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.
Friday, October 27, 2006
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)