it worked!

Captain's Log, Stardate 2006:
The first attempt was a success. Subject remained in bed from 8:00 pm to 8:30 am. Any thoughts of fully awakening were quickly remedied with nursing back to sleep before both eyes opened. The length of each sleep stretch is unknown, as this writer chose to turn the clock away from the bed. The fact remains, however, that subject did not stay awake until 1 am.
The one downside to the success of this experiment is that some time around 2:30 am, this writer discovered that the sleeping subject's diaper was very, very wet. Guiltily debated whether to wake subject for a diaper change, at the risk of subject staying awake indefinitely, or pretending not to know and hoping that this would not lead to a rash. This writer chose the latter route, which led to a period of guilty wakefulness over the decision. Still no diaper rash as of this writing.

Tonight we'll see if the success continues . . .

bedtime: the saga continues

Last night, bedtime lasted two and a half hours. It started with soft Christmas music, Goodnight Moon, and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." It ended, as usual, with nursing in our bed at 1 am. I have rehashed everything that happened in between far too many times today. But bear in mind, by bedtime I mean, when I want Ghoulie to fall asleep. I am not even counting the hour and a half beforehand that she was bathed, cuddled, nursed, and cuddled some more.
A huge, huge part of this bedtime problem is our fault; we have trouble creating the idea that it is nighttime before 11:00. To us it's nighttime -- but to Ghoulie, it's all the same. People to catnap on, then wake up and play with. Lights and TV and conversation. Who could sleep?
So I am taking responsibility and creating a very loose sleep schedule that will work for Ghoulie. I woke her up this morning at 9:00. She was pretty pissed about it. After short naps during the day -- no, I don't advocate short naps, but apparently Ghoulie does. One thing at a time here, okay? -- she was rubbing her head on my shoulder at 6:30. I cruelly kept her awake by playing with her until 7:45, at which time she fell asleep in the car on the drive home from my parents'.
Now, at 8:30, she is asleep in our bed, where she will stay for the night. She already woke up once to nurse, but she drifted off once she was finished.
For now, I'm thinking of it as an experiment. Keep your fingers crossed for happy results. I'll report on my findings tomorrow.

appearances can be deceiving

The Little Ghoulie is, at first glance, a delicate little thing. Slightly small for her age, nice and round but still petite. Her eyes are big and somber, the rest of her features are -- dare I say it? -- dainty. Little nose, little mouth, little ears. (Little hair, too, but we've already covered that.) When she meets new people, she gives them a dainty little grin and they think she is so sweet and innocent and fragile.

Her Daddy and I never bought into that act.

And lately, we have proven ourselves right. Ghoulie has two favorite new tricks: First, the biggest, loudest raspberries in the world. I mean, the kind that makes giant bubbles on her chin. That trick is, admittedly, hilarious and adorable. The second, though, I could do without.

She grunts.

A lot.

Loud, long grunts that at first made both grandmothers ask when she had last pooped. But then she pooped, and kept right on grunting. She has taken to doing this in grocery store lines, in church during prayer time, and in the middle of pivotal scenes during Law and Order: SVU. And in the middle of her mommy desperately trying to blog for once.

The grunting appears to accompany teething pain, tiredness, hunger, diaper wetness, and general boredom. It also surfaces when Ghoulie does not get what she wants -- which tonight was popcorn and Craisins. If she sees anyone else eating something, she wants it. (The very same reason her Daddy now insists that her Mommy order a separate dessert when they go out, instead of saying, "Just bring a second spoon.") And if by some chance Ghoulie gets a taste of something, but then that something is taken away, look out. All hell with be broken loose by the delicate six-month-old flower.

Between Jake and I, we figured we were bound to have an opinionated, willful child. We just didn't expect that fact to surface just yet.

dream meanings for dummies

My sister, my mother, and I had something of a morning ritual when I was younger. We still return to it when we are all together over the holidays or during random weekend visits. Over coffee, in our pajamas, we tell each other any interesting dreams we had the night before. Once the dreamer has described any bizarre nightly imaginings, the listeners wrinkle their noses and wonder, "What do you think it means?" Usually, we find the answer. Sometimes we need to wait until my psychologist aunt comes for a visit of her own, if the dream is too strange for us to handle. But most of the time, we come up with some brilliant explanation.
My sister and her husband are scheduled to arrive here from Cleveland tomorrow morning, and apparently my subconscious is gearing up for the visit:
Today Ghoulie and I did one of our favorite things: we took a nap together. And it was a nice nap, a good nap, the kind that includes real, deep sleep. Which has been in short supply around here for the last, oh, six, seven, maybe eight months.
Such deep sleep, and such a long nap, that I actually had a dream. I can't remember the last time I had a dream. That is not even an exaggeration, sadly -- I really can't think of one time since my little all-night nurser was born that I have had a dream I could remember once I woke up. Being a little rusty on the interpretation end of things, my subconscious decided to be nice and obvious for my mom, my sister, and myself. I don't think we'll even need a cup of coffee first to interpret this one.
First of all, in real life, Ghoulie is busily mastering the art of sitting up. (She's quite good.) Also, we were discussing Target this morning. I'm not sure why -- yes I am. We were contemplating where to buy a highchair, and I was railing against the national chain store in which we registered for baby needs, which shall remain nameless but does not associate itself with a cartoon giraffe. Actually it associates itself with coats. And it stopped selling the highchair we wanted for Ghoulie, weeks before my baby shower. But nevermind all that. Let's move on to my dream world.

I'm outside a department store, looking for a carriage. Since Ghoulie can sit up, I decide to leave her sling in the car, and put her in the front of the carriage -- like a big girl! But, I have a hell of a time finding a carriage that works for us. First I find one that has a great seat for a baby in the front -- but it turns out to be a jogging stroller, and won't hold all the things I need to buy. Next, I find a clean, new, big carriage -- but it doesn't have any place to put a baby. Finally I find a corral full of carriages perfect for shopping with a baby -- but they are all broken in some way, or wheel-less or otherwise falling apart. I cannot find one carriage, despite searching the entire store and the vast parking lot, THAT WILL MEET THE NEEDS OF BOTH GHOULIE AND MYSELF.
And of course, the entire, very long carriage searching experience is continuously interuppted by well-meaning strangers wanting to help, other customers at the store getting in my way, and random old ladies wanting to hold my baby for their own gratification. It is all very stressful. Here I am supposed to be shopping for all our household needs, and I've been at the store for like two hours and have not managed to find even one of the many items I am here to buy, because I am so occupied with trying to find the perfect arrangement for Ghoulie and me. And it JUST ISN'T WORKING.

Back to the real world, where Ghoulie is a little annoyed that I've been benignfully neglecting her for the last 20 minutes. Can't wait to discuss the dream with my mom and sis -- over a pot of decaf.

"motherhood -- it's hot!"

Have you ever seen the Livestrong bands they sell at Motherhood Maternity, to benefit the March of Dimes? They're red and they have the afore-quoted sweet saying emblazoned on one side. Jake wore one when I was pregnant. It was cute.
The reality of it, however, I must call into question.
Ghoulie appears to be approaching her six-month growth spurt. She's nursing every two hours or so, all night long. On top of that, we're all recovering from a nasty cold that seems to have overtaken the entire state of New Hampshire.
This morning, I awoke 30 minutes later than I wanted to -- having once again set the alarm for 8 pm -- and rushed into the shower. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: droopy eyes, serious case of bedhead . . . and a cute little baby booger stuck to my cleavage.

reflecting

Most of my life, I have been something of a walking contradiction. A social home-schooled kid. A (only slightly) rebellious PK. A Christian who practices and teaches eastern medicine and philosophy.
Not that any of these aspects of my life are contradictory to me. But I have spent many a time, upon meeting new people, responding to a quizzical look and a, "Oh! What's that like?"
You may have noticed that my description of this blog, in the sidebar, has changed. And the reason for that is, I have changed -- again.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out. Just when I had managed, somehow, to fit my identity and my place in the world into this neat, albeit unconventional, little box. Just when I had learned how to color inside the lines, once and for all. Then along comes this little baby who blows the lid off all that.
Being a home-schooled Christian preacher's kid, naturally I grew up in a big family. As the oldest of six children, in fact. I was a much sought-after babysitter as a teenager. Then -- upon discovering that most employers have no use for a degree in something called "Liberal Studies in the Great Books" -- I worked as a nanny for several years after college. Yes, I knew pretty much all there was to know about caring for babies and small children.
Except how it felt to be a mother.
And who would have guessed? Suddenly, there are questions to which I just do not have answers.
Thank God for babies. They have such a way of saving us from ourselves.

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.

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.

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.

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.

happy fall from the Little Ghoulie

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.

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

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.

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.

do they sell maps here?

We have completed the last long, long, dreaded drive home to Pittsburgh. Yes, we expect to drive from New Hampshire to Pittsburgh many more times in our life, since we will still have family, friends, and a house out this way. But the next time we make this drive west, it won't be coming "home." I can't begin to tell you how happy I am about this fact. So instead, I will tell you about our drive yesterday:
Left NH late because it is so hard for us to say goodbye to everyone, and of course even harder to everyone there to say goodbye to Ghoulie, even if it is for only three weeks. Got on the road, finally, around 1:30 or so. Filled the tank and took off. 93 went smoothly enough -- until Jake missed the ramp for 495, because I had the atlas out trying to decide where our new house should be, provided he gets the job he wants. Somehow, that distracted him.
Once we were on 495, decided to skip 290 due to construction, so staying on the Mass Pike added a few minutes to our drive. Then to 84, where we hit rush hour in Hartford. About the same time, the rain started. Oh, yeah, and we both had to pee, being all coffee-ed up for the drive. And since last week I started suspecting that my coffee consumption is closely related to Ghoulie's high spit-up quota, it was the first time I'd had caffeinated coffee in days, so I was a little nauseous.
For dinner I ordered terrible, overcooked Long John Silver's, because for some reason popcorn shrimp sounded appealling. But after my french fry actually actually crunched and the first shrimp practically bounced off my teeth like a rubber ball, I had to brave the pouring rain again to exchange it all for Taco Bell. Thank God for these roadside fast food restaurant partnerships.
The rain continued well into the night, heavy enough that Jake thought about us stopping at a hotel. I didn't want to spend the money or the extra time. Fortunately for me, the rain cleared not long after that debate (which wasn't really much of a debate, more like a lot of sighing). But once the rain cleared, the traffic started. At 11:40, it stopped. I mean, ground to a screeching halt in the middle of an otherwise deserted highway. We sat for 45 minutes until Jake took out the road atlas again, looking for back routes. Found a decent one, and we happened to be right near an exit. So we exited to the middle of nowhere, missed the first turn and wandered the countryside for a bit, and of course had to turn around again. On the next try, we found the creepy back road we had to take for miles. Made it back to the highway without a hitch. Until the person in the passenger seat, who will remain nameless, but wasn't Jake and wasn't the dog and certainly wasn't the Ghoulie, said, "Take this right." Followed by statements such as, "Yes I am sure! Why do you always have to question me?!"Once on the highway, we saw that we were heading back in the opposite direction, because the first sign for 80 east wasn't actually next to the turn for 80 east, which meant that that second turn, of which said passenger was so sure, wasn't 80 west after all. It was 80 east. We verified that when we did the entire route over again, since 80 took us all the way back to the exit where we got off in the first place.
The good news, when we pulled up to the house at 3:30 am, is that we're actually glad to be home. When we left NH, I did not expect to be so happy about it. Funny how fourteen hours in a car can change your perspective.
Ghoulie, of course, slept all night. Which seemed really good at the time. Except that she woke up at 9:00, ready for the day, and we're still zombies. Typing this waiting for Jake to awaken and take his turn, so I can squeeze in a few more hours' sleep.

***

The highlight of the trip was this (and the mundaneness of it should tell you how not-fun the trip was):

Stopped at a rest area. We practically live at rest areas. At this particular stop, two women entered the rest room behind me, making stranger-to-stranger small talk.

Traveler One (AKA, Woman Desperately in Need of a Geography Lesson): (stretching sounds) I've been driving forever. I've been driving for almost five hours.

Traveler Two: Oh? Did you come from way up in Maine?

Traveler One / WDINOAGL: Just about. Northern Vermont.

Perhaps, if you aren't a New Englander, it's all the same. Thankfully, soon I will be a New Englander again. 20 days and counting.

but I'm not dead yet. . .

(1000 Monopoly dollars to anyone who identifies that quote. Family excluded.)
We've been spending the week in New Hampshire, interviewing and othewise getting ready to live here. The big news of yesterday is that I have, rather inadvertently, found a great job teaching yoga! I'll be the sole yoga teacher in a brand-new chiropractic office, working alongside one chiropractor and one massage therapist. So, so, so excited. I'm almost gushing. Perhaps I should stop now.
The funny thing is, I wasn't sure I wanted to teach yoga here. I've been feeling a little burnt out (as you may have noticed from certain previous posts.) But upon further reflection, I realize the burnout has less to do with teaching classes and much, much more to do with the sheer idiocy with which the current classes are coordinated. (Not my job!) But with this new job, I'm in charge. I pick the schedule, I decide which classes to offer, I pretty much rule my own private yoga universe. BWAHAHAHA! The control freak in me is about to burst at the seams with enthusiasm.

minutiae, procrastination, and a little BS

These days I find that I am busy with nothing. That is, nothing to show for it at the end of the day. The faithful blog readers among my family and friends gently assume that I am busy packing, job-searching, filling out change-of-address forms. But instead I find myself washing clothes that get dirty again, changing diapers that do the same, and sweeping up dog hair that falls faster than I can catch it. I have no idea how I am ever going to pack up this house, and the countdown is on. Less than a month to go now.
To be fair to myself, much of my time this past week was spent preparing for S.'s wedding. Which, as I mentioned earlier, was beautiful and certainly worth the effort on our part. But again, the wedding is over, and what do I have to show for it? Some cute bridesmaid gifts and several bags to unpack, just so that I can pack them again for our interview trip to New Hampshire next week.
I HATE MOVING.
But I love New Hampshire and, quite honestly, do not much like Pittsburgh anymore. (Sorry to all you natives.) So I love the fact that I am moving. I just hate doing the moving.
I have a new fantasy. It presented itself about a month ago, or maybe two. It is the most exciting, fulfilling fantasy experience of my life. And it is this: I have packed, I have driven, I have arrived. As I sink down on my mother-in-law's couch, I know that I am here, in New Hampshire, and that we have moved. I know that it is done.
Oh, how I long for that day.
In the meantime, these never-opened college textbooks aren't going to pack themselves. Which leads me to ask, "How did I ever get an A on a term paper when I never opened the book on which it was based?" If only I could BS packing the way I BSed college. Packing, unfortunately, is totally un-BS-able.

Ghoulie's first date

Back from a beautiful, if somewhat crazy, holiday weekend wedding. My best childhood friend made an absolutely gorgeous bride, and her groom is everything I ever would have hoped for her. They are wonderful together.
But the single best moment of my weekend was watching Jake and Ghoulie on the dance floor, amidst the strobe lights and the bubbles, swaying to Butterfly Kisses.
Yeah. We all cried. It's okay, you can too.
But really, who wouldn't want to dance with the cute girl in the yellow dress?