to have overtaken the entire state of New Hampshire.
This morning, I awoke 30 minutes later than I wanted to -- having once again set the alarm for 8 pm -- and rushed into the shower. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: droopy eyes, serious case of bedhead . . . and a cute little baby booger stuck to my cleavage.
The reality of it, however, I must call into question.
Ghoulie appears to be approaching her six-month growth spurt. She's nursing every two hours or so, all night long. On top of that, we're all recovering from a nasty cold that seems to have overtaken the entire state of New Hampshire.
This morning, I awoke 30 minutes later than I wanted to -- having once again set the alarm for 8 pm -- and rushed into the shower. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: droopy eyes, serious case of bedhead . . . and a cute little baby booger stuck to my cleavage.
Friday, October 27, 2006
reflecting
Most of my life, I have been something of a walking contradiction. A social home-schooled kid. A (only slightly) rebellious PK. A Christian who practices and teaches eastern medicine and philosophy.
Not that any of these aspects of my life are contradictory to me. But I have spent many a time, upon meeting new people, responding to a quizzical look and a, "Oh! What's that like?"
You may have noticed that my description of this blog, in the sidebar, has changed. And the reason for that is, I have changed -- again.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out. Just when I had managed, somehow, to fit my identity and my place in the world into this neat, albeit unconventional, little box. Just when I had learned how to color inside the lines, once and for all. Then along comes this little baby who blows the lid off all that.
Being a home-schooled Christian preacher's kid, naturally I grew up in a big family. As the oldest of six children, in fact. I was a much sought-after babysitter as a teenager. Then -- upon discovering that most employers have no use for a degree in something called "Liberal Studies in the Great Books" -- I worked as a nanny for several years after college. Yes, I knew pretty much all there was to know about caring for babies and small children.
Except how it felt to be a mother.
And who would have guessed? Suddenly, there are questions to which I just do not have answers.
Thank God for babies. They have such a way of saving us from ourselves.
Not that any of these aspects of my life are contradictory to me. But I have spent many a time, upon meeting new people, responding to a quizzical look and a, "Oh! What's that like?"
You may have noticed that my description of this blog, in the sidebar, has changed. And the reason for that is, I have changed -- again.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out. Just when I had managed, somehow, to fit my identity and my place in the world into this neat, albeit unconventional, little box. Just when I had learned how to color inside the lines, once and for all. Then along comes this little baby who blows the lid off all that.
Being a home-schooled Christian preacher's kid, naturally I grew up in a big family. As the oldest of six children, in fact. I was a much sought-after babysitter as a teenager. Then -- upon discovering that most employers have no use for a degree in something called "Liberal Studies in the Great Books" -- I worked as a nanny for several years after college. Yes, I knew pretty much all there was to know about caring for babies and small children.
Except how it felt to be a mother.
And who would have guessed? Suddenly, there are questions to which I just do not have answers.
Thank God for babies. They have such a way of saving us from ourselves.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
this can't be "regular"
We haven't been getting a whole lot of sleep lately. And you know why?
Well, mostly because both mine and Jake's schedules have changed dramatically in the past month. Lots of early mornings -- every weekday for him, two weekdays for me. We're trying to go to bed earlier. We're slowly resolving the baby sleep issues. But Ghoulie felt left out, being the only person whose schedule didn't change much (or at least, as little as possible). So, big girl that she is (solid foods and all), she took matters into her own hands: She had decided that 10:30 pm is her new preferred time to poop.
Well, mostly because both mine and Jake's schedules have changed dramatically in the past month. Lots of early mornings -- every weekday for him, two weekdays for me. We're trying to go to bed earlier. We're slowly resolving the baby sleep issues. But Ghoulie felt left out, being the only person whose schedule didn't change much (or at least, as little as possible). So, big girl that she is (solid foods and all), she took matters into her own hands: She had decided that 10:30 pm is her new preferred time to poop.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Mr. Clean
Jake's laundry handicap has been something of a running joke throughout the course of our marriage. He has a very, very difficult time seeing that dirty clothes make it into the hamper. They land on the bathroom floor, strewn about the bedroom, or somewhere else inconvenient, but in the proximity of the washing machine. But rarely do they land in the hamper. In our old house, I even bought a second laundry basket for the top of the basement stairs. (I'd rather not call it "enabling." I prefer to think of it as "keeping my sanity.")
Now, not only does Jake have his wife to nag him about this, but his mother as well. The result?
Today, upon taping up the Ghoulie's clean diaper, he asked, "Do I really need to put her pants back on? It's warm in here, and she seems so much happier with them off." I shrugged. Didn't matter to me until we had to leave the house, and that wasn't for another hour. (Note: He knew we'd be preparing to leave soon.) At which point I asked him, looking around the living room, "Hey, where'd you put her pants, anyway?"
Can you guess, can you guess?
Yup.
"Uh, in her hamper."
They tell you there's a first time for everything. What they fail to mention is, it will be the most inconvenient time possible.
Now, not only does Jake have his wife to nag him about this, but his mother as well. The result?
Today, upon taping up the Ghoulie's clean diaper, he asked, "Do I really need to put her pants back on? It's warm in here, and she seems so much happier with them off." I shrugged. Didn't matter to me until we had to leave the house, and that wasn't for another hour. (Note: He knew we'd be preparing to leave soon.) At which point I asked him, looking around the living room, "Hey, where'd you put her pants, anyway?"
Can you guess, can you guess?
Yup.
"Uh, in her hamper."
They tell you there's a first time for everything. What they fail to mention is, it will be the most inconvenient time possible.
Monday, October 23, 2006
babies are good therapy
We've been more than fortunate in my family. Growing up, I was one of the only kids I knew who had all four grandparents alive and, more importantly, well. And the good fortune has lasted a long time: Ghoulie now has not one, not two, but six great-grandparents -- all four of my grandparents, and both Jake's grandmothers.
But recently, I have had to come to terms with the fact that this good fortune can't possibly last forever. Or rather, the fact that we are so fortunate does not mean that the situation will last forever (big difference). And this is painful to write, let alone think about, because I know that my mother and my mother-in-law and one of my grandmothers will probably be the first three to read it, and none of us really likes to think about it. But lately, one of my grandfathers is slipping. That vague, gentle word is the term we've been using, because it sounds nicer to say that than it does to say, "He doesn't really know what's going on." Or what year it is or where he's going or sometimes even who my grandmother is.
It breaks my heart to even write it. At first I was able to say, "Well, he's old, that's just what happens." Because that's true, and besides it makes it so much easier to deal with. But one day it occurred to me that, sure, that's easy to say, but this is not just my grandfather, this is my grandmother's husband. This is my father's father. And maybe I can (sort of) deal with seeing my grandfather this way, but I certainly wouldn't know how to deal with seeing Jake or my own Dad like this. That changes my perspective considerably. It makes me worry and feel sad for my grandmother and for my Dad. I am, by nature, the type of person who likes to "make everything all better," and this situation makes me feel helpless and useless and impotent. You know, a dose of reality. Because who am I to think I can help this situation?
Church is halfway between our house and my grandparents', so when they weren't in church yesterday, Ghoulie and I went for a visit. Grandpa wasn't feeling well, but he was mostly himself. We talked about family and Ghoulie and Jake's career possbilities, and the prospects of them selling their house to move closer to my parents. But it wasn't the conversation or the visit with their granddaughter that made them so happy. It was the visit from their great-granddaughter.
Ghoulie seemed to know that she had the power to brighten their day. She spent her afternoon smiling and cooing, rolling around on a receiving blanket that once belonged to my father, and, best of all, devouring the bites of apple pie (sans crust) that I offerred her. Grampa thought this was the greatest trick in the world, and when I lamented the fact that I had barely had a bite myself, Grammie held Ghoulie and gave her a few more bites from her own plate. Apparently, Ghoulie is a true yankee at heart, because man she likes her apple pie. To the point of crying when one bite wasn't followed by another. She has never done this with rice cereal and carrots. (Who would?)
What amazed me was just how happy both my grandparents were just to have Ghoulie present. Her simply being in their house, behaving as she always does (except that she doesn't usually eat apple pie), was enough to make them overjoyed. When all we did was to come for a visit.
We are in the process of planning Little Ghoulie's baby dedication, and Jake keeps asking, "What is a baby dedication, anyway?" To which I give vague answers like, "It's saying you want your baby to honor God," and things like that. But what does that even mean?
A college friend of mine has started a new blog. When I read her first post today, after buying car insurance and sitting on hold with the new pediatrician for half an hour, I felt very shallow and small. I get so caught up in this day-to-day life of baby-raising and general domestication, and I tend to forget the bigger picture. But I only forget it in the short term.
Dedicating Ghoulie to God, or, for that matter, taking her to visit my grandparents, is really all about the same thing: It's because I want her to make the world better. I want her to believe that, whether on a small scale or a large one, she has something to offer. That she has the power to improve the world around her and the people who live in it.
So maybe I look at certain situations and I feel powerless. But then I realize that my little baby, so small and weak and wordless, has a power greater than any of the rest of us can comprehend. And if that means eating a little apple pie once in a while, so be it.
But recently, I have had to come to terms with the fact that this good fortune can't possibly last forever. Or rather, the fact that we are so fortunate does not mean that the situation will last forever (big difference). And this is painful to write, let alone think about, because I know that my mother and my mother-in-law and one of my grandmothers will probably be the first three to read it, and none of us really likes to think about it. But lately, one of my grandfathers is slipping. That vague, gentle word is the term we've been using, because it sounds nicer to say that than it does to say, "He doesn't really know what's going on." Or what year it is or where he's going or sometimes even who my grandmother is.
It breaks my heart to even write it. At first I was able to say, "Well, he's old, that's just what happens." Because that's true, and besides it makes it so much easier to deal with. But one day it occurred to me that, sure, that's easy to say, but this is not just my grandfather, this is my grandmother's husband. This is my father's father. And maybe I can (sort of) deal with seeing my grandfather this way, but I certainly wouldn't know how to deal with seeing Jake or my own Dad like this. That changes my perspective considerably. It makes me worry and feel sad for my grandmother and for my Dad. I am, by nature, the type of person who likes to "make everything all better," and this situation makes me feel helpless and useless and impotent. You know, a dose of reality. Because who am I to think I can help this situation?
Church is halfway between our house and my grandparents', so when they weren't in church yesterday, Ghoulie and I went for a visit. Grandpa wasn't feeling well, but he was mostly himself. We talked about family and Ghoulie and Jake's career possbilities, and the prospects of them selling their house to move closer to my parents. But it wasn't the conversation or the visit with their granddaughter that made them so happy. It was the visit from their great-granddaughter.
Ghoulie seemed to know that she had the power to brighten their day. She spent her afternoon smiling and cooing, rolling around on a receiving blanket that once belonged to my father, and, best of all, devouring the bites of apple pie (sans crust) that I offerred her. Grampa thought this was the greatest trick in the world, and when I lamented the fact that I had barely had a bite myself, Grammie held Ghoulie and gave her a few more bites from her own plate. Apparently, Ghoulie is a true yankee at heart, because man she likes her apple pie. To the point of crying when one bite wasn't followed by another. She has never done this with rice cereal and carrots. (Who would?)
What amazed me was just how happy both my grandparents were just to have Ghoulie present. Her simply being in their house, behaving as she always does (except that she doesn't usually eat apple pie), was enough to make them overjoyed. When all we did was to come for a visit.
We are in the process of planning Little Ghoulie's baby dedication, and Jake keeps asking, "What is a baby dedication, anyway?" To which I give vague answers like, "It's saying you want your baby to honor God," and things like that. But what does that even mean?
A college friend of mine has started a new blog. When I read her first post today, after buying car insurance and sitting on hold with the new pediatrician for half an hour, I felt very shallow and small. I get so caught up in this day-to-day life of baby-raising and general domestication, and I tend to forget the bigger picture. But I only forget it in the short term.
Dedicating Ghoulie to God, or, for that matter, taking her to visit my grandparents, is really all about the same thing: It's because I want her to make the world better. I want her to believe that, whether on a small scale or a large one, she has something to offer. That she has the power to improve the world around her and the people who live in it.
So maybe I look at certain situations and I feel powerless. But then I realize that my little baby, so small and weak and wordless, has a power greater than any of the rest of us can comprehend. And if that means eating a little apple pie once in a while, so be it.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
listening to the mustn'ts
Yesterday, I made a bold declaration: "Ghoulie needs a bedtime." This came on the heels of a very Tuesday late night, when Jake and I both needed to wake up very early Wednesday morning. No more, I decided. I would not be victim to my 5-month-old's sleep patterns, or lack thereof.
One consistent part of Ghoulie's routine of late is being cuddled to sleep by her Grammie. Post-bath, she's lotioned up, zipped into her blanket sleeper, then snuggled into Grammie K.'s shoulder for a good evening nap. Usually this is followed by waking up immediately after prime-time television for a little snack, then sleeping in her crib for several hours. Except that "usually" isn't really a fair word to use; it's more like "sometimes." Very hit-or-miss. Often, sleeping in the crib lasts about 20 minutes -- roughly the time it takes for mommy to put on her own pajamas, remember about five things that need to be done before tomorrow morning, check email one last time, and be halfway through the teeth-brushing, eyebrow-grooming, face-washing evening ritual -- followed by a bit of distressed, absolutely heart-breaking crying from the crib, because Ghoulie isn't much for self-soothing at this point. Dr. Ferber, hang your head in shame of me.
(Jake, for the record, has had several early mornings in a row, due to starting a fantastic new job this week and [sshhh] having a high-stress interview for the even more fantastic job he really wants. So I've been trying to give him a break from the bedtime drama. Plus, he did, like, eight loads of laundry by himself yesterday.)
So last night, the Third Reich of sleep scheduling began. Not so bad, at first. Ghoulie bathed, lotioned, snuggled. Slept all the way through Lost. (The one downside to that being, as anyone who has ever cuddled a baby to sleep knows, that holding a sleeping, blanket-sleepered baby can be pretty soporific in itself, therefore Grammie K. missed several key plot points in Locke's backstory. Which kind of sucked, because I knew Eddie was a cop, and I didn't have anyone to gloat to . . .)
Anyway. Ghoulie slept right through the transfer from Grammie's arms to mine, and from my arms to her crib. She slept until I was about to wash my face. Then it was snack time, which was fine, because I wanted to play some Web Sudoku anyway. (Although I have to say, I wish there was a separate time category for breastfeeding women, because I am way below average. As I've mentioned, I'm not so into below-averageness . . .)
Still, everything was going according to plan. Ghoulie promptly fell back to sleep after nursing, and was laid in her crib without incident. I played another round of Sudoku to learn that my poor time has absolutely nothing to do with breastfeeding. Feeling a little below average, I soundlessly made my way to bed. And as I soundlessly pulled up the covers, Ghoulie began to fuss.
Well, I decided, time for her to practice self-soothing. So far so good, the fussing and kicking the crib mattress were interspersed with some very loud thumb-sucking. But then the fussing graduated to louder, distressed crying, and I caved. In my defense, though, I didn't want her to wake up Jake. So I scooped her up and held her while she continued to cry. No nursing, I decided, because there was no possible way she could be hungry. No nursing. No nursing. No nursing.
Well, we all know what happened to the Third Reich.
Why, if the "right" parenting thing to do was to make Ghoulie go to sleep on her own, did I ache to hold her, to feed her? Why did it hurt me to let her cry, when I knew exactly how to comfort her? What, exactly, was I supposed to be teaching her by doing this?
Yes, I know, I'm teaching her to fall asleep on her own. I am teaching her not to need me in the middle of the night. I'm teaching her how to let mommy and daddy get an uninterrupted night's sleep.
As the Allied Forces swept in and I sat down on the edge of the bed to nurse, a revelation. We all sleep better when Ghoulie is in our bed. Not only does she sleep more soundly, but when we wake up for whatever middle-of-the-night reason, all it takes is a hand on her belly to see that she is breathing. No squinting at her crib in the dim light to watch for the rise and fall of her chest. No compulsively stumbling over to the crib because we know we really can't see anything in the dark, and we just won't fall asleep again until we've ascertained that she's alive. (She's past the high risk age for SIDS. When are we going to stop doing this? Does my mother wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if, miles away, I'm still breathing? How does she go back to sleep without knowing the answer?)
The only reason Ghoulie splits her sleeping time between her crib and our bed is because she isn't supposed to sleep in our bed. Yes, Dr. Sears says it's fine, but I grew up in a Dr. Dobson family. I myself was thoroughly Ferberized, and none the worse for the wear. Aside from the aforementioned compulsiveness and distress at below-averageness, anyway. But I'm the oldest child; that all probably would have happened anyway. (An aside: Six children later, my mother is the biggest proponent of co-sleeping I know.)
Ghoulie doesn't sleep in our bed all the time because I have guilt when she does. But she doesn't cry alone in her crib, because then I have even more guilt. But here is the difference between the two: Guilt over her crying it out comes from within. It just feels wrong to me. (Note: For me. I'm not about to say it's wrong for every mother and every baby.) The guilt over Ghoulie sleeping in our bed comes from outside forces, from the books and the doctors and probably the lady who wanted her to wear a hat last week. As long as pillows and heavy blankets and the edge of the bed are out of her range, as long as neither one of us is inebriated and we're both on board with the idea, I haven't been able to find any real reason to not let her sleep in our bed. Sure, there are vague references to independence and routine and something in What the Expect the First Year (my new arch-nemesis) called "baby-bottle mouth." But mostly, the guilt over co-sleeping comes from my pregnancy declaration that "we will not do co-sleeping." I have joked in the past that I haven't held to that very well. But it's still there, this feeling that I backed down on my convictions, that I caved. Why can't I just think, Oh, I didn't know what I was talking about then, I've since changed my mind? Am I so compulsively stubborn that I need to hold to an ideal I once had, even if I disagree with it now?
After Ghoulie nursed last night, I put her back in her crib, awake. She cried. I picked her up, cuddled her until she stopped crying, and put her down again. She cried. And so, with a heavy, guilty heart, I got into our bed with her. As I lay her down between Jake and myself, she turned to me and, in the dim light, gave me the biggest, brightest, happiest smile I've ever seen.
It was like D-Day. But without the tragedy. Uh -- nevermind. The analogy has fallen apart.
The smile was not, as some might suggest, a victory smile. It did not have that "Ha ha, I won" quality to it. If anything it said, "Hey Mom, I love you, and now I'm going to sleep." Which she did. And so did I, with my heart just a little lighter. A few more smiles like that, and I predict the guilt will retreat to a concrete bunker with Eva Braun, and never show its face again.
One consistent part of Ghoulie's routine of late is being cuddled to sleep by her Grammie. Post-bath, she's lotioned up, zipped into her blanket sleeper, then snuggled into Grammie K.'s shoulder for a good evening nap. Usually this is followed by waking up immediately after prime-time television for a little snack, then sleeping in her crib for several hours. Except that "usually" isn't really a fair word to use; it's more like "sometimes." Very hit-or-miss. Often, sleeping in the crib lasts about 20 minutes -- roughly the time it takes for mommy to put on her own pajamas, remember about five things that need to be done before tomorrow morning, check email one last time, and be halfway through the teeth-brushing, eyebrow-grooming, face-washing evening ritual -- followed by a bit of distressed, absolutely heart-breaking crying from the crib, because Ghoulie isn't much for self-soothing at this point. Dr. Ferber, hang your head in shame of me.
(Jake, for the record, has had several early mornings in a row, due to starting a fantastic new job this week and [sshhh] having a high-stress interview for the even more fantastic job he really wants. So I've been trying to give him a break from the bedtime drama. Plus, he did, like, eight loads of laundry by himself yesterday.)
So last night, the Third Reich of sleep scheduling began. Not so bad, at first. Ghoulie bathed, lotioned, snuggled. Slept all the way through Lost. (The one downside to that being, as anyone who has ever cuddled a baby to sleep knows, that holding a sleeping, blanket-sleepered baby can be pretty soporific in itself, therefore Grammie K. missed several key plot points in Locke's backstory. Which kind of sucked, because I knew Eddie was a cop, and I didn't have anyone to gloat to . . .)
Anyway. Ghoulie slept right through the transfer from Grammie's arms to mine, and from my arms to her crib. She slept until I was about to wash my face. Then it was snack time, which was fine, because I wanted to play some Web Sudoku anyway. (Although I have to say, I wish there was a separate time category for breastfeeding women, because I am way below average. As I've mentioned, I'm not so into below-averageness . . .)
Still, everything was going according to plan. Ghoulie promptly fell back to sleep after nursing, and was laid in her crib without incident. I played another round of Sudoku to learn that my poor time has absolutely nothing to do with breastfeeding. Feeling a little below average, I soundlessly made my way to bed. And as I soundlessly pulled up the covers, Ghoulie began to fuss.
Well, I decided, time for her to practice self-soothing. So far so good, the fussing and kicking the crib mattress were interspersed with some very loud thumb-sucking. But then the fussing graduated to louder, distressed crying, and I caved. In my defense, though, I didn't want her to wake up Jake. So I scooped her up and held her while she continued to cry. No nursing, I decided, because there was no possible way she could be hungry. No nursing. No nursing. No nursing.
Well, we all know what happened to the Third Reich.
Why, if the "right" parenting thing to do was to make Ghoulie go to sleep on her own, did I ache to hold her, to feed her? Why did it hurt me to let her cry, when I knew exactly how to comfort her? What, exactly, was I supposed to be teaching her by doing this?
Yes, I know, I'm teaching her to fall asleep on her own. I am teaching her not to need me in the middle of the night. I'm teaching her how to let mommy and daddy get an uninterrupted night's sleep.
As the Allied Forces swept in and I sat down on the edge of the bed to nurse, a revelation. We all sleep better when Ghoulie is in our bed. Not only does she sleep more soundly, but when we wake up for whatever middle-of-the-night reason, all it takes is a hand on her belly to see that she is breathing. No squinting at her crib in the dim light to watch for the rise and fall of her chest. No compulsively stumbling over to the crib because we know we really can't see anything in the dark, and we just won't fall asleep again until we've ascertained that she's alive. (She's past the high risk age for SIDS. When are we going to stop doing this? Does my mother wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if, miles away, I'm still breathing? How does she go back to sleep without knowing the answer?)
The only reason Ghoulie splits her sleeping time between her crib and our bed is because she isn't supposed to sleep in our bed. Yes, Dr. Sears says it's fine, but I grew up in a Dr. Dobson family. I myself was thoroughly Ferberized, and none the worse for the wear. Aside from the aforementioned compulsiveness and distress at below-averageness, anyway. But I'm the oldest child; that all probably would have happened anyway. (An aside: Six children later, my mother is the biggest proponent of co-sleeping I know.)
Ghoulie doesn't sleep in our bed all the time because I have guilt when she does. But she doesn't cry alone in her crib, because then I have even more guilt. But here is the difference between the two: Guilt over her crying it out comes from within. It just feels wrong to me. (Note: For me. I'm not about to say it's wrong for every mother and every baby.) The guilt over Ghoulie sleeping in our bed comes from outside forces, from the books and the doctors and probably the lady who wanted her to wear a hat last week. As long as pillows and heavy blankets and the edge of the bed are out of her range, as long as neither one of us is inebriated and we're both on board with the idea, I haven't been able to find any real reason to not let her sleep in our bed. Sure, there are vague references to independence and routine and something in What the Expect the First Year (my new arch-nemesis) called "baby-bottle mouth." But mostly, the guilt over co-sleeping comes from my pregnancy declaration that "we will not do co-sleeping." I have joked in the past that I haven't held to that very well. But it's still there, this feeling that I backed down on my convictions, that I caved. Why can't I just think, Oh, I didn't know what I was talking about then, I've since changed my mind? Am I so compulsively stubborn that I need to hold to an ideal I once had, even if I disagree with it now?
After Ghoulie nursed last night, I put her back in her crib, awake. She cried. I picked her up, cuddled her until she stopped crying, and put her down again. She cried. And so, with a heavy, guilty heart, I got into our bed with her. As I lay her down between Jake and myself, she turned to me and, in the dim light, gave me the biggest, brightest, happiest smile I've ever seen.
It was like D-Day. But without the tragedy. Uh -- nevermind. The analogy has fallen apart.
The smile was not, as some might suggest, a victory smile. It did not have that "Ha ha, I won" quality to it. If anything it said, "Hey Mom, I love you, and now I'm going to sleep." Which she did. And so did I, with my heart just a little lighter. A few more smiles like that, and I predict the guilt will retreat to a concrete bunker with Eva Braun, and never show its face again.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
carpe diem
Today, Jake and I had half an hour all alone together in this great big house. And guess what we did?
We talked. To each other.
It was kind of hot.
We talked. To each other.
It was kind of hot.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
IT happened
Dear Somebody's Grandmother (thankfully, not my Little Ghoulie's),
Congratulations, you are the first. After five months without encountering your kind, I was beginning to think you didn't exist. Today, I stand corrected.
First of all, my baby is a girl. Bald or not, I would think the PINK sweatshirt would have given that away. I would have introduced you, too, if you hadn't pissed me off so much before I got the chance. Which brings us to the matter at hand:
Perhaps it has not occurred to you that some young mothers actually do know what we are doing. Perhaps it is beyond your comprehension that I have my own pediatrician, books, magazine, and websites full of advice, and above all, concern for my own child. Perhaps you can't deal with the fact that the "rules" have changed in the last 30 years since you had children. Perhaps you haven't noticed that, October or not, it's pushing 70 degrees outside. My baby does not need to wear a hat today. No, she was not hatless because I wanted to "give a poor grandmother a heart attack," as you put it. She was hatless because she would have been too freaking warm with a hat on!
Here I was, unsnapping the neck of her sweatshirt to make sure she didn't get too hot. Here I was, dripping sweat myself and wishing I had worn a tank top. And here you were, giving me a lecture on how you knew I didn't want "him" to get sick, so why wouldn't I put a hat on "him"? And how you can't believe doctors these days, how they just don't tell parents about this anymore.
Guess what? They do. But they say, Your baby needs fresh air. Your baby can overheat, so don't overdress. And anyway, babies (and adults) DON'T get colds from being cold. They get colds from being shut up in the house all fall and winter, thank you very much.
Yes, I realize that I myself am wearing a hat. It's a baseball cap. I am not wearing it because I have the audacity to dress myself warmer than I dress my baby. I'm wearing it because, trust me, you don't want to see my hair before I've showered. My baby is, as you so promptly pointed out, pretty much bald, and doesn't have this problem.
And yes, I know that What to Expect the First Year and BabyCenter and iVillage and BabyTalk and everybody else say that I should have graciously listened to what you had to say, thanked you, and forgotten about it. I tried that. But then you proceeded to treat me as if I was actually a BAD MOTHER, because I obviously didn't care what you had to say. And maybe I did not seem so gracious when I finally cut you off to say thank you (even though we both knew I didn't mean it), and then walked away while you were still talking. Apparently I can't follow the experts' advice all the time, after all.
But even that is none of your business.
So lady, walk your dog and shut the hell up.
Very, very sincerely,
Hatless Ghoulie's Mommy
Congratulations, you are the first. After five months without encountering your kind, I was beginning to think you didn't exist. Today, I stand corrected.
First of all, my baby is a girl. Bald or not, I would think the PINK sweatshirt would have given that away. I would have introduced you, too, if you hadn't pissed me off so much before I got the chance. Which brings us to the matter at hand:
Perhaps it has not occurred to you that some young mothers actually do know what we are doing. Perhaps it is beyond your comprehension that I have my own pediatrician, books, magazine, and websites full of advice, and above all, concern for my own child. Perhaps you can't deal with the fact that the "rules" have changed in the last 30 years since you had children. Perhaps you haven't noticed that, October or not, it's pushing 70 degrees outside. My baby does not need to wear a hat today. No, she was not hatless because I wanted to "give a poor grandmother a heart attack," as you put it. She was hatless because she would have been too freaking warm with a hat on!
Here I was, unsnapping the neck of her sweatshirt to make sure she didn't get too hot. Here I was, dripping sweat myself and wishing I had worn a tank top. And here you were, giving me a lecture on how you knew I didn't want "him" to get sick, so why wouldn't I put a hat on "him"? And how you can't believe doctors these days, how they just don't tell parents about this anymore.
Guess what? They do. But they say, Your baby needs fresh air. Your baby can overheat, so don't overdress. And anyway, babies (and adults) DON'T get colds from being cold. They get colds from being shut up in the house all fall and winter, thank you very much.
Yes, I realize that I myself am wearing a hat. It's a baseball cap. I am not wearing it because I have the audacity to dress myself warmer than I dress my baby. I'm wearing it because, trust me, you don't want to see my hair before I've showered. My baby is, as you so promptly pointed out, pretty much bald, and doesn't have this problem.
And yes, I know that What to Expect the First Year and BabyCenter and iVillage and BabyTalk and everybody else say that I should have graciously listened to what you had to say, thanked you, and forgotten about it. I tried that. But then you proceeded to treat me as if I was actually a BAD MOTHER, because I obviously didn't care what you had to say. And maybe I did not seem so gracious when I finally cut you off to say thank you (even though we both knew I didn't mean it), and then walked away while you were still talking. Apparently I can't follow the experts' advice all the time, after all.
But even that is none of your business.
So lady, walk your dog and shut the hell up.
Very, very sincerely,
Hatless Ghoulie's Mommy
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
the re-cap
Hooray, internet!!!
As I anticipated the return to some semblance of a routine (a word I use very, very loosely) and, consequently, a return to my blog, I pondered what subjects to discuss after the hiatus. Because you don't want to hear about the move itself. Really, you don't. (Actually, as long-distance moves go, it wasn't so bad. Maybe the accurate thing to say is, I just don't want to talk about it anymore.)
And so I ask myself what has changed in the last month, other than, oh, our entire lives. Because that's just a given. But what was not a given for me, or at least, I didn't think to expect in all the chaos, were the changes in Ghoulie. Get this: She's FUN now! Yesterday she turned five months old. And sometime between three months old and now, or somewhere between Pittsburgh and New Hampshire, she developed this awesome personality all her own. She doesn't just do cute "baby" things now. She does "Ghoulie" things, the little quirkly things that make her a unique, interesting little person.
For instance, she loves to dance. Two nights ago, my aunt's new boyfriend (whom we love, but that, again, is a separate post) had out his guitar, playing Johnny Cash. The nearly-naked Ghoulie, held by her great-aunt K., kicked her chunky little legs and stepped her feet side to side fast enough to give Michael Flatley a run for his money. Folsom Prison Blues appeared to be her favorite.
Also, she love, love, loves her rice cereal. During her first feeding three days ago, you would have thought she'd been eating off a spoon for years. Last night, she actually took the spoon from me and stuck the bowl end of it in her mouth herself.
Eewww, hey, this is starting to sound like one of those annoying braggy parent blogs. Here, this will balance things out:
Ghoulie's newest, oddest quirk is that she responds to new environments the same way a snake does: Her eyes get all googly, and she sticks out her tongue. I mean, way out. In fact, we talked about making her Gene Simmons for Halloween, but we think that make-up probably wouldn't be good for her skin. Oh, and sometimes, when she sticks out her tongue, her eyes cross.
But even when she looks a little dim, she's still totally cute. Until now, I didn't realize parenting could actually be a good time.
As I anticipated the return to some semblance of a routine (a word I use very, very loosely) and, consequently, a return to my blog, I pondered what subjects to discuss after the hiatus. Because you don't want to hear about the move itself. Really, you don't. (Actually, as long-distance moves go, it wasn't so bad. Maybe the accurate thing to say is, I just don't want to talk about it anymore.)
And so I ask myself what has changed in the last month, other than, oh, our entire lives. Because that's just a given. But what was not a given for me, or at least, I didn't think to expect in all the chaos, were the changes in Ghoulie. Get this: She's FUN now! Yesterday she turned five months old. And sometime between three months old and now, or somewhere between Pittsburgh and New Hampshire, she developed this awesome personality all her own. She doesn't just do cute "baby" things now. She does "Ghoulie" things, the little quirkly things that make her a unique, interesting little person.
For instance, she loves to dance. Two nights ago, my aunt's new boyfriend (whom we love, but that, again, is a separate post) had out his guitar, playing Johnny Cash. The nearly-naked Ghoulie, held by her great-aunt K., kicked her chunky little legs and stepped her feet side to side fast enough to give Michael Flatley a run for his money. Folsom Prison Blues appeared to be her favorite.
Also, she love, love, loves her rice cereal. During her first feeding three days ago, you would have thought she'd been eating off a spoon for years. Last night, she actually took the spoon from me and stuck the bowl end of it in her mouth herself.
Eewww, hey, this is starting to sound like one of those annoying braggy parent blogs. Here, this will balance things out:
Ghoulie's newest, oddest quirk is that she responds to new environments the same way a snake does: Her eyes get all googly, and she sticks out her tongue. I mean, way out. In fact, we talked about making her Gene Simmons for Halloween, but we think that make-up probably wouldn't be good for her skin. Oh, and sometimes, when she sticks out her tongue, her eyes cross.
But even when she looks a little dim, she's still totally cute. Until now, I didn't realize parenting could actually be a good time.
Monday, October 09, 2006
i still hate moving
We have arrived
This post, however, is for the express purpose of saying, Yes I am alive, and no I didn't quit my blog. As soon as we can get that freaking wireless adapter to work properly in the computer, then I'll put up a real post. In the meantime, I'm blogging on my MIL's laptop while also trying to watch On Golden Pond with the rest of the fam. Except I'm just not in the mood.
Moving sucks.
This post, however, is for the express purpose of saying, Yes I am alive, and no I didn't quit my blog. As soon as we can get that freaking wireless adapter to work properly in the computer, then I'll put up a real post. In the meantime, I'm blogging on my MIL's laptop while also trying to watch On Golden Pond with the rest of the fam. Except I'm just not in the mood.
Moving sucks.
Friday, September 15, 2006
do they sell maps here?
We have completed the last long, long, dreaded drive home to Pittsburgh. Yes, we expect to drive from New Hampshire to Pittsburgh many more times in our life, since we will still have family, friends, and a house out this way. But the next time we make this drive west, it won't be coming "home." I can't begin to tell you how happy I am about this fact. So instead, I will tell you about our drive yesterday:
Left NH late because it is so hard for us to say goodbye to everyone, and of course even harder to everyone there to say goodbye to Ghoulie, even if it is for only three weeks. Got on the road, finally, around 1:30 or so. Filled the tank and took off. 93 went smoothly enough -- until Jake missed the ramp for 495, because I had the atlas out trying to decide where our new house should be, provided he gets the job he wants. Somehow, that distracted him.
Once we were on 495, decided to skip 290 due to construction, so staying on the Mass Pike added a few minutes to our drive. Then to 84, where we hit rush hour in Hartford. About the same time, the rain started. Oh, yeah, and we both had to pee, being all coffee-ed up for the drive. And since last week I started suspecting that my coffee consumption is closely related to Ghoulie's high spit-up quota, it was the first time I'd had caffeinated coffee in days, so I was a little nauseous.
For dinner I ordered terrible, overcooked Long John Silver's, because for some reason popcorn shrimp sounded appealling. But after my french fry actually actually crunched and the first shrimp practically bounced off my teeth like a rubber ball, I had to brave the pouring rain again to exchange it all for Taco Bell. Thank God for these roadside fast food restaurant partnerships.
The rain continued well into the night, heavy enough that Jake thought about us stopping at a hotel. I didn't want to spend the money or the extra time. Fortunately for me, the rain cleared not long after that debate (which wasn't really much of a debate, more like a lot of sighing). But once the rain cleared, the traffic started. At 11:40, it stopped. I mean, ground to a screeching halt in the middle of an otherwise deserted highway. We sat for 45 minutes until Jake took out the road atlas again, looking for back routes. Found a decent one, and we happened to be right near an exit. So we exited to the middle of nowhere, missed the first turn and wandered the countryside for a bit, and of course had to turn around again. On the next try, we found the creepy back road we had to take for miles. Made it back to the highway without a hitch. Until the person in the passenger seat, who will remain nameless, but wasn't Jake and wasn't the dog and certainly wasn't the Ghoulie, said, "Take this right." Followed by statements such as, "Yes I am sure! Why do you always have to question me?!"Once on the highway, we saw that we were heading back in the opposite direction, because the first sign for 80 east wasn't actually next to the turn for 80 east, which meant that that second turn, of which said passenger was so sure, wasn't 80 west after all. It was 80 east. We verified that when we did the entire route over again, since 80 took us all the way back to the exit where we got off in the first place.
The good news, when we pulled up to the house at 3:30 am, is that we're actually glad to be home. When we left NH, I did not expect to be so happy about it. Funny how fourteen hours in a car can change your perspective.
Ghoulie, of course, slept all night. Which seemed really good at the time. Except that she woke up at 9:00, ready for the day, and we're still zombies. Typing this waiting for Jake to awaken and take his turn, so I can squeeze in a few more hours' sleep.
Left NH late because it is so hard for us to say goodbye to everyone, and of course even harder to everyone there to say goodbye to Ghoulie, even if it is for only three weeks. Got on the road, finally, around 1:30 or so. Filled the tank and took off. 93 went smoothly enough -- until Jake missed the ramp for 495, because I had the atlas out trying to decide where our new house should be, provided he gets the job he wants. Somehow, that distracted him.
Once we were on 495, decided to skip 290 due to construction, so staying on the Mass Pike added a few minutes to our drive. Then to 84, where we hit rush hour in Hartford. About the same time, the rain started. Oh, yeah, and we both had to pee, being all coffee-ed up for the drive. And since last week I started suspecting that my coffee consumption is closely related to Ghoulie's high spit-up quota, it was the first time I'd had caffeinated coffee in days, so I was a little nauseous.
For dinner I ordered terrible, overcooked Long John Silver's, because for some reason popcorn shrimp sounded appealling. But after my french fry actually actually crunched and the first shrimp practically bounced off my teeth like a rubber ball, I had to brave the pouring rain again to exchange it all for Taco Bell. Thank God for these roadside fast food restaurant partnerships.
The rain continued well into the night, heavy enough that Jake thought about us stopping at a hotel. I didn't want to spend the money or the extra time. Fortunately for me, the rain cleared not long after that debate (which wasn't really much of a debate, more like a lot of sighing). But once the rain cleared, the traffic started. At 11:40, it stopped. I mean, ground to a screeching halt in the middle of an otherwise deserted highway. We sat for 45 minutes until Jake took out the road atlas again, looking for back routes. Found a decent one, and we happened to be right near an exit. So we exited to the middle of nowhere, missed the first turn and wandered the countryside for a bit, and of course had to turn around again. On the next try, we found the creepy back road we had to take for miles. Made it back to the highway without a hitch. Until the person in the passenger seat, who will remain nameless, but wasn't Jake and wasn't the dog and certainly wasn't the Ghoulie, said, "Take this right." Followed by statements such as, "Yes I am sure! Why do you always have to question me?!"Once on the highway, we saw that we were heading back in the opposite direction, because the first sign for 80 east wasn't actually next to the turn for 80 east, which meant that that second turn, of which said passenger was so sure, wasn't 80 west after all. It was 80 east. We verified that when we did the entire route over again, since 80 took us all the way back to the exit where we got off in the first place.
The good news, when we pulled up to the house at 3:30 am, is that we're actually glad to be home. When we left NH, I did not expect to be so happy about it. Funny how fourteen hours in a car can change your perspective.
Ghoulie, of course, slept all night. Which seemed really good at the time. Except that she woke up at 9:00, ready for the day, and we're still zombies. Typing this waiting for Jake to awaken and take his turn, so I can squeeze in a few more hours' sleep.
***
The highlight of the trip was this (and the mundaneness of it should tell you how not-fun the trip was):
Stopped at a rest area. We practically live at rest areas. At this particular stop, two women entered the rest room behind me, making stranger-to-stranger small talk.
Traveler One (AKA, Woman Desperately in Need of a Geography Lesson): (stretching sounds) I've been driving forever. I've been driving for almost five hours.
Traveler Two: Oh? Did you come from way up in Maine?
Traveler One / WDINOAGL: Just about. Northern Vermont.
Perhaps, if you aren't a New Englander, it's all the same. Thankfully, soon I will be a New Englander again. 20 days and counting.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
but I'm not dead yet. . .
(1000 Monopoly dollars to anyone who identifies that quote. Family excluded.)
We've been spending the week in New Hampshire, interviewing and othewise getting ready to live here. The big news of yesterday is that I have, rather inadvertently, found a great job teaching yoga! I'll be the sole yoga teacher in a brand-new chiropractic office, working alongside one chiropractor and one massage therapist. So, so, so excited. I'm almost gushing. Perhaps I should stop now.
The funny thing is, I wasn't sure I wanted to teach yoga here. I've been feeling a little burnt out (as you may have noticed from certain previous posts.) But upon further reflection, I realize the burnout has less to do with teaching classes and much, much more to do with the sheer idiocy with which the current classes are coordinated. (Not my job!) But with this new job, I'm in charge. I pick the schedule, I decide which classes to offer, I pretty much rule my own private yoga universe. BWAHAHAHA! The control freak in me is about to burst at the seams with enthusiasm.
We've been spending the week in New Hampshire, interviewing and othewise getting ready to live here. The big news of yesterday is that I have, rather inadvertently, found a great job teaching yoga! I'll be the sole yoga teacher in a brand-new chiropractic office, working alongside one chiropractor and one massage therapist. So, so, so excited. I'm almost gushing. Perhaps I should stop now.
The funny thing is, I wasn't sure I wanted to teach yoga here. I've been feeling a little burnt out (as you may have noticed from certain previous posts.) But upon further reflection, I realize the burnout has less to do with teaching classes and much, much more to do with the sheer idiocy with which the current classes are coordinated. (Not my job!) But with this new job, I'm in charge. I pick the schedule, I decide which classes to offer, I pretty much rule my own private yoga universe. BWAHAHAHA! The control freak in me is about to burst at the seams with enthusiasm.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
minutiae, procrastination, and a little BS
These days I find that I am busy with nothing. That is, nothing to show for it at the end of the day. The faithful blog readers among my family and friends gently assume that I am busy packing, job-searching, filling out change-of-address forms. But instead I find myself washing clothes that get dirty again, changing diapers that do the same, and sweeping up dog hair that falls faster than I can catch it. I have no idea how I am ever going to pack up this house, and the countdown is on. Less than a month to go now.
To be fair to myself, much of my time this past week was spent preparing for S.'s wedding. Which, as I mentioned earlier, was beautiful and certainly worth the effort on our part. But again, the wedding is over, and what do I have to show for it? Some cute bridesmaid gifts and several bags to unpack, just so that I can pack them again for our interview trip to New Hampshire next week.
I HATE MOVING.
But I love New Hampshire and, quite honestly, do not much like Pittsburgh anymore. (Sorry to all you natives.) So I love the fact that I am moving. I just hate doing the moving.
I have a new fantasy. It presented itself about a month ago, or maybe two. It is the most exciting, fulfilling fantasy experience of my life. And it is this: I have packed, I have driven, I have arrived. As I sink down on my mother-in-law's couch, I know that I am here, in New Hampshire, and that we have moved. I know that it is done.
Oh, how I long for that day.
In the meantime, these never-opened college textbooks aren't going to pack themselves. Which leads me to ask, "How did I ever get an A on a term paper when I never opened the book on which it was based?" If only I could BS packing the way I BSed college. Packing, unfortunately, is totally un-BS-able.
To be fair to myself, much of my time this past week was spent preparing for S.'s wedding. Which, as I mentioned earlier, was beautiful and certainly worth the effort on our part. But again, the wedding is over, and what do I have to show for it? Some cute bridesmaid gifts and several bags to unpack, just so that I can pack them again for our interview trip to New Hampshire next week.
I HATE MOVING.
But I love New Hampshire and, quite honestly, do not much like Pittsburgh anymore. (Sorry to all you natives.) So I love the fact that I am moving. I just hate doing the moving.
I have a new fantasy. It presented itself about a month ago, or maybe two. It is the most exciting, fulfilling fantasy experience of my life. And it is this: I have packed, I have driven, I have arrived. As I sink down on my mother-in-law's couch, I know that I am here, in New Hampshire, and that we have moved. I know that it is done.
Oh, how I long for that day.
In the meantime, these never-opened college textbooks aren't going to pack themselves. Which leads me to ask, "How did I ever get an A on a term paper when I never opened the book on which it was based?" If only I could BS packing the way I BSed college. Packing, unfortunately, is totally un-BS-able.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Ghoulie's first date
Back from a beautiful, if somewhat crazy, holiday weekend wedding. My best childhood friend made an absolutely gorgeous bride, and her groom is everything I ever would have hoped for her. They are wonderful together.
But the single best moment of my weekend was watching Jake and Ghoulie on the dance floor, amidst the strobe lights and the bubbles, swaying to Butterfly Kisses.
Yeah. We all cried. It's okay, you can too.
But really, who wouldn't want to dance with the cute girl in the yellow dress?
But the single best moment of my weekend was watching Jake and Ghoulie on the dance floor, amidst the strobe lights and the bubbles, swaying to Butterfly Kisses.
Yeah. We all cried. It's okay, you can too.
But really, who wouldn't want to dance with the cute girl in the yellow dress?
Sunday, August 27, 2006
a fairy tale
Six summers ago, and boy and a girl met and fell in love. So in love, in fact, that it scared them. So they ran.
Five summers ago, the boy and the girl finally came to terms with the fact that they couldn't live without each other. When they each realized that the other person felt the same way, they were very happy. So four summers (and three days) ago, they promised each other that they would be together forever.
Three summers ago, they took a romantic vacation and pitied all the frazzled parents around them, who didn't have a chance to relax and enjoy the Florida Keys. No kids for this boy and girl for nine more years or so. (Operative phrase: "or so".)
Two summers ago, the boy said to the girl, "I want to be a dad." The girl pretty much said, "Too bad for you."
But then, one summer ago, the girl said, "I guess that might be okay." And so they started talking in earnest about the possibility. They thought it sounded like fun. They thought maybe they were ready.
But then the boy and the girl went to a wedding together, a nice, fun, fancy wedding. At the wedding were many beautiful, young, carefree couples just beginning their lives together. And the girl thought, Maybe it's too soon. Maybe we still want to live this way for a while.
But none of that mattered, because, as it turned out, the boy and the girl were already five days into their journey to parenthood.
And so three days ago, they celebrated their life these last four years with a brand new first: A Babysitter! They went out alone for grown-up drinks and dinner and conversation like they hadn't had in many months. It was a wonderful thing, and one of the best dates the girl could remember since one amazing first date six summers ago.
It was so wonderful that the girl didn't care that she had to get up at 5:00 Friday morning and would be exhausted for the rest of the weekend.
It was so wonderful that she didn't care when her Little Ghoulie picked Saturday morning to wake up at 5:30 -- and stay awake. (But the boy helped a lot with that problem.)
It was so wonderful that she didn't care when she didn't get to go to bed until midnight that Saturday night.
It was so wonderful that the girl had to stay up late and blog about it even though she has the perfect opportunity to sleep right now.
Because time spent with that boy is, after six years, still that wonderful.
Five summers ago, the boy and the girl finally came to terms with the fact that they couldn't live without each other. When they each realized that the other person felt the same way, they were very happy. So four summers (and three days) ago, they promised each other that they would be together forever.
Three summers ago, they took a romantic vacation and pitied all the frazzled parents around them, who didn't have a chance to relax and enjoy the Florida Keys. No kids for this boy and girl for nine more years or so. (Operative phrase: "or so".)
Two summers ago, the boy said to the girl, "I want to be a dad." The girl pretty much said, "Too bad for you."
But then, one summer ago, the girl said, "I guess that might be okay." And so they started talking in earnest about the possibility. They thought it sounded like fun. They thought maybe they were ready.
But then the boy and the girl went to a wedding together, a nice, fun, fancy wedding. At the wedding were many beautiful, young, carefree couples just beginning their lives together. And the girl thought, Maybe it's too soon. Maybe we still want to live this way for a while.
But none of that mattered, because, as it turned out, the boy and the girl were already five days into their journey to parenthood.
And so three days ago, they celebrated their life these last four years with a brand new first: A Babysitter! They went out alone for grown-up drinks and dinner and conversation like they hadn't had in many months. It was a wonderful thing, and one of the best dates the girl could remember since one amazing first date six summers ago.
It was so wonderful that the girl didn't care that she had to get up at 5:00 Friday morning and would be exhausted for the rest of the weekend.
It was so wonderful that she didn't care when her Little Ghoulie picked Saturday morning to wake up at 5:30 -- and stay awake. (But the boy helped a lot with that problem.)
It was so wonderful that she didn't care when she didn't get to go to bed until midnight that Saturday night.
It was so wonderful that the girl had to stay up late and blog about it even though she has the perfect opportunity to sleep right now.
Because time spent with that boy is, after six years, still that wonderful.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
an imperfect love
Her Bad Mother has written a beautiful post about the love between a parent and child. Go read it. It's that good.
***
The musings over there got me thinking. I understand that physical love she talks about. I like to think that every parent understands it, even though I know that's not the case. As evidenced by the dialogue spewing from the yard behind mine at this very moment -- but that is another post altogether. (Maybe I'm being a tad judgmental, but I strongly suspect that if you can scream at your two-year-old to "shut the f*** up" on a daily basis, you just don't love him the right way. Argue with me all the you want.)
Ghoulie's smile warms my heart. And when she is away from me, I yearn for her. I crave her. It's almost as if I am missing a physical part of myself. When she is with me, I feel whole.
But there another side to this physical love, a darker side, of which I am more keenly aware. And that is the deep, cold dread that I feel at the thought of something bad happening to her.
I have been afraid for people before. I have a strong tendency to worry unnecessarily. (My parents used to call me "Kevin," after the high-anxiety kid from Parenthood.) If Jake is five minutes late coming home, I'm convinced he's had an accident. And if he doesn't answer his phone, I start planning his funeral. I do the same thing with my family, my close friends, generally anyone I care about. But there is a significant difference between the worrying I do over others and the fear that I feel where Ghoulie is concerned, namely, anyone else must first give me cause to worry. They must be late or unreachable or otherwise not where they belong at a given time. As long as the people I love are where I expect them to be, I'm worry-free.
Not so with Ghoulie.
Ghoulie can be sitting beside me, or even in my arms, when suddenly I am struck by the thought of something terrible happening to her. Illness, SIDS, accidents too awful for me to write about. Or worse, non-accidents perpetrated by terrorists or others. I daydream the stuff of nightmares. And when I do, my heart pounds, my breath quickens, I sweat. For a moment, I panic, until I can hold Ghoulie tightly in my arms and cry over her innocence and her beauty. Never in my life have I felt love, nor fear, quite like this.
And that leads me to a deeper, theological question. The love I feel for my child is the strongest, purest love I have ever felt. It is the closest thing I can imagine to "perfect" love. (I love Jake dearly. I am still, after four years of marriage, infatuated with him. But I am not convinced that love between two adults can ever be as pure and selfless as the love of a parent for a child. I hope he would agree.) Yet in the Bible, the apostle John says, "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear. . ." (John 4:18a) So if I feel such dread over something happening to Ghoulie, does that mean I don't love her enough? That I love her imperfectly?
There are a few possible answers, or at least two. The first is related to the second half of that same Bible verse: ". . .because fear has to do with punishment." Maybe I am afraid that I don't deserve Ghoulie. Correction: I know I don't deserve her. Perhaps I am afraid that cosmic forces will punish me by taking her away. Or maybe I see that so much of the world is imperfect (to say the least), and I recognize that not everyone loves my daughter as deeply as I do. That some people in this world, hard as it is to imagine, do not love her at all. That particular thought is too baffling and distressing for me to dwell on at the moment.
But I think the real answer is this: That no human being can ever love another perfectly. Maybe the love I feel for my child is the closest I'll ever come, and it's just a small taste of what perfect love is. Maybe in another life, I'll have a much better understanding of it.
That leads me to a series of even more baffling thoughts. First, that I have been loved in this way by my own parents. And second, that Someone Else loves me even more than they do, loves me, in fact, perfectly.
Christianity says that parents are supposed to demonstrate unconditional love so that their children will have an understanding of God. But for me, it's being a parent, even more than being a child, that has made my understanding clear. (Or at least, clearer.) You can know someone loves you all you want. It's only when you love someone else that way, that love begins to make sense.
Monday, August 21, 2006
i like it like that
Yesterday, a near stranger asked me a question which, at the time, seemed totally absurd: "So, do you like being a mom?" Why not just ask, Hey, do you like no longer calling your life your own???
In the interest of keeping it simple, I looked over at Ghoulie and gave my usual answer: "Well, I like her."
She seemed to miss the point entirely: "Yeah, it's so much easier when you have a happy baby."
I didn't bother to explain myself. Because, honestly, there is just so much to explain. Do I like being a mom? How can anyone answer that question in a sentence or two?
I love to wake up and see that little angel face. I love even more when she wakes up and gives Jake and me her big, good morning smiles. I do not like waking up several times a night to make sure that the little sleeping angel is still breathing. I also do not like when she wakes me up at night to tell me that she is very much breathing and very much hungry.
I like breastfeeding. I love the feeling when Ghoulie stops nursing long enough to look up and smile at me. I do not like waking up extra early on my already early mornings to pump so that I can teach in relative comfort. That makes me think maybe I like formula after all.
It's fun to dress Ghoulie, bathe her, care for her in general. But I will never like poopy diapers. Especially not when they leak.
I love that she is this perfect melding of my husband and me in so many ways, and a beautiful representation of our love. I do not like that we now have so few opportunities for the act that created her in the first place.
I love when she falls asleep on my shoulder. I do not like that Jake and I cannot watch a DVD in our own living room without pausing it many, many times for diapers, binkies, and ball-bouncing the Little Ghoulie to sleep.
I like that right now she is sleeping in her bouncy seat beside me, looking adorable. I do not like knowing that she could wake up any second and make me have to save this post for later. I do not like that this "ticking time bomb" feeling (coined by another new mom friend) pervades every single little thing I do, or try to do, anyway.
I do not like that I can no longer call my life my own. But I love that I now have this new, amazing, wonderful person in my life. Beyond that, I love that this new person is my life. Motherhood is not some role I have taken on, like a new job. It is a major part of me.
Asking someone "Do you like being a mom?" in casual conversation is not the same as asking how the new job is going.
In the interest of keeping it simple, I looked over at Ghoulie and gave my usual answer: "Well, I like her."
She seemed to miss the point entirely: "Yeah, it's so much easier when you have a happy baby."
I didn't bother to explain myself. Because, honestly, there is just so much to explain. Do I like being a mom? How can anyone answer that question in a sentence or two?
I love to wake up and see that little angel face. I love even more when she wakes up and gives Jake and me her big, good morning smiles. I do not like waking up several times a night to make sure that the little sleeping angel is still breathing. I also do not like when she wakes me up at night to tell me that she is very much breathing and very much hungry.
I like breastfeeding. I love the feeling when Ghoulie stops nursing long enough to look up and smile at me. I do not like waking up extra early on my already early mornings to pump so that I can teach in relative comfort. That makes me think maybe I like formula after all.
It's fun to dress Ghoulie, bathe her, care for her in general. But I will never like poopy diapers. Especially not when they leak.
I love that she is this perfect melding of my husband and me in so many ways, and a beautiful representation of our love. I do not like that we now have so few opportunities for the act that created her in the first place.
I love when she falls asleep on my shoulder. I do not like that Jake and I cannot watch a DVD in our own living room without pausing it many, many times for diapers, binkies, and ball-bouncing the Little Ghoulie to sleep.
I like that right now she is sleeping in her bouncy seat beside me, looking adorable. I do not like knowing that she could wake up any second and make me have to save this post for later. I do not like that this "ticking time bomb" feeling (coined by another new mom friend) pervades every single little thing I do, or try to do, anyway.
I do not like that I can no longer call my life my own. But I love that I now have this new, amazing, wonderful person in my life. Beyond that, I love that this new person is my life. Motherhood is not some role I have taken on, like a new job. It is a major part of me.
Asking someone "Do you like being a mom?" in casual conversation is not the same as asking how the new job is going.
***
To further prove my point, Ghoulie just woke up crying, so hold on a sec. . . I love the way Ghoulie curls into a little, cozy ball when I pick her up, as if she is in her most favorite place in all the world. I love knowing that against my body is her favorite place in all the world. . .***
I started this blog with the idea that I could love my own baby but dislike the idea of motherhood. I suppose I do still dislike the idea of it, the image, that is. I don't like the expectation that I will never get a shower when I want, that my clothes will no longer match and I will always be five pounds heavier than I want to be. I think it's very important that every new mother -- hell, any mother -- understands and accepts that she does not have to enjoy her role, her life, each and every day.
However, after much pondering, I have discovered something: I do like being a mom. (I do, I like it, Sam-I-Am!) It's not simply that I like Ghoulie. It's more than that. It's that I LIKE MY LIFE THIS WAY. No, not the spit-up, not the lack of sleep, not being at someone else's beckon call 24/7. But for the first time, I know that I am living authentically. I care genuinely about the world around me, about the future of our civilization and our planet. Not because I should care, but because NOW IT MATTERS. Before Ghoulie, before motherhood, nothing felt like it mattered quite like it does now.
There is no logic to the feeling. I now have this perfect, amazing creature for whom I am responsible, and because of that, all the stakes in the world are higher. There is much more fear, more worry, more stress. And so much more work.
And I am happier than I have ever been.
Friday, August 18, 2006
slices of life
On Friday afternoons, Ghoulie goes to work with Jake. Which means I get to blog with two hands, no one in my lap, both feet on the floor instead of jiggling the bouncy seat. And it's scary just how novel this is.
1) Two weeks ago, answered the phone at a friend's house to hear an automated voice say, "HELLO. DO YOU FEAR DEATH???" Still reeling, I of course had to stay on the line and figure out what this was about. The voice went on, "Do you have anxious thoughts? Do you worry about your future? . . . If so, an exciting new church in your area has the answers! Press one to hear more!" Oh, gag.
2) Preparing for yet another wedding, I called the cleaners to find out about getting some alterations. When the seamstress came to the phone, I said, "I'd like to get a skirt hemmed." She answered, "YOU'LL HAVE TO BRING IT IN." Jake said sarcastically, "You mean you can't just fax it?"
And best of all:
3) A commercial about new treatments for anxiety and depression. It discusses at length how awful it is to live with anxiety, how everything feels out of control and there is just so much pressure. This new treatment is not a drug but, I don't know, counseling or self-help tapes or something. The end of the commercial features, I kid you not, a timer counting down. Then a voiceover says, "LESS THAN TEN MINUTES LEFT. CALL NOW!" Well damn, just when I was starting to feel relaxed.
I researched teething, only to read that Orajel is frowned upon, because it can dull the gag reflex and cause Ghoulie to choke on her own (excessive) saliva. And I'd rather avoid the Tylenol for as long as possible, for fear of developing a psychological dependency. (Me, not her.) So it looks like nothin' but bibs and bouncing for the next few weeks. (Or months?) Oh, and some wet washcloth sucking. (Her, not me.) It's a glam life, let me tell you.
***
Have had many bizarre observations lately, all connected to our consumerist-driven, high-anxiety, ultra fast-paced culture. They are as follows:1) Two weeks ago, answered the phone at a friend's house to hear an automated voice say, "HELLO. DO YOU FEAR DEATH???" Still reeling, I of course had to stay on the line and figure out what this was about. The voice went on, "Do you have anxious thoughts? Do you worry about your future? . . . If so, an exciting new church in your area has the answers! Press one to hear more!" Oh, gag.
2) Preparing for yet another wedding, I called the cleaners to find out about getting some alterations. When the seamstress came to the phone, I said, "I'd like to get a skirt hemmed." She answered, "YOU'LL HAVE TO BRING IT IN." Jake said sarcastically, "You mean you can't just fax it?"
And best of all:
3) A commercial about new treatments for anxiety and depression. It discusses at length how awful it is to live with anxiety, how everything feels out of control and there is just so much pressure. This new treatment is not a drug but, I don't know, counseling or self-help tapes or something. The end of the commercial features, I kid you not, a timer counting down. Then a voiceover says, "LESS THAN TEN MINUTES LEFT. CALL NOW!" Well damn, just when I was starting to feel relaxed.
***
At 14 1/2 weeks, the teething has begun. Still mild at this point, just a few bouts of fussiness at unusual times. Nothing bouncing on the physio-ball can't fix. But man that is a lot of bouncing.I researched teething, only to read that Orajel is frowned upon, because it can dull the gag reflex and cause Ghoulie to choke on her own (excessive) saliva. And I'd rather avoid the Tylenol for as long as possible, for fear of developing a psychological dependency. (Me, not her.) So it looks like nothin' but bibs and bouncing for the next few weeks. (Or months?) Oh, and some wet washcloth sucking. (Her, not me.) It's a glam life, let me tell you.
***
Now I'm gonna go try to create the image of a woman who actually has her life together, and go teach some yoga classes. No physio-balls, though.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
deep inside the mind of a yoga teacher
As my brother asked (pregnant) me immediately before giving his (unsolicited) opinion on Ghoulie's given name, "Are you feeling particularly sensitive right now?"
If so, stop reading now.
Okay, fine. But I warned you.
A new session always means brand new students, which means observing vigilantly while thinking, "Oh please please please stop bending your knee in like that, you're going to hurt yourself BADLY," but saying to the class, "Remember, keep your quads engaged and your knees straight." And then continuing to watch said new person, thinking, "No, no, no -- what the hell are you doing?" then approaching them to say sweetly and serenely (because I am, after all, a yoga teacher), "Good job, but press your heel even more to straighten your knee all the way. Almost there. Keep working with that." I suppose I wouldn't get so annoyed if it wasn't usually the skinny, pretty little waifs with perfect butts who seem to have no body awareness. Of course, with no body awareness I suppose it's easier to starve yourself thin. (Was that over the line? Is that going to generate hate mail? Don't mind me, it's just that I have five stubborn pounds left to lose, and they aren't going anywhere. Yes, that is accounting for extra milk-making fat stores.) But at least I know how to straighten my knees!
Shut up, self, shut up.
I love my job. I love that I chose this career path (yes, for some people, teaching yoga is a career, not just a side job during college) without even realizing how compatible it would be with motherhood. The problem is, this particular career requires working with people. And when I am tired and overwhelmed, sometimes, I just don't like people.
There. I said it. I'll say it again: Sometimes, I don't like people.
I would apologize, except that I suspect everyone I know -- probably everyone, period -- feels the same way on occasion. And also, I don't think there's anything wrong with it.
Maybe I should qualify this, just to avoid any misunderstanding. There is a line in my family, reserved for difficult teenagers, that goes like this: "I love you, but I don't like you right now." (I can't stress this enough. This line is strictly for teenage children and should never, ever be used on a spouse. Ever.) The point of that mildly stinging insult is, it is entirely possible to care deeply for someone, but not want to be around him/her. And that is my attitude toward most human beings once in a while. My students, fellow customers in the grocery store, the stranger on the other end of the phone line. I care deeply about the human race. I love my students, honestly I do. I am concerned about their happiness and well-being. But sometimes, they bug me.
Don't worry. By tomorrow, I will feel favorably toward the human race once again.
Ghoulie, thankfully, is at her most charming, pleasant, and happy this week. And as far as work goes, all I can hope is that the pattern continues -- that when my students challenge me, Ghoulie is a dream baby. And that once she starts teething, those skinny girls will have finally figured out how to straighten their freaking knees.
If so, stop reading now.
Okay, fine. But I warned you.
***
Sorry about the hiatus. Up to a week and a half ago, I had been teaching exactly half of my regular classes. The other half run in eight week sessions, and the new session started last week. And -- surprise, surprise -- ten yoga classes a week is a lot more demanding than five! Who would have guessed?A new session always means brand new students, which means observing vigilantly while thinking, "Oh please please please stop bending your knee in like that, you're going to hurt yourself BADLY," but saying to the class, "Remember, keep your quads engaged and your knees straight." And then continuing to watch said new person, thinking, "No, no, no -- what the hell are you doing?" then approaching them to say sweetly and serenely (because I am, after all, a yoga teacher), "Good job, but press your heel even more to straighten your knee all the way. Almost there. Keep working with that." I suppose I wouldn't get so annoyed if it wasn't usually the skinny, pretty little waifs with perfect butts who seem to have no body awareness. Of course, with no body awareness I suppose it's easier to starve yourself thin. (Was that over the line? Is that going to generate hate mail? Don't mind me, it's just that I have five stubborn pounds left to lose, and they aren't going anywhere. Yes, that is accounting for extra milk-making fat stores.) But at least I know how to straighten my knees!
Shut up, self, shut up.
I love my job. I love that I chose this career path (yes, for some people, teaching yoga is a career, not just a side job during college) without even realizing how compatible it would be with motherhood. The problem is, this particular career requires working with people. And when I am tired and overwhelmed, sometimes, I just don't like people.
There. I said it. I'll say it again: Sometimes, I don't like people.
I would apologize, except that I suspect everyone I know -- probably everyone, period -- feels the same way on occasion. And also, I don't think there's anything wrong with it.
Maybe I should qualify this, just to avoid any misunderstanding. There is a line in my family, reserved for difficult teenagers, that goes like this: "I love you, but I don't like you right now." (I can't stress this enough. This line is strictly for teenage children and should never, ever be used on a spouse. Ever.) The point of that mildly stinging insult is, it is entirely possible to care deeply for someone, but not want to be around him/her. And that is my attitude toward most human beings once in a while. My students, fellow customers in the grocery store, the stranger on the other end of the phone line. I care deeply about the human race. I love my students, honestly I do. I am concerned about their happiness and well-being. But sometimes, they bug me.
Don't worry. By tomorrow, I will feel favorably toward the human race once again.
Ghoulie, thankfully, is at her most charming, pleasant, and happy this week. And as far as work goes, all I can hope is that the pattern continues -- that when my students challenge me, Ghoulie is a dream baby. And that once she starts teething, those skinny girls will have finally figured out how to straighten their freaking knees.
Friday, August 11, 2006
and now, on to the positive side of things
Thanks to everyone who responded so passionately on the subject of breastfeeding. You might enjoy this video. (Thanks, Joy!)
Also, BabyTalk has asked for letters regarding this month's cover. If you would like to show your support, email them at letters@babytalk.com.
Okay. I'm done now.
Also, BabyTalk has asked for letters regarding this month's cover. If you would like to show your support, email them at letters@babytalk.com.
Okay. I'm done now.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
then and now
Before I actually had a baby, I had all these ideas about the way I -- no, we -- would do things. No pacifiers. We would Ferberize. And bed would always, always be her own crib. No way was our baby sleeping in our bed; she would know that was Mommy and Daddy's space alone. In short, we would love our child dearly, but we were not going to rearrange our lives for her. No child of mine would grow up thinking she's the center of the universe.
And then the baby came.
We'd been in the hospital not 24 hours when Jake decided the only way any of us would get sleep was if Ghoulie slept on the tiny pull-out chair/bed with him, all swaddled and propped up on the pillow (her swaddled and propped, not him). I kept worrying the nurse would come in and yell at us for having her out of her bassinet. What if he rolled over on her? What if she fell? But it was the only option. For some reason, Ghoulie refused to sleep alone in her stark, cold bassinet. Imagine.
We had just barely established breastfeeding when, one night, Ghoulie wanted to nurse and nurse and nurse. Except that she wasn't acting hungry -- in fact, as soon as she got any milk in her mouth, she would jerk her head away hard. Without unlatching. But she was happy when we offerred her a knuckle to suck on. Except that it was midnight, and we were tired. That's why, at 12:30 am, Jake found himself downstairs, boiling all the pacifiers we were not going to use.
As for crying herself to sleep? Forget it. Couldn't do it in a million years. Nor would I want to, now. (Thank God for validation from Dr. Sears!)
So now, most mornings, Ghoulie awakens to find herself in "Mommy and Daddy's space," pacifier beside her (wherever it fell out when she went to sleep), while we stare at her in awe. She pretty much thinks she's the center of the universe. And I wouldn't want it any other way.
Seems to be working out all right, doesn't it? See for yourself:
And then the baby came.
We'd been in the hospital not 24 hours when Jake decided the only way any of us would get sleep was if Ghoulie slept on the tiny pull-out chair/bed with him, all swaddled and propped up on the pillow (her swaddled and propped, not him). I kept worrying the nurse would come in and yell at us for having her out of her bassinet. What if he rolled over on her? What if she fell? But it was the only option. For some reason, Ghoulie refused to sleep alone in her stark, cold bassinet. Imagine.
We had just barely established breastfeeding when, one night, Ghoulie wanted to nurse and nurse and nurse. Except that she wasn't acting hungry -- in fact, as soon as she got any milk in her mouth, she would jerk her head away hard. Without unlatching. But she was happy when we offerred her a knuckle to suck on. Except that it was midnight, and we were tired. That's why, at 12:30 am, Jake found himself downstairs, boiling all the pacifiers we were not going to use.
As for crying herself to sleep? Forget it. Couldn't do it in a million years. Nor would I want to, now. (Thank God for validation from Dr. Sears!)
So now, most mornings, Ghoulie awakens to find herself in "Mommy and Daddy's space," pacifier beside her (wherever it fell out when she went to sleep), while we stare at her in awe. She pretty much thinks she's the center of the universe. And I wouldn't want it any other way.
Seems to be working out all right, doesn't it? See for yourself:
Sunday, August 06, 2006
raging, continued
You'd never guess we pro-breastfeeding people are in the minority. I emailed the article mentioned below to some friends and family, and this is just a sample of the replies:
1) Excerpt....."I shredded it," said Gayle Ash, of Belton, Texas, in a telephone interview."A breast is a breast -- it's a sexual thing."AACK, gag! Primitive idiots, is all the rant I can muster. The human body is what it is. Like in Zen..."Thing is thing, all the other prejudices andconnotations are in your mind." Are breasts mind controllers that will take over the world if we set their evil sexual selves free via breast feeding in public? Primitive idiots.
2) Isn’t it sad that it’s acceptable to wear a string bikini at the beach, but not acceptable to nurse your infant in public? What is wrong with this country? It boggles my mind how many people are uncomfortable with nursing in public and that they can only think of a breast as a sexual thing. Everything in our culture is about a lack of morality when it comes to sexuality, but taking care of your child is something you are supposed to hide to do!??????????????
3) Fuming? I’m just stunned and a bit perplexed. The underlying self-hatred (“it’s gross”—excuse me?) and fear of other women is troubling. So sad for them. And don’t they have anything better to think about? Wow. How about the miracle of life and the wonder of the human body. Oh well. Just remember, if anyone looks at you with disgust while you’re nursing, see if you can flash her some nipple to really get her riled up!
4)What is the matter with people that they are so offended by a nursing baby? A breast is a ‘sexual thing’??? I think that woman has been reading Playboy way too much (probably in the closet, so her son won’t see the pictures!) There is nothing ‘gross’ or offensive or sexual about feeding a child the way God intended a child to be fed, and I cannot begin to fathom where these people are coming from. But don’t let it get to you – just keep on keep on keeping on. The world is full of ignorant people, you can’t help bumping into one now and again.
Dude, my family rocks. See?
However.
I read the article, fumed, ranted and raged for a few hours. Then I had a revelation about myself that made me even angrier:
Just one day prior to reading this article, I was sitting in the Museum of Natural History, nursing the Ghoulie. Since their were several people around, I covered myself and her with a receiving blanket (thinking: Oh, she only minds a little bit). Then I looked around and reminded myself that I was sitting in the middle of a large exhibit on Native Americans. These are people whom we as a country claim to honor and respect for their simple lifestyle, for their attunement to nature. And I'm sitting their afraid to let some stranger accidentally see my breast as they walk by. Because yes, it is about fear and embarrasment. Covering up is not about propriety -- how can it be, if we keep shouting to the world that their is nothing improper going on?!
I'd like to say that I defiantly whipped off the receiving blanket and let Ghoulie get some air, as soon as I realized my mistake. I can say that I tentatively pushed it aside, and kept a burp cloth on my shoulder when I needed to adjust her latch.
Good, right?
No.
As I mention in the last post, this controversy was first brought to my attention by another (fantastic) mommy blog that I read frequently. Her post generated many, many comments. And a very large number of them said that breastfeeding in public is the thing to do, as long as it's discreet. Over and over, this is what I read. And face it, this is what almost all of us say. It's certainly been my practice for the last three months (except in my postpartum yoga class, which features more breast exposure than a Maxim photo shoot).
Why? Why be discreet? We have nothing to hide!!!
So someone else might see a breast when they aren't expecting to, if they honestly believe the only place for breasts is in the bedroom (or worse, in a magazine -- as long as it isn't a parenting mag!). They might get a little uncomfortable. They might even feel offended.
Ask yourself: How many things in public that you see offend you, or make you uncomfortable, on a regular basis? How often do you see sexist T-shirts, hear racist remarks, and see images of violence? The participating parties sure as hell don't seem concerned about offending you, do they?
Even if she can't understand them yet, my tiny baby hears and sees many of the same things I do. -- Except when she's nursing, then she pretty much blocks out everything else. Hmmn. Perhaps the best way to protect my child from all the negative influences in society is to walk around constantly feeding her. You know, a nice little breastfeeding bubble.
Maybe it's become a game of "offend or be offended." Now wouldn't that be sad?
1) Excerpt....."I shredded it," said Gayle Ash, of Belton, Texas, in a telephone interview."A breast is a breast -- it's a sexual thing."AACK, gag! Primitive idiots, is all the rant I can muster. The human body is what it is. Like in Zen..."Thing is thing, all the other prejudices andconnotations are in your mind." Are breasts mind controllers that will take over the world if we set their evil sexual selves free via breast feeding in public? Primitive idiots.
2) Isn’t it sad that it’s acceptable to wear a string bikini at the beach, but not acceptable to nurse your infant in public? What is wrong with this country? It boggles my mind how many people are uncomfortable with nursing in public and that they can only think of a breast as a sexual thing. Everything in our culture is about a lack of morality when it comes to sexuality, but taking care of your child is something you are supposed to hide to do!??????????????
3) Fuming? I’m just stunned and a bit perplexed. The underlying self-hatred (“it’s gross”—excuse me?) and fear of other women is troubling. So sad for them. And don’t they have anything better to think about? Wow. How about the miracle of life and the wonder of the human body. Oh well. Just remember, if anyone looks at you with disgust while you’re nursing, see if you can flash her some nipple to really get her riled up!
4)What is the matter with people that they are so offended by a nursing baby? A breast is a ‘sexual thing’??? I think that woman has been reading Playboy way too much (probably in the closet, so her son won’t see the pictures!) There is nothing ‘gross’ or offensive or sexual about feeding a child the way God intended a child to be fed, and I cannot begin to fathom where these people are coming from. But don’t let it get to you – just keep on keep on keeping on. The world is full of ignorant people, you can’t help bumping into one now and again.
Dude, my family rocks. See?
However.
I read the article, fumed, ranted and raged for a few hours. Then I had a revelation about myself that made me even angrier:
Just one day prior to reading this article, I was sitting in the Museum of Natural History, nursing the Ghoulie. Since their were several people around, I covered myself and her with a receiving blanket (thinking: Oh, she only minds a little bit). Then I looked around and reminded myself that I was sitting in the middle of a large exhibit on Native Americans. These are people whom we as a country claim to honor and respect for their simple lifestyle, for their attunement to nature. And I'm sitting their afraid to let some stranger accidentally see my breast as they walk by. Because yes, it is about fear and embarrasment. Covering up is not about propriety -- how can it be, if we keep shouting to the world that their is nothing improper going on?!
I'd like to say that I defiantly whipped off the receiving blanket and let Ghoulie get some air, as soon as I realized my mistake. I can say that I tentatively pushed it aside, and kept a burp cloth on my shoulder when I needed to adjust her latch.
Good, right?
No.
As I mention in the last post, this controversy was first brought to my attention by another (fantastic) mommy blog that I read frequently. Her post generated many, many comments. And a very large number of them said that breastfeeding in public is the thing to do, as long as it's discreet. Over and over, this is what I read. And face it, this is what almost all of us say. It's certainly been my practice for the last three months (except in my postpartum yoga class, which features more breast exposure than a Maxim photo shoot).
Why? Why be discreet? We have nothing to hide!!!
So someone else might see a breast when they aren't expecting to, if they honestly believe the only place for breasts is in the bedroom (or worse, in a magazine -- as long as it isn't a parenting mag!). They might get a little uncomfortable. They might even feel offended.
Ask yourself: How many things in public that you see offend you, or make you uncomfortable, on a regular basis? How often do you see sexist T-shirts, hear racist remarks, and see images of violence? The participating parties sure as hell don't seem concerned about offending you, do they?
Even if she can't understand them yet, my tiny baby hears and sees many of the same things I do. -- Except when she's nursing, then she pretty much blocks out everything else. Hmmn. Perhaps the best way to protect my child from all the negative influences in society is to walk around constantly feeding her. You know, a nice little breastfeeding bubble.
Maybe it's become a game of "offend or be offended." Now wouldn't that be sad?
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Friday, August 04, 2006
a bit of niceness. . .
After the day I've had (so far) -- and I'm sure I'm not the only one -- here's a sweet idea from The Pajama Mama:
We’re so quick to point fingers, place blame and criticize the people in our lives. It’s easier to point out a fault than it is to praise a strength. It’s easier to mention something that needs to be done better than it is to acknowledge something that’s been done well.
Therefore, I christen today (and the next few days) “Bloggin’ Good Blogger Days” in the blogging community. Your mission, shall you choose to accept it (and you will), is to go to as many blogs as you can and point out at least one good thing about the author of that blog. Do your best to give them a warm fuzzy feeling. Show your appreciation, admiration or plain old joy.
Tell them why something they did touched you, why a choice they made shows the true fabric of their moral being. Just go BE NICE to every blogger who’s blog you read today. And don’t be shy, either!!
Plus, post an entry similar to this one on YOUR blog and ask people to leave warm fuzzies in your comments. Spread the love, people!
Maybe if we take a week to engage in warm fuzzies, they will become a more permanent part of our daily lives, both on and off the computer.
In review:
1. Leave me a warm fuzzy in my comments.
2. Post a similar entry (or copy and paste this one, giving credit) on your own blog.
3. Leave a warm fuzzy on every blog you visit today.
4. Sit back, read your own warm fuzzies and feel, well, warm and fuzzy!
Enjoy!"
The Pajama Mama
Now go be nice! Just because! :)
We’re so quick to point fingers, place blame and criticize the people in our lives. It’s easier to point out a fault than it is to praise a strength. It’s easier to mention something that needs to be done better than it is to acknowledge something that’s been done well.
Therefore, I christen today (and the next few days) “Bloggin’ Good Blogger Days” in the blogging community. Your mission, shall you choose to accept it (and you will), is to go to as many blogs as you can and point out at least one good thing about the author of that blog. Do your best to give them a warm fuzzy feeling. Show your appreciation, admiration or plain old joy.
Tell them why something they did touched you, why a choice they made shows the true fabric of their moral being. Just go BE NICE to every blogger who’s blog you read today. And don’t be shy, either!!
Plus, post an entry similar to this one on YOUR blog and ask people to leave warm fuzzies in your comments. Spread the love, people!
Maybe if we take a week to engage in warm fuzzies, they will become a more permanent part of our daily lives, both on and off the computer.
In review:
1. Leave me a warm fuzzy in my comments.
2. Post a similar entry (or copy and paste this one, giving credit) on your own blog.
3. Leave a warm fuzzy on every blog you visit today.
4. Sit back, read your own warm fuzzies and feel, well, warm and fuzzy!
Enjoy!"
The Pajama Mama
Now go be nice! Just because! :)
danger: road work (and whining) ahead
It's going to be that kind of day, apparently.
Didn't sleep well last night -- hungry little Ghoulie has hit her three month growth spurt, for starters. And I never sleep very well when I know I have to get up early the next morning. Maybe I'm afraid I'll sleep through my alarm or something. So I actually watched the clock change from 4:59 to 5:00, when the sounds of NPR news headlines filled the bedroom. Showered and dressed, even had time to feed Ghoulie (again!) before I left for class. And I hated to leave her this morning; she was so cute and smiley lying on the bed in that faint early morning light.
Got to the yoga studio at 5:59 for my 6:00 class, and managed to teach at least decently. Actually I think it was a pretty good class, except that ever since I became pregnant I've had a tendency to confuse left and right. Probably has to do with the lack of sleep.
Which brings me to the rest of my morning. Could not wait to get back in bed after class. Ghoulie was all snuggled up on Jake's chest when I got home, but she woke up to eat before I could fall asleep. Then the phone rang. And a half-hour later, both of us had finally drifted off, when a cartoonishly loud, and I mean LOUD sound, made me jump. Which made Ghoulie jump. And when we looked out the window, we saw a street crew, complete with JACKHAMMER, working approximately 20 feet from the bedroom window. Give or take a few feet and a couple of stories. At any rate it sounded like it was 2 feet away. When I stomped downstairs to whine, Jake looked out the front door and said, "It's just a small square, they probably won't take long." Wrong!!! That small square was only the top layer of oh, ten or so. Then came the backhoe. All in all things quieted down just before I would have had to wake up again. Meaning, just now. Meaning, three minutes ago.
Did I mention I'm starting to warm up to the moving idea? Suddenly, you couldn't get me out of this city fast enough. I'm not sure I've ever even seen a jackhammer in New Hampshire. Certainly have never been awakened by one outside my window.
Hey, there it is again. Guess they weren't done after all.
Didn't sleep well last night -- hungry little Ghoulie has hit her three month growth spurt, for starters. And I never sleep very well when I know I have to get up early the next morning. Maybe I'm afraid I'll sleep through my alarm or something. So I actually watched the clock change from 4:59 to 5:00, when the sounds of NPR news headlines filled the bedroom. Showered and dressed, even had time to feed Ghoulie (again!) before I left for class. And I hated to leave her this morning; she was so cute and smiley lying on the bed in that faint early morning light.
Got to the yoga studio at 5:59 for my 6:00 class, and managed to teach at least decently. Actually I think it was a pretty good class, except that ever since I became pregnant I've had a tendency to confuse left and right. Probably has to do with the lack of sleep.
Which brings me to the rest of my morning. Could not wait to get back in bed after class. Ghoulie was all snuggled up on Jake's chest when I got home, but she woke up to eat before I could fall asleep. Then the phone rang. And a half-hour later, both of us had finally drifted off, when a cartoonishly loud, and I mean LOUD sound, made me jump. Which made Ghoulie jump. And when we looked out the window, we saw a street crew, complete with JACKHAMMER, working approximately 20 feet from the bedroom window. Give or take a few feet and a couple of stories. At any rate it sounded like it was 2 feet away. When I stomped downstairs to whine, Jake looked out the front door and said, "It's just a small square, they probably won't take long." Wrong!!! That small square was only the top layer of oh, ten or so. Then came the backhoe. All in all things quieted down just before I would have had to wake up again. Meaning, just now. Meaning, three minutes ago.
Did I mention I'm starting to warm up to the moving idea? Suddenly, you couldn't get me out of this city fast enough. I'm not sure I've ever even seen a jackhammer in New Hampshire. Certainly have never been awakened by one outside my window.
Hey, there it is again. Guess they weren't done after all.
Monday, July 31, 2006
reality? check!
Has this happened to anyone else? Lately I will be in the midst of a conversation, and suddenly, I hear myself talking -- about the most domestic, mundane things. The other day I found myself in a conversation with two other new-ish moms about laundry strategies. (You remember, Joy.)These are things I never imagined myself talking about with people. Because all of that seemed so traditional and stereotypical and everything I was not going to be as a wife and mother. I was not going to look like, talk like, act like a mom. I was just going to be me, same as usual, except with a kid.
Ghoulie was two weeks old when I cut my hair short -- because my whole pregnancy, I had wanted short hair, but was too concerned about the swollen-faced, bubble-head look to go for it. Once I had deflated and taken the haircut plunge, I spent the next week asking Jake, "Do I look like a mom?" (Of course, he had no idea what the right answer was to that one.) Last week, just to make sure I wasn't confining myself to any mold, I went and had it cut even shorter, so that it looked more edgy and less mom-my. (I called Jake at work to warn him: "No, honey, I mean, it's short." "Okay, I'm not worried about it. You always look beautiful." -- Sweet guy, I know. Then he came home, took one look at me, and said, "Holy shit!" He had to spend the next five hours assurring me that he liked it.)
I digress.
Lately I spend a lot of time cleaning my house, washing the clothes, doing the dishes. Grocery shopping, generally managing the household. You know, wife things. Mother things.
And yet, I'm me! And happy! Still teaching, still writing, still thinking -- everything I was afraid of losing. Apparently, my personal identity is not buried under that giant pile of spit-up-soaked clothes after all. (Thank God, because I might never find it again.)
Still jonesing for my new tattoo, though.
Ghoulie was two weeks old when I cut my hair short -- because my whole pregnancy, I had wanted short hair, but was too concerned about the swollen-faced, bubble-head look to go for it. Once I had deflated and taken the haircut plunge, I spent the next week asking Jake, "Do I look like a mom?" (Of course, he had no idea what the right answer was to that one.) Last week, just to make sure I wasn't confining myself to any mold, I went and had it cut even shorter, so that it looked more edgy and less mom-my. (I called Jake at work to warn him: "No, honey, I mean, it's short." "Okay, I'm not worried about it. You always look beautiful." -- Sweet guy, I know. Then he came home, took one look at me, and said, "Holy shit!" He had to spend the next five hours assurring me that he liked it.)
I digress.
Lately I spend a lot of time cleaning my house, washing the clothes, doing the dishes. Grocery shopping, generally managing the household. You know, wife things. Mother things.
And yet, I'm me! And happy! Still teaching, still writing, still thinking -- everything I was afraid of losing. Apparently, my personal identity is not buried under that giant pile of spit-up-soaked clothes after all. (Thank God, because I might never find it again.)
Still jonesing for my new tattoo, though.
Friday, July 28, 2006
because "transition" was so much fun the first time
Now that the necessary parties have been informed -- at least, any necessary parties who might happen to read my blog -- I can announce to the web community at large that we will soon be leaving the great city of Pittsburgh and returning to New England. How soon, I do not know. At this point everything hinges on the Daddy finding the right job, and right now there are two promising possibilities. I won't begin the job search until we get there, since yoga studios don't typically post their vacancies online.
So yeah, went back to teaching two weeks ago, only to leave again. I'm not telling my students until we know something definite.
Oh, and get this: We'll be living with my in-laws short term, to save up some money and to avoid the long-distance house hunt. I am sure some of you think I'm crazy for agreeing to this. But my in-laws really are awesome, non-interfering types who worship me for "putting up with" their son (as they see it), so I think with some effort, we can make it work. It will probably be harder on Jake than on me (even though it was his idea!). But I will still use this blog for all my venting, first over the stress of moving and then over the stress of being there!
So begins the process of sorting, throwing away the junk, packing what's left, and so on. All while parenting a 3-month-old and adjusting to my new part-time work schedule. Yeah. I must be crazy.
So yeah, went back to teaching two weeks ago, only to leave again. I'm not telling my students until we know something definite.
Oh, and get this: We'll be living with my in-laws short term, to save up some money and to avoid the long-distance house hunt. I am sure some of you think I'm crazy for agreeing to this. But my in-laws really are awesome, non-interfering types who worship me for "putting up with" their son (as they see it), so I think with some effort, we can make it work. It will probably be harder on Jake than on me (even though it was his idea!). But I will still use this blog for all my venting, first over the stress of moving and then over the stress of being there!
So begins the process of sorting, throwing away the junk, packing what's left, and so on. All while parenting a 3-month-old and adjusting to my new part-time work schedule. Yeah. I must be crazy.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
random parenting thoughts, part 1
Back in the day, when I did the same general sort of work for eight or ten hours at a time, I thought I was the type of person who needed a lot of sleep. Eight-and-a-half hours a night was my ideal for functioning at full capacity. Lately I have discovered I can function quite well on six hours' sleep, managing to be sociable, productive, and at least somewhat intelligent. Now I think the old tiredness was due largely to boredom, not the fact that I had slept for only (*gasp*) seven hours the night before. Because now there just isn't time to get bored.
Another mom in my postpartum yoga class shared this decidedly parent-unfriendly bit of trivia: A hearing study determined that it takes exactly 1.5 seconds for a baby's cry to cause some level of auditory damage. It's a miracle I'm not deaf by the time I'm done showering in the morning. (Ghoulie hates shower time. Six inches from the tub, strapped into a bouncy seat, is a long, long way away from Mommy.)
I wish that it was socially acceptable to say to people, "Please do not give us any more baby gifts. The changing table and the toy box are already overflowing, and it just means that I have to write another thank-you note." Of course that statement does not apply to anyone who reads this blog. Unless you're waiting for a thank-you note.
I'm considering learning needle-point so that I can stitch on Ghoulie's sling, YES THERE REALLY IS A BABY IN HERE. But that would mean learning needle-point.
And lastly, a baby sleeping across your lap as you amuse yourself with your blog is an adorable sight:
Another mom in my postpartum yoga class shared this decidedly parent-unfriendly bit of trivia: A hearing study determined that it takes exactly 1.5 seconds for a baby's cry to cause some level of auditory damage. It's a miracle I'm not deaf by the time I'm done showering in the morning. (Ghoulie hates shower time. Six inches from the tub, strapped into a bouncy seat, is a long, long way away from Mommy.)
I wish that it was socially acceptable to say to people, "Please do not give us any more baby gifts. The changing table and the toy box are already overflowing, and it just means that I have to write another thank-you note." Of course that statement does not apply to anyone who reads this blog. Unless you're waiting for a thank-you note.
I'm considering learning needle-point so that I can stitch on Ghoulie's sling, YES THERE REALLY IS A BABY IN HERE. But that would mean learning needle-point.
And lastly, a baby sleeping across your lap as you amuse yourself with your blog is an adorable sight:
Sunday, July 23, 2006
saturday night special
Once upon a time, Saturday night consisted of two young, carefree people working until 10:00 or later, then changing clothes and meeting up with each other, going out with a group of friends, getting a decent buzz, and then going home to have really great -- you know, my parents have been known to read this on occasion. Suffice to say, Saturday nights were late late late and lots of fun. Said couple usually managed to pull it together for church the next morning, too.
Fast forward a few years. Saturday night now means dragging our feet as we pack up Ghoulie for a super-hot grocery shopping date. Between our house and store lies the very hip South Side, a long street lined with clubs, bars, and trendy little shops, where the city's young, childless people spend their Saturday nights. Just in case we forget how we used to spend our weekends. We cruise by with our screaming, carseat-hating baby, too tired from the past week to even know whether we look good. (Answer: We don't.) After walking around the grocery store in a daze for an hour or more, we make our way home, put the groceries in all the wrong cabinets, and watch TV for 1/2 an hour before going to bed.
And sometimes, on very special Saturdays nights like last night, we even lock the keys in the car.
Haven't quite determined whose fault that was yet, despite a long discussion about it as we waited for AAA. I had set my purse, keys and all, on the backseat so that I could transfer Ghoulie from her car seat to her sling. As I got her situated, I asked my hot date, "Could you just grab the burp cloth?" So he did. Thoughtful guy that he is, he even got the binky, too. Then he shut the door.
When the AAA guy arrived, he echoed our sentiments: "At least ya didn't shut the baby in the car."
Fast forward a few years. Saturday night now means dragging our feet as we pack up Ghoulie for a super-hot grocery shopping date. Between our house and store lies the very hip South Side, a long street lined with clubs, bars, and trendy little shops, where the city's young, childless people spend their Saturday nights. Just in case we forget how we used to spend our weekends. We cruise by with our screaming, carseat-hating baby, too tired from the past week to even know whether we look good. (Answer: We don't.) After walking around the grocery store in a daze for an hour or more, we make our way home, put the groceries in all the wrong cabinets, and watch TV for 1/2 an hour before going to bed.
And sometimes, on very special Saturdays nights like last night, we even lock the keys in the car.
Haven't quite determined whose fault that was yet, despite a long discussion about it as we waited for AAA. I had set my purse, keys and all, on the backseat so that I could transfer Ghoulie from her car seat to her sling. As I got her situated, I asked my hot date, "Could you just grab the burp cloth?" So he did. Thoughtful guy that he is, he even got the binky, too. Then he shut the door.
When the AAA guy arrived, he echoed our sentiments: "At least ya didn't shut the baby in the car."
Monday, July 17, 2006
a moment of clarity
Sometimes your life flashes before your eyes in a good way.
This evening we scrounged around the house for change -- man I can't wait to start getting a paycheck again! -- and went to Taco Bell just for the air conditioning. (And because the Daddy is totally into the new "Good to Go" things.) We're enjoying our gourmet dinner when another family walks in: mom, dad, little girl, maybe four years old. She sees Ghoulie and says, "Oh, a baby!" to which her father replies, "You were that small once. Long, long ago." A few minutes later, a young, pregnant couple walks through the door. And two minutes behind them, four teenage girls, fresh from the pool, bathing suit outlines soaking through their clothes.
Suddenly, my past (times two) and my future were standing together at the counter of a fast food restaurant. To add to the moment, Martina McBride's "This One's for the Girls" started playing on the Muzak. All as I was staring at my own beautiful baby girl. And to see where I've been, and where I'm going, laid out in front of me like that, made where I am seem pretty damn good. Even if we did pay for our dinner with spare change. (For the record, I am getting paid tomorrow. But that's tomorrow, not today.)
The point is, I suddenly realized that the daily frustrations and pressures of life as it is now are as temporary as this heat wave. Fleeting, even. Desperately waiting for the time when Little Ghoulie sleeps through the night means waiting for this time, with the still-novel smiles and coos and gurgles, to end. Wishing for a time when the money will be flowing in again means, in a sense, wishing for long(er) days of work, when I will have less time to spend with her. So I've decided I don't want to rush this time. I don't want to be dissatisfied with what I have. Because someday I could be an old woman in a Taco Bell somewhere, seeing my past all around me. And wondering where my future went.
(Of course, here's hoping that by the time I am an old woman, I'm eating somewhere a little classier than Taco Bell. In the meantime, I highly recommend the "Good to Go" things, especially if you're breastfeeding. Great for one-handed eating.)
This evening we scrounged around the house for change -- man I can't wait to start getting a paycheck again! -- and went to Taco Bell just for the air conditioning. (And because the Daddy is totally into the new "Good to Go" things.) We're enjoying our gourmet dinner when another family walks in: mom, dad, little girl, maybe four years old. She sees Ghoulie and says, "Oh, a baby!" to which her father replies, "You were that small once. Long, long ago." A few minutes later, a young, pregnant couple walks through the door. And two minutes behind them, four teenage girls, fresh from the pool, bathing suit outlines soaking through their clothes.
Suddenly, my past (times two) and my future were standing together at the counter of a fast food restaurant. To add to the moment, Martina McBride's "This One's for the Girls" started playing on the Muzak. All as I was staring at my own beautiful baby girl. And to see where I've been, and where I'm going, laid out in front of me like that, made where I am seem pretty damn good. Even if we did pay for our dinner with spare change. (For the record, I am getting paid tomorrow. But that's tomorrow, not today.)
The point is, I suddenly realized that the daily frustrations and pressures of life as it is now are as temporary as this heat wave. Fleeting, even. Desperately waiting for the time when Little Ghoulie sleeps through the night means waiting for this time, with the still-novel smiles and coos and gurgles, to end. Wishing for a time when the money will be flowing in again means, in a sense, wishing for long(er) days of work, when I will have less time to spend with her. So I've decided I don't want to rush this time. I don't want to be dissatisfied with what I have. Because someday I could be an old woman in a Taco Bell somewhere, seeing my past all around me. And wondering where my future went.
(Of course, here's hoping that by the time I am an old woman, I'm eating somewhere a little classier than Taco Bell. In the meantime, I highly recommend the "Good to Go" things, especially if you're breastfeeding. Great for one-handed eating.)
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
a vocabulary lesson
Vacation -- (n.), VAY-CAY-SHUN: Long-awaited, desperately-needed week and a half away from the daily grind, during which the new parents will not so much relax as make sure that each and every last living relative has a chance to see, hold, and rock the new baby to sleep. Requires endless hours of running around and overuse of both the pacifier and the carseat. (Note to self: Next time, JUST SAY NO.)
Housesitter -- (n.), HOWS-IT-UR: Designated person(s) who make it possible for new parents to "vacation" anxiety-free, trusting that house and new puppies are in capable hands. Said person(s), however, apparently doesn't understand his/her duties, and believes it is acceptable to leave many piles of puppy poop on the hardwood floor for a week. And let puppies chew whatever they want. And put dirty dishes in the dishwasher with the clean ones. What the hell?!
On the plus side, being back in the real world doesn't seem too bad. That is, once we get that freaking floor clean.
Housesitter -- (n.), HOWS-IT-UR: Designated person(s) who make it possible for new parents to "vacation" anxiety-free, trusting that house and new puppies are in capable hands. Said person(s), however, apparently doesn't understand his/her duties, and believes it is acceptable to leave many piles of puppy poop on the hardwood floor for a week. And let puppies chew whatever they want. And put dirty dishes in the dishwasher with the clean ones. What the hell?!
On the plus side, being back in the real world doesn't seem too bad. That is, once we get that freaking floor clean.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
a bit of irony
There is nothing like starting your rainy, busy morning, after a sleep-deprived night, by squatting in your living room to scoop up dog poop with a smiley faced grocery bag that reads, "Have a nice day!"
Monday, June 26, 2006
well, that explains it
Our amazing Ghoulie actually had the courtesy -- despite her mother's pushiness -- to wait until the very day our new video camera is delivered, to smile for the first time. Perhaps she's more advanced than I gave her credit for.
And yes, seeing your baby smile for the first time really does melt your heart.
And yes, seeing your baby smile for the first time really does melt your heart.
Friday, June 23, 2006
some sick and twisted (but honest) thinking
I have long been aware of my overachiever tendencies. What I did not recognize until now was that I would also apply those awful achievement standards to my offspring. But here we are, six weeks and three days old, and Ghoulie has not smiled yet. I have therefore diagnosed her as autistic.
Why, you ask? Because babies smile on average at six weeks. And this appears to be one of the few milestones on which all the experts agree. So where is my awe-inspiring, heart-melting grin from my little girl?
Someone mentally healthier than I am, free of the annoying overachiever mindset, will (rightly) read this and say, "She's three days off, you nutjob." But such a person cannot comprehend my position. My child is not supposed to be average (or -- *gasp* -- slightly below?!). No, she should be advanced. She should have smiled at four or five weeks. Obviously, since it didn't happen early, it won't be happening at all. Ever. That gassy grimace is the closest we're going to get.
Here's the reason my thought process makes me a little too Mommy Dearest for my taste: It's her smile. It's up to the Little Ghoulie herself when she wants to smile and at whom she wants to direct that first beam. My role as her mother is to not care -- to let go and stop looking for it. I need to recognize her as an individual, not the subject of a growth chart.
The really sick thing is, I still feel the need to mention that her gross motor skills are already above average. Her head control is impressive, and she already takes weight onto her legs. But that shouldn't matter to me. To her pediatrician, maybe. But not to her mother.
When I graduated college magna cum laude, I was disappointed that it wasn't summa. When I won second place for my writing in a high school talent competition, I was pissed -- because it wasn't first. Somewhere deep in my psyche, second best literally equals failure. Doing something well counts only if I'm ahead of everyone else. But that's my neurosis to deal with. It shouldn't be my baby's. Let's pray to God that she is a type-B personality like her father.
Why, you ask? Because babies smile on average at six weeks. And this appears to be one of the few milestones on which all the experts agree. So where is my awe-inspiring, heart-melting grin from my little girl?
Someone mentally healthier than I am, free of the annoying overachiever mindset, will (rightly) read this and say, "She's three days off, you nutjob." But such a person cannot comprehend my position. My child is not supposed to be average (or -- *gasp* -- slightly below?!). No, she should be advanced. She should have smiled at four or five weeks. Obviously, since it didn't happen early, it won't be happening at all. Ever. That gassy grimace is the closest we're going to get.
Here's the reason my thought process makes me a little too Mommy Dearest for my taste: It's her smile. It's up to the Little Ghoulie herself when she wants to smile and at whom she wants to direct that first beam. My role as her mother is to not care -- to let go and stop looking for it. I need to recognize her as an individual, not the subject of a growth chart.
The really sick thing is, I still feel the need to mention that her gross motor skills are already above average. Her head control is impressive, and she already takes weight onto her legs. But that shouldn't matter to me. To her pediatrician, maybe. But not to her mother.
When I graduated college magna cum laude, I was disappointed that it wasn't summa. When I won second place for my writing in a high school talent competition, I was pissed -- because it wasn't first. Somewhere deep in my psyche, second best literally equals failure. Doing something well counts only if I'm ahead of everyone else. But that's my neurosis to deal with. It shouldn't be my baby's. Let's pray to God that she is a type-B personality like her father.
Friday, June 16, 2006
ah, that first sweet taste of mommy guilt
At the concession stand outside X-Men III, with the Ghoulie in her sling, we ordered a nursing size (LARGE) lemonade for me and a small popcorn for the Daddy. And here is the conversation at the counter:
Daddy: . . . and a small popcorn, please.
Clerk: Butter?
Daddy: No thanks.
Clerk (looking at me): Did you bring cotton balls?
Sleep-deprived me, staring blankly, gears turning at warp speed: No. (To absorb the extra butter? But he said no butter. Is there a joke I'm not getting here? What do cotton balls have to do with popcorn?)
Clerk: Then put your fingers in the baby's ears. Movie theaters are much too loud for children under two.
I'm about to shrug it off as some bizarre personal opinion, when she explains that pediatricians advise against bringing babies to the movies, that her son just turned three and his pediatrician still doesn't want him to attend. And, I might add, she was very nice about it.
So Ghoulie spent X-Men III sleeping on a parent's chest, ears firmly covered, especially for scenes in which the mutants demonstrate just how powerful they really are. She didn't seem to be bothered (neither by the loud noises, nor by the hand cupped over half her head). And since she slept through the whole thing, I really didn't need that quatriillion-gallon lemonade, either.
Daddy: . . . and a small popcorn, please.
Clerk: Butter?
Daddy: No thanks.
Clerk (looking at me): Did you bring cotton balls?
Sleep-deprived me, staring blankly, gears turning at warp speed: No. (To absorb the extra butter? But he said no butter. Is there a joke I'm not getting here? What do cotton balls have to do with popcorn?)
Clerk: Then put your fingers in the baby's ears. Movie theaters are much too loud for children under two.
I'm about to shrug it off as some bizarre personal opinion, when she explains that pediatricians advise against bringing babies to the movies, that her son just turned three and his pediatrician still doesn't want him to attend. And, I might add, she was very nice about it.
So Ghoulie spent X-Men III sleeping on a parent's chest, ears firmly covered, especially for scenes in which the mutants demonstrate just how powerful they really are. She didn't seem to be bothered (neither by the loud noises, nor by the hand cupped over half her head). And since she slept through the whole thing, I really didn't need that quatriillion-gallon lemonade, either.
* * *
On a final note, should you decide to see X-Men III in the theater (after finding a babysitter or stocking up on cotton), make sure you stay until the credits are over. It's important. Even if you are the only people left in the theater, patiently staring at the screen in anticipation (and responsibly covering your child's head), while the theater manager and the custodian text their friends from their cell phones and politely wait . . . and wait . . . and wait for you to leave.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
on body image
There are days when I am infinitely impressed that my body has the ability to create life, to nourish and sustain it on a daily basis. I am so appreciative of my physical self for giving me the gift of my daughter. I am in awe of nature and of my own biology. Then there are days like today when I just think, I WANT MY ABS BACK!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
my plans, your plans
So the Big Plan for today was to attend a 7 am yoga class -- alone. The alarm was ambitiously set for 5:30, clothes selected and set atop my bureau. The Daddy didn't have to work until 11:00; I figured I could pump this morning before I left, and have nothing to worry about. (Well, other than somebody spontaneously ceasing to breathe in the two hours my cell phone was off, or crying incessantly because she was still hungry and there was no more milk, or . . .)
As it turned out, my pre-worrying was unneccesary. Growth-spurting Little Ghoulie had other plans, awakening in search of food every hour and a half. The whole night felt like our first few bleary-eyed days home together. At 4:45 I was falling asleep while nursing -- sitting up, mind you -- and decided there wouldn't be much left to pump anyway. Turned off the alarm, gave Ghoulie to her Daddy the next time she woke, and slept until 10:00. Maybe next week.
As it turned out, my pre-worrying was unneccesary. Growth-spurting Little Ghoulie had other plans, awakening in search of food every hour and a half. The whole night felt like our first few bleary-eyed days home together. At 4:45 I was falling asleep while nursing -- sitting up, mind you -- and decided there wouldn't be much left to pump anyway. Turned off the alarm, gave Ghoulie to her Daddy the next time she woke, and slept until 10:00. Maybe next week.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
aww, how cute!
Most of my life I have been called "cute." Apparently this is just a part of being 5'1". And honestly, hearing myself described that way has never felt much like a compliment, no matter how many people -- my husband and my father included -- try to convince me otherwise. Cute, to me, suggests that I will not be taken seriously. Cute is for five-year-olds who say something childish and naive. I don't want to be "cute," I want to be amazing, stunning, dangerous, compelling.
That is, until 1:00 this morning. The Ghoulie was halfway through eating, having just taken a short break for a diaper change. She was swaddled tightly in her blanket, wearing a little pink gown and hat (because our bedroom has gone from "cooled off" to downright chilly -- but it's June and I am not turning on the heat again). As we sat down on the bed and I fumbled with my bra, she opened her eyes wide and rounded her tiny mouth in anticipation. In that instant, something simply "cute" became the most beautiful, the most sacred thing in the world. She was amazing, stunning, compelling (although dangerous might still be a stretch).
"Cute" seems to have a lot more power behind it than I ever realized. The next time someone tells me I'm cute, I might say "thank you" a bit more sincerely.
That is, until 1:00 this morning. The Ghoulie was halfway through eating, having just taken a short break for a diaper change. She was swaddled tightly in her blanket, wearing a little pink gown and hat (because our bedroom has gone from "cooled off" to downright chilly -- but it's June and I am not turning on the heat again). As we sat down on the bed and I fumbled with my bra, she opened her eyes wide and rounded her tiny mouth in anticipation. In that instant, something simply "cute" became the most beautiful, the most sacred thing in the world. She was amazing, stunning, compelling (although dangerous might still be a stretch).
"Cute" seems to have a lot more power behind it than I ever realized. The next time someone tells me I'm cute, I might say "thank you" a bit more sincerely.
Friday, June 02, 2006
everything is relative -- sleep especially
Glory hallelujah. Last night the air condition-less bedroom cooled off enough that we could swaddle the Little Ghoulie, for the first time this week. As a result, she slept for three and a half hours in a row, from 3 am to 6:30 am. I awoke feeling like a new person -- albeit a person with very, very low standards.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
. . . maybe
My mother, in contrast, responded to my whining with, "That's why you're supposed to live near family when you have babies. So you can go to your mother's house, and she can watch the baby while you take a nap."
In her defense, she's going through grandchild withdrawal.
In her defense, she's going through grandchild withdrawal.
thank God for family
This is HARD. I can't use the line "Nobody warned me!" because everybody warned me. But until you're sleeping less than two hours at a time, until your breasts exist primarily for someone else's benefit (no, husbands don't count), you can't really comprehend how difficult life with a newborn will be.
My sister-in-law, sensing the impending effects of sleep deprivation and dropping hormones, strongly suggested I come up for a visit today. So after a much-needed shower (honestly, does postpartum sweat stink more than the regular stuff?), Little Ghoulie and I will leave the dishes in the sink and go for a drive. Leaving the dishes is just as well, since Ghoulie is only happy in her sling today, which makes dish-washing slightly more challenging than pregnancy did.
My sister-in-law, sensing the impending effects of sleep deprivation and dropping hormones, strongly suggested I come up for a visit today. So after a much-needed shower (honestly, does postpartum sweat stink more than the regular stuff?), Little Ghoulie and I will leave the dishes in the sink and go for a drive. Leaving the dishes is just as well, since Ghoulie is only happy in her sling today, which makes dish-washing slightly more challenging than pregnancy did.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
maternity leave is rough
I never realized that for a modern woman, married in this modern age to the modern-est of men, motherhood can still mean “I raise the babies while you make the money.” And while the nature of breastfeeding, coupled with my reluctance to drive to Rite-Aid without the Little Ghoulie in the backseat, suggests to me that this is the normal biological arrangement, it does not make it easier when the Daddy calls to say he’ll be working through dinner. Good thing I didn’t thaw that lasagna.
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