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.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
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!"
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