"what happened to my blog?" -- part 2

Up to this point, any time I have not posted for a while, I have offerred the same excuse -- the same reason I don't return phone calls, don't reply to emails, don't practice yoga: "Been busy." It is the perfect response for anyone with a young child, because it is true beyond question. However. As anyone with any kind of a life knows, you make time for the things you want to make time for. And so I must face the fact that I haven't really wanted to make time to blog. But I think I also have a couple of explanations for that.
As happens to me so often in my life, I have tried to make myself into something I am not. Or rather, tried to focus on just one or two particular aspects of my life. Yes, I am a mother. Yes, I am a yoga teacher. But those are only two parts, albeit important ones, of a much larger story. Only two of probably a hundred dimensions.
Secondly, I may have a made a small mistake in letting my family in on this whole blogging thing. Not because of them, because of me; I can't emphasize that enough. I find myself not being completely honest much of the time, because I don't want to offend anyone. Now that we are back on New Hampshire, I see both my mother and my mother-in-law on a daily basis, and probably will continue to do so for the rest of our days. I would prefer not to piss them off too much. Plus, I really, really like both of them. And then there is the extended family, the church people, my husband, God only knows who else knows me both online and offline. So you see, it's hard to be completely honest. It's kind of like letting everyone in your life read your diary, and then you have to see them face-to-face the next day. Or the next hour, as the case may be. It's a little uncomfortable.
So I've come up with a solution that satisfies me, regardless of whether it satisfies anyone else. I'm starting a new blog. You are welcome to read it, even if you are one of the above-mentioned people. I cannot promise that I will not offend you. I might swear, I might divulge uncomfortably personal information, or I might even be mad at you -- you, personally -- one day. If you think you can live with that, follow me here.

"un-gwounded"

Remember being grounded? You'd miss your curfew or disrespect your parents, and suddenly it was no TV, no phone, no going out with friends, for a week. Very boring. Grounded, you might as well be dead. And the day you were ungrounded -- that was the day life began again.
My brother N. , however, had a different take on it. As the fifth of six children, nearly everything happened to someone else before it happened to him. And with two rambunctious older brothers, being grounded was cool. And so, at four years old, whenever N. would get in trouble, he would walk around saying, "Shoot. I'm gwounded." The kid actually wanted to be grounded. (No, my parents never actually grounded their four-year-old. They might take away The Lion King video for the afternoon, though, and that was good enough for N.)
I'm taking a page from N.'s book. I wanna be grounded. Jake being gone four nights a week, living with my in-laws partly because he is gone four nights a week, Ghoulie's separation anxiety and consequent sobbing every time I set her down, working odd hours and wondering exactly where all the money is going -- all of it is making me feel very, very ungrounded. As if I might float away at any given moment. I need someone to take away all my "privileges" -- someone please, please take my cell phone away! -- and force me to be totally bored for a few days. Lock me in my room with a book and tell me to think things over.
I am, fortunately, making the time for a regular yoga practice lately, and that seems to get me halfway there. Maybe I'll go mouth off to my mother and see if that gets me the rest of the way. That always worked when I was a teenager.

PS Happy New Year

Ghoulie rocked out on New Year's Eve. We didn't realize until now how much she looks like that kid from Mad Max. . .

voila

I remember when I first discovered blogging, and would faithfully read certain blogs several times a week. When my favorites hadn't been updated, I would be so disappointed. I would check a few days later, then check again, only to find nothing new, sometimes for weeks on end. What could possibly be going on in these people's lives that they had no time left for their blog's dedicated readers?
And then, one day, voila. A new post. It was like heaven.
So here I am. Voila.
Jake is one week into his 12-week police academy. Please no references to Steve Guttenberg; I can't take any more of those. It's so not like that. It's more like basic training, I'm told. Not that I would know. The good news is that he gets to come home during every weekend, up to and including federal holidays like today. During the week, I kill time by working, practicing, and single-mom-ing, while Ghoulie kills time by teething. Top teeth are monsters, it seems.
I had a lot more to say. I had it all formulated before Ghoulie and I lay down to take a nap. But during my short sleep, I seem to have forgotten how this was supposed to go. . .

in praise of boredom

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 . . .

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.

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. . .

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.