Blurred Motion

Auf Wiedersehen

2011-09-14T09:16:00.004-05:00

Lately, I find I'm struggling a bit with this blog.

The blog started off as a way for me to talk about being engaged and getting married, and being slightly apprehensive of that whole situation. Lots of bellyaching about my husband and his family.

Then we got a dog. We bought a home. We had a kid. We've been on trips and in marital counseling. It's a full, messy, happy life.

But over the years, my desire to share has sometimes been intrusive. My husband has asked that I not share certain things online, and he's right. Some of our lives need to stay here, within the four walls of our home, without spectators. Not just bad stuff, but real stuff, funny stuff, stuff that makes us stronger together because it is us as a unit.

So what's left? And why?

I never set out to become a popular blogger. It was never my dream to build an audience, or show off how clever or elegant a writer I am. I've never been truly anonymous. I wanted to type things out and I chose to do so in this format rather than a journal hidden in a drawer. Almost eight years of my life this way. (Good grief. That's almost a quarter of it. Right here online.)

Which is all well and good, but: what's left? and why?

I don't know the answers. I'm taking that as a sign that it's time to stop.

I'm going to leave this up for a little while as I try to determine if I want to pull it all into a Blurb book. Maybe I'll erase the whole thing and start over. Wouldn't that be nice?

random

2011-09-07T13:21:00.005-05:00

My then-boyfriend took me to see John Mayer in concert a few years back. Maybe like eight years. It was a while ago, but time runs together. Mayer had *maybe* released the album after No Room for Squares, but I'm not sure about that.

Anyway. Concert. Tweeter Center in Tinley Park. (Yeah, *that's* how far back this memory goes.) Double bill with Counting Crows. (Who, btw, kicked Mayer's ass, and I'm not even a Counting Crows fan. They know how to put on a show.)

Enjoyable show.

The point of this post? There was an opening act. A black guy who kicked Counting Crows's ass. I remember going home and thinking that I looked forward to when he got popular.

I do not remember this guy's name! I can't even hum any of his songs. All I can remember is that there was this guy at a concert way back whenever and I liked his music and I have no idea how I'd find out who he was to see what he's been up to since. My brain is stuck on this problem with no way to solve it. My Google-fu eludes me.

This is going to be one of those things that's going to follow me around for the next four decades of my life until I'm in a nursing home when I will mention it to the guy in the room across the hall and he will turn out to have been the very guy I've been looking for. Because life is like a Grey's Anatomy episode that way.

I'm still here. Only... very badly burned...

2011-09-06T14:10:00.000-05:00

I'm still out of work. Going on six months now. It's been odd.

The kidlet is still in daycare. We left her there so as not to lose her place with a childcare provider who adores her. If we could have pulled her out with the certain knowledge that she'd be able to go back whenever I find a job, we would have done so. As it is, that's a mortgage payment that we spend each month while I sit at home.

This is guilt. My days are reading trashy books and, if I exert myself, getting around to see friends I don't otherwise see. About once a month, I go on an interview. I trawl the internet, following both goofy links and combing the same handful of job posting websites.

@ has suggested it's time to get a part-time job. The gravy train has stopped, and now we've reached the "let's dip into the emergency fund" portion of program. (This is not only a First World Problem, but a Solidly Middle Class Problem. Millions of unemployed US citizens should be so lucky as we.) Turns out that finding a part-time gig is about as easy as finding a full-time one. *sigh*

Amid all of this, I had a wonderful birthday last week. It was quiet and sans fanfare, with the exception of a very surprising number of people wishing me well on Facebook. (I thought I turned off the FB reminder, but something better than 10% of my Friends list stopped by to post a note. I felt loved. Sure, it takes a second, but it's a second more than I expected.)

We took the kidlet to the zoo since our membership expires at the end of the month. She loved it, as she always does. The carousel at the Brookfield Zoo is a particular hit. Five rides this weekend, though she refuses to sit on an animal. She will only ride the benches.

I woke up this morning a little earlier than I have been and had the chance to tell @ how much I love him. For all my whining about him, he's a generous, kind, thoughtful, funny man. I couldn't imagine a better father for my daughter, and I still don't know what he sees in me.

#womenreadcomics

2011-08-19T07:47:00.004-05:00

@: So I should have known better than watch the iFanboy episode talking about this one.

me: They spoil something for you again?

@: Yeah!

me (obligatory sympathetic spouse murmuring): Sorry to hear that.

@: You know how Blackest Night introduced all the different Lantern Corps? Blue, red, black...?*

me: Sure.

@: So the Blue Lanterns are hope. And of course the Black Lanterns bring back the dead. Now there are White Lanterns. Want to guess who the head of the White Lanterns is?

me: Jesus?

@: Sinestro.

me: Oh. Jesus would be the obvious choice.

(pause)

me: What do the Pink Lanterns do?

@: There are no Pink Lanterns. Pink isn't a color in the rainbow.

me: That seems an oversight. I bet Pink Lanterns are coming. Know that they have?

@: What's that?

me: Ponies. Pink Lanterns have ponies. And sparkles.

*I'm sort of guessing what he said at this point. While I was certainly paying attention, the details of the Green Lantern story arcs don't get a lot of real estate in my head.

Seriously. It's just food.

2011-08-17T13:45:00.006-05:00

Of all the ways my life has shifted since having the baby, I think the one I despise most is the ongoing "what should we have for dinner" discussion. I hate that it comes up every single day.

It's always the same conversation:

"What do you want to have?"

pause "I dunno. What do you want to have?"

"Well, we have chicken in the freezer."

"I had chicken for lunch. How about pasta?"

I want to stab myself to change the conversation.

I do not love cooking, neither do I mind it. I'm not a foodie by any stretch of the imagination, but I like the eat, so it seems only fair that I'd be willing to do something to make that happen.

But true to my general Issues With Authority, I don't like feeling overly bounded which is where I'm at these days.

I don't like feeling obligated to put something that looks like a meal on the table every night even though I know that kids who have regular family dinners tend to be I dunno... better adjusted? More normal? (Fat chance of other of those with these gene pools.) Frankly, she needs all the help she can get, so regular meals at a dinner table it is.

I don't like having to find foods that will work for my toddler, who is not so much a picky eater as she eats like a bird. We count ourselves blessed if she eats two bites of whatever. It's really freaking hard for me to handle that my 2.5 year old weighs 24 pounds and I can't seem to do a damned thing about it. I put full fat ice cream and all manner of ridiculous fried junk foods in front of the kid and she happily goes through life without eating a bite. Maybe she's not hungry, which is very fabulous and French, but right now I want her to be a fat American baby. She eats fine at daycare, I hear. But she won't eat at home. She's otherwise quite happy and energetic, boisterous and developing appropriately in every way. She just won't eat, and that's demotivating for the persons doing the cooking.

And now my husband has dietary restrictions that need to be considered. It used to be that I had to work around his refusal to eat uncooked tomatoes and cheese. But now, there are a whole host of other things he does not eat in an effort to manage his GERD issues. He's scrupulously avoiding foods with pH levels above a cut-off and, frankly, everything he can eat sounds dreary.

I don't diet. At best, I limit my portions on a few things every once in a while. I graze throughout the day. Left to my own devices, I'll eat carbs and fruit all day, with generous handfuls of something vaguely chocolate-like. On occasion, I get excited for a recipe I come across online and will make an elaborate something or another that requires one of those kitchen tools that no neighbor has, and I'll have to buy from Williams Sonoma and then never use again.

I want to cook what I want to cook and when I want to cook it. All this stuff is dragging me down, man.

So when my husband asks me over IM during the workday if I've given any thought to what I want for dinner, I really just want to fold up and cry.

2011-08-04T15:12:00.003-05:00

@ calling from work: I forgot what I wanted to tell you.

me: That I'm beautiful and that marrying me was the best decision you ever made.

@: Huh... I just remembered, so let's put a pin in that to save it for later.

Mo sickness, mo problems

2011-07-16T02:29:00.005-05:00

Sometimes a post gets away from me and I lose the thread of what I intended to say. My last post was supposed to be about me trying to figure out how to treat my husband like the decent human being he is - and in so doing, model a "healthy" marriage for my daughter. Somehow, I lost my husband in the writing, which I think might say something about how things are going in our house as well.

@ is sick with something chronic that has been kicking his butt for three months now. There are a lot of things that make this a challenge for both of us. For him, this is the first time in his life that he's encountering an illness that won't be cleared up with some rest, fluids, and maybe a 10 day course of antibiotics. It's causing him constant pain, and while the doctors know what's wrong with him, their remedies don't provide much relief.

For me, I am struggling with trying to be sympathetic to his discomfort. The problem is I am nursing a not-so-secret resentment that he's being melodramatic. His condition is a perfectly run-of-the-mill sort of thing that you see ads on television about all.the.time. People live long, relatively healthy lives with it, so it's hard for me to watch as he dissolves into tears about his long-term survival prospects. And even if I weren't rolling my eyes so hard that I might pull something, here's the Big Thing about it all:

I am not the nurturer in our relationship.

This is not to say I am not tender-hearted. Those Sarah MacLachlan ASPCA commercials make me cry the same as anyone. But I more readily reach for a barb than words of solace. I do it without thinking, I am sorry to say. I love my friends and my heart breaks when tragedy strikes them. I want to be one with supportive and reassuring words, one with open, non-judgmental arms. It feels unnatural to me; maybe feels so for everyone, but when I feel out of my element, I revert to sarcasm.

This is one of the things that I like least about myself, especially since @ is effortlessly tender and giving when I am under the weather. I don't generally want to be coddled when I'm sick. I want to be left alone to sort it out and recover. I'll take something or not, but I don't want you to hover; I jealously guard my emotional resources.

After a couple of weeks of my husband's pain, I shut off. I stopped engaging in conversations about what he was going through because I didn't want to say something tactless like "man up, buttercup". He's been spinning his wheels, seeing specialist after specialist, trying supplements he heard talked of with great promise online. He's even on a new diet designed to relieve his symptoms. I know that mockery is a bad portent in a relationship, so rather than engage in it with him (I'm not a saint - I mocked him plenty to others), I just walked away. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

I think that's hurting him as much. He feels alone in all this. The doctors tell him, I tell him, to stay out the message boards, to get off the internet self-diagnosis merry-go-round, swapping stories with strangers. However, it's the only place he can find to talk about what he's going through without judgement since I won't be his sounding board.

I'm trying to be better. If this is what he needs from me, then I need to step up and support him in the ways that he needs. So, I suppose, this is my turn to say to myself, "man up, buttercup". Marriage kind of blows from time to time.

modeling parenthood

2011-06-20T11:57:00.005-05:00

I spend a lot of time thinking about who I want to be as a parent. (In all honesty, I fear I may actually spend more time thinking about it than actually being the parent I want to be which is a whole new set of failures waiting to happen.) I suspect I become marginally more insufferable every time the word "modeling" comes out of my mouth (or fingertips for online), as it does at least once or twice a week (in a slow week).

I want to model good eating habits, being a reader, being involved in my church community, etc. I want to model model model model.

Heh. Now I have a disturbing image of myself as Kate Moss. Ick.

Only, isn't it appropriate? Am I making myself sick, trying to contort into this image of Ideal Parent? And when does striving for Ideal Parenthood cross the line into inauthenticity? If I model being a reader for my daughter, what am I modeling when fully 70% of what I read is romance novels? What am I modeling when my daughter sits at dinner where half my plate is vegetables, but she also sees me scarf down an entire carton of Whopper chocolates in a day? (And let's face it: there's no way she's going to overlook that spectacle. It happens often enough.)

She will judge me - that's a given. We all judge our parents and find them wanting somehow, somewhere. But what will she make of me when she does? Her wildly inconsistent mother who wants the best for her and is trying to cobble together what that means, the same as every new parent. I choose not to imagine what she'll roll her eyes about to her friends 20 years from now. It's probably none of my business anyway.

Ultimately, isn't this who I am? She may judge me as a wildly inconsistent mother who struggled against her own bad habits to try to pass on better ones to her daughter. I may fail miserably, but I hope she takes away that I tried at all, even if she pities me a little (a lot?) for how hard I'm trying to turn my life inside out to be a better person in her eyes.

In sickness and in health

2011-06-06T15:03:00.003-05:00

Ideally, before your first child comes home, you and your partner(s) have had the big talks about how you want to raise your kid. You agree about the necessity of early bedtimes (and date nights!), how you feel about spanking, how you won't take them to R-rated movies when they're 9, and stuff like that.

You know what we forgot to talk about? How to deal with your kid when he/she is sick. It turns out we are on different wavelengths.

Yesterday, Tot was sick. She woke up fine. She seemed okay enough that we went to church. On the stop at the grocery store on the way home, she insisted on being carried by @. I rolled my eyes at Yet Another Instance of Wrapping Daddy Around Her Finger, but no harm done by it. When we got home, however, she crawled into my lap and insisted we go sit in her rocking chair where she promptly fell asleep in my arms, two hours before her regular nap time.

I moved her to our bed where she and I slept for another 45 minutes. When she woke up, she migrated to the couch to curl up with Daddy there.

Somewhere in there, she picked up a raging fever. Like 104 on the maybe-not-entirely-accurate ear thermometer.

@ chewed his lip and hemmed and hawed. Asked what I thought we should do.

Me? It came on suddenly, so it could disappear just as fast. We make sure she can sleep, give her plenty of fluids, and wait for it to either clear up on its own or for some symptom that requires medical assistance. I gave her ibuprofen and sent her back to the couch.

Him? Debating urgent care versus the emergency room.

I tend to philosophize that kids get sick all the time, and not all illness can have something done about it. There's sick you get that comes and goes all on its own, and while it's bizarre, that's just living. So I try not to be the mom that drags her kid into the doctor for every little scrape and sniffle. (Yes, I am the mum who keeps a tube of anesthetic cream in the medicine cabinet so that my kid doesn't have to feel shots. I'm not entirely heartless, you know.)

@ tends to believe that, in the event of some dire illness, we'll regret having not done something about it sooner. So his first instinct is to let a medical professional sort it out from the beginning.

The difference of opinion is fine until she actually gets sick, and then I think we grate on one another's nerves. I feel he thinks I don't take her sickness seriously (I'm not going to lie that I think she milks it, bless her heart). I get annoyed by the third and fourth time I've been asked if I think she should go to the emergency room (you're her parent as well as me; if you think she should go, by all means...).

Ultimately, we both want what's best for her. It'd be nice if there were something more objective about what constitutes best.

non-update

2011-06-03T13:49:00.000-05:00

Spring

2011-05-11T12:51:00.003-05:00

A week after my last blog post, I quit my job. It was a considered decision in that I have wanted to do it for a very long time, and it was impulsive in that I hadn't actually planned to say the words out loud. Not one of my finer moments.

@ was more than a little shocked when I told him. We have had discussions about this in the past and had decided that we wanted two incomes to keep us on track with our financial goals. So quitting without something else lined up was not in alignment with what we wanted to do.

When I left the job I had before this last one, I promised myself I would never again let a job make me physically ill. That job, the one before this last, gave me back pain. The day I packed up my stuff and left, I felt actual physical release as I got on the bus to go back home. Freedom. Relief.

This time, I felt the same relief. Despite my promises, I was tied in knots again. It's all well and good to say that a job shouldn't make you emotionally sick and that you should get out if it does, but this time, I was married with a mortgage and a small child. I honestly believe it's not fair to ask my husband to be the sole wage earner in our family; it stresses him out and that puts us in a bad place relationship-wise.

But I did it anyway, and here we are.

We're doing surprisingly okay. A small severance agreement lessened the financial blow. Unfortunately, April was also a month of medical maladies for @, something that has taken precedence over other concerns.

Still here. Just trying to figure out where here is.

Luck

2011-03-17T13:02:00.002-05:00

I signed up to participate in an online photography "class" called The Joy of Luck. It's free, it's a week, and I could use some motivation to bring out my cameras these days. Why not?

Today's assignment is to shoot something that makes you feel lucky, or represents luck in your life. Not people. Objects, images, situations, something a little more abstract.

I know what I'd shoot, though I'm not sure I'll get around to today's assignment. (I know... slacking off on the first day is not a promising start.)

The new locks on our doors.

New locks symbolize security. I have security where so many others do not. I'm in a stable relationship with someone I love. My family is healthy. We have food, clothing, so much abundance that our home is cluttered. We have money in the bank and can pay our mortgage easily. I want from a place that has nothing to do with necessity. I have fears, and they are the fears of the privileged, not those of the desperate.

This comes home to me especially this week as I had a challenge at work which highlighted just how lucky I am. It's one thing to know that desperation exists. Sometimes, it sits right next to us on the bus and we have no choice but to witness, hopefully with a measure of compassion. I did what I could for the person involved. Possibly not enough. Definitely not enough. Have I clung to my own security too much?

Make a wish

2011-03-08T11:56:00.004-06:00

My sister is graduating with her PhD in a couple of months. I mentioned in passing to my father that my sister successfully defended her thesis last week, and that I was glad for her. (If only because this means she can finally leave behind the middle-of-nowhere town she's been hating since the day she arrived.)

My father, ever one for making statements that make me uncomfortable, said that he had had dreams that I would be a PhD as well. "I wanted that for you."

*sigh* I know he did. At one time, I wanted it as well. As time went on, I realized that I would have been doing it to please my dad. For me, there was nowhere I wanted to go that required a PhD. And so, I dreamed new dreams for myself and went on my merry way.

I have to laugh: I'm an adult with a husband, a child, a mortgage and a job that I can barely tolerate some days. And still, it stops me in my tracks to admit to my dad that I get to make my own choices.

Intellectually, I know I'm not letting him down. He loves me without any thought to degrees or achievement. But some part of me - I won't say it's a small part - yearns to do the things my father asks in order to secure his approval.

What is that, I wonder? What is it in me that feels vulnerable to the slightest hint of censure or disappointment, and how much of it is overreaction? And, I suppose, more importantly, how do I prevent my daughter from viewing me in this same way as she grows? Will I have trouble putting aside my dreams for her and let her know that I want to support what dreams she has for herself?

Draft #42

2011-02-16T12:15:00.003-06:00

I've typed up new entry after new entry, and then changed my mind about posting.

There's the one about how I turned down a job that seemed like a bad idea even though everyone consulted told me to take it. I was so certain I was doing the Right Thing. Now, I'm left with self-doubt since I'm the only one who thought my choice was the Right Thing.

There's another one about how we're stuck in some weird inertia in which both @ and I realize we need marital counseling (to help us figure out the win-win thing) and neither one of us is picking up the phone to get that started. What does that say about us? What does that say about our commitment to our marriage? (The good news is we had at least one discussion about a Serious Topic that did not end in yelling or tears. So: yay, growth.)

Over the weekend, there was one about my reluctance to go on a Valentine's date with my husband. Mostly because it wasn't even really a date as much as my mother-in-law to pushing us out the door so she could watch the tot.

The ongoing conversation about whether we can afford to move to a single family home in our 'hood (the answer surprised us) and, more importantly, whether we can break even on selling our place (another surprise). Of course, that includes my ambivalence on the "need" for more space as propagated by society versus the need for more space as demanded by my horrific inability to live simply.

I've been reading too much - Dresden Files, vastly superior to the ridiculous Sookie Stackhouse books - and knitting a lot (in an effort to use up the stash of yarn taking up too much space in our cluttered bedroom).

I wanted to talk about all of these things with/at you. But this is what you get instead.

Wonderful days

2011-01-03T15:15:00.002-06:00

Such a wonderful Christmas.

Mo staring at the tree, with her sippy in one hand, trying to figure out what we expected her to do. Then wanting to play with each item as it was revealed before finally catching on to the fun of ripping the wrapping paper off.

Staying home with her for a week, enjoying two hour naps in the middle of the day. Bless her. I wasn't always at my best - a headache did me in one day - but I loved every moment of living the SAHM life for a week.

Holding @ close as we basked in the warm glow of a low-key day with family and the blessing of too.much.food.

Cookies and cakes, pies and chocolates.

Snow and sledding for the first time. Mo giggled like a loon and begged for more.

Visits from friends long unseen, for laughs and talk about nothing in particular. Like we used to do before we were Grown-Ups.

Of course, the weeks pass too quickly and we're back at work. But the world is wonderful again. I make no resolutions, though, if I were to do so, it would probably involve a plan to make the happy days stretch well into the new year.

Delightful baked goods

2010-12-22T17:49:00.003-06:00

Me (rifling through a box of holiday cookies from our Mad Baker* friend): This fudge is wonderful.
@: I know. She's a talented baker.
Me: There are coffee-flavored cookies in here.
@: You mentioned that already.
Me: Yes. I keep saying it so you can eat them and they can stop flavoring my delicious fudge.

*Mad Baker friend is seriously out of control. She baked over 1,500 cookies last weekend. We, her friends, ought to stage an intervention but we're too scared to kill the golden goose ;)

My fleeting moment of being a Trophy Wife

2010-12-21T10:00:00.007-06:00

Saturday night was my husband's office holiday shindig. We haven't been to one in several years - no party in 2009, I was 11,000 years pregnant in 2008 - and he's trying very hard to get promoted. We went this year.

Now, my husband can be very apologetic in advance, anticipating the sour mood I might be in whenever he calls upon me to play my role as Dave's Spouse in a social setting. I won't say he's entirely unreasonable in being wary, but, I confess I am sometimes offended by just how much he seems to brace for these occasions. I assure you that I am capable of behaving with a small measure of civility when the occasion calls for it.

So, the office holiday shindig. @ fretted over whether to go. The party was a hike from where we live, a good 45 minute drive to an outer suburb. On the other hand, it was also important to show willing and make nice with folks, especially in light of the fact that he's hoping to parlay his newly minted MBA into a hard-to-come-by-even-in-a-better-market promotion. Somehow, I got the sense that my behavior was also the wild card.

What I did to deserve that dubious honor, I don't know. I assure you that the most conflict I have ever provoked at one of his holiday parties is that I have never been able to have a mojito at one of them. (True story: out of four office parties at different locations, I have met the only four bartenders in the US who do not seem to know how to put together a mojito.)

The evening began poorly. Yet another clueless bartender. Then we somehow ended up at the table of the COO and two vice presidents. Ooops.

Dinner was unremarkable. Of course, the table was preoccupied by the shocking lack of water at the table, and the fact that the COO was served much later than the rest of the table.

During dinner, the DJ announced there would be karaoke. Oh! Yay! I love karaoke! I've never done it in front of strangers, but no matter. Love it anyway. I love singing popular songs at the top of my lungs off-key. I appreciate it when others do the same in the spirit of good fun and cheer.

I guess I am in the minority. The DJ groveled for volunteers. It was really quite sad. No one wanted to sing. One guy got up to sing, but he doesn't count since he's in a rock band. Then the COO sang, to "get the party started".

Finally, I couldn't take it. We've all read The Tipping Point - well, I haven't, but let's not get bogged down in details - all it takes is for a critical mass of influential people to join in for something to become a trend. Surely, I could be an "influential person" if I faked a little moxie. Moxie comes cheap in a room full a people I won't see again until next year.

I got up and sang "Friends in Low Places". (My first choice was "Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox", but I thought Joe Diffie might be too country for the half-Japanese crowd.)

I was flat. It was awful. I was afraid I'd made a fool of myself in front of my husband's co-workers. I couldn't meet his eyes for fear of his mortified expression.

Oddly, my dreadful singing was considered a bit of a triumph. The COO and VPs came up to him during and after the song to comment on how wonderful it was that I got up to sing. I was declared charming! Beautiful! A good sport! *whew*

All the way home, he kept saying he was proud of me. And for once, I earned my habitually smug expression.

(My plans to be the pebble that starts the landslide failed. Only one more person, another partner, got up to sing after me.)

We grow 'em right

2010-12-13T09:54:00.005-06:00

stopped at a stoplight

@: I wonder if that nursery has Christmas trees for sale? I don't know why I didn't think to look there before.
pause - I stare at him blankly
me: Nursery?
@: Yeah, that one at the corner.
pause - I'm not sure if I'm not appreciating his deadpan
me: You mean the child care place at the corner?
@ (genuinely puzzled): Huh?
me: The one that advertises childcare for kids 2.5 and older? The one that's had that sign up for... oh, at least the 8 years we've been driving down this street? That nursery?

Reading never comes to any good

2010-12-10T12:19:00.004-06:00

This is a lesson I must learn time and time again.

I don't recall how Tom Hodgkinson's The Idle Parent ended up on my reading list. I tossed it into my hold queue at the library and was surprised as anyone when I received the pick-up notice several months later.

I won't lie: I'm a nervous parent. It surprises me just how much I hover. My daughter slept in our room - in a bassinet beside our bed - for her first 4.5 months. I held her for the majority of my maternity leave. (She hated being put down for tummy time, and I hated to hear her cry. So, figuring that she'd figure out the walking thing sooner or later, I wasn't religious about letting her touch the ground.)

I actively struggle against the hovering. I deliberately sit on the couch while she tears around the house, leaving her unsupervised for minutes at a time. I'm usually slightly fearful that she'll get into something dreadful and poke her eye out while I'm not looking, but I still leave her to it. Not only for my own sanity, but also because I want her to be a kid who can amuse herself, a kid who feels freedom to explore and attempt things. I attempt to bite back at least half the instances of "be careful!" that rise in my throat. Some parents do this and call it "benign neglect". In my case, it's "nervous neglect" and I wonder if the effect is the same.

@ is not wild about my penchant for knitting in one room while the baby hides in the kitchen cupboards. I even let her in the cabinet under the sink with all the chemicals. (Though I don't let her do that if I'm not in the kitchen with her. There's a limit, right?) He finds it alarming, hazardous, and he wishes I would engage with her more rather than leave her be. We have an uneasy agree-to-disagree arrangement on this point, because while he's as nervous as I am, he's completely okay with that.

So anyway... reading The Idle Parent was intended to be reinforcement of the idea of letting the child alone. I was surprised to find that it's not so much a manifesto for leaving children to be. It was more a treatise on engaging with your children further, but in different ways. The book seems contradictory: exhorting parents to play with their children on demand that the kids will eventually run off to play on their own. Avoid the television (advertising drives children to want which drives parents to earn more to buy) and play music, dance, and roughhouse with your kids. This is not the kind of "idling" I was hoping to find support for. And I think this means @ is right. Again :)

Reason #492 why my husband is a better person than me

2010-12-07T14:48:00.003-06:00

A friend of my husband's who we rarely see came over for dinner last night. After Mo was in bed, I left the two of them to visit and watch Monday Night Football while I set up my sewing machine in the dining room to spend a little time on my current project.

As I puttered away, his friend must have mentioned something about me sewing. @ shared that I am taking sewing lessons and working on making holiday decorations. He went on to talk about how I was doing photography, and had taken up knitting and sewing in the last year. It sounded suspiciously like he was bragging on me.

I felt a little embarrassed at the chat-up. Not just because I'm complete crap at the needlecrafts. (My photography is decent. Not great, but not horrible.) But also because, in perspective, it reminds me that I have taken on these hobbies at the expense of our time together. So as much as he might speak lovingly of my pursuits, I know that he pays the price in the loss of quality time together.

I might be tempted to whine about the number of hours in a day, but the truth is: I have plenty of time. I could be more generous in how I choose to spend it.

If You Have a Minute

2010-12-06T11:37:00.002-06:00

Please consider supporting the Chicago Children's Advocacy Center by buying something off their Wish List.

In Which I Confess That I Am No Fun At All

2010-11-30T11:45:00.011-06:00

Just call me Scrooge McDuck.

Years ago, when we first got together, @ asked me what his mother could get me for Christmas. I replied, "nothing". I did not say this to be modest or polite. I said it because the small part of me that lives in a movie on the Hallmark Channel really and truly believes holidays and celebrations are about people, not presents.

This was not the way of the world according to %. Holiday + dating her son = present. Add to that the corollary: present = value of present of other son's girlfriend.

Making sure the receipts total up? Oh hell no. I find gift accounting distasteful. What happened to, "it's the thought that counts?" Maybe I could see getting something small because you don't want anyone to feel left out of the gift opening frenzy of Christmas morning, but please don't put yourself out to spend money on me just to avoid some imaginary slight. It's not that deep, yo. It's not that I hate presents. It's that I hate gifts of obligation.

Over the years, this has become a full-blown Issue. Each year, @ and I play the "please tell me what my mother can get you"/"if your mother would bother to respect my wishes, we wouldn't be having this terse exchange" game. It's practically a ritual.

Enter Mo. We're taking it to a whole new level.

We live in under 900 sq ft of space. We just cannot accommodate a small mountain of child accouterments. We didn't even get her a full-size high chair, for crying out loud. Yet, my husband's mother brings my daughter a toy every time she sees her. (My husband actually accused me of exaggerating with that statement once until he found that I could rattle off every time she'd seen her in the last six months and the new toy that accompanied the visit.)

I put my foot down early: any toys Nana buys go home with Nana and live at Nana's house. This initiative has been largely successful. (There are security breaches that are politely overlooked - I'm not a complete monster.)

Only now, as our daughter becomes more able to express her feelings on the mater, I am feeling a growing sense of trepidation. This won't hold. Soon, very soon, I fear, she's going to start asking why. Why can't the Pillow Pet come home? Why can't she have the Dora dollhouse in her room? Why must the American Girl doll (GAG) stay at Nana's? Why, Mommy, do you hate fun?

In anticipation of this rapidly approaching milestone, I am becoming increasingly shrill in prompting my husband to discourage his mother from buying so.many.toys for Mo. I understand that it is inconceivable to not buy anything for my ridiculously cute and funny anklebiter, but I think a woman with a master's degree should be able to grasp the concept.

Please. No ridiculous electronic devices that I will have to hide when the batteries die because I can't be bothered to buy more.

Please. No more plastic crap that will be broken and on the doorstep of the Goodwill in 6 months and then in a landfill for 10,000 years not biodegrading and leaching its made-in-China random poisons into the earth.

~~Please. No character-laden merchandising that indoctrinates my child into your oppressive paternalistic gender tropes.~~ (Too much? Have I gone too far?)

Oh, Virginia. It's not that Mommy hates fun. It's that Mommy wants you to remember your childhood days playing with simple, yet open-ended toys, and not listening to your mother's anti-consumer rage.

Oh, American Express

2010-11-29T10:04:00.004-06:00

Every year, you get me with your Daily Wish promotion.

Every year, I foolishly open your emails to see the awesome deals you're proffering. A day of shopping with Stacey from What Not To Wear plus $5k to spend for $100? Yes, please. A trip around the world for $2k? I'll be up at 3:12 a.m. to snag one of those.

I dutifully set my alarm for 3:00 to make sure I'll be awake, boot up the laptop, have the card at the ready, and am logged in with five minutes to spare. I force reload the page a dozen times, beginning at 3:11 and the moment I get the green light, I type my information in furiously. I pound the enter key and prepare to crow in victory!

Except that it's all sold out.

What do you mean it's sold out? It JUST became available! I was right here! It's not like I slept in until the luxurious hour of 6 a.m. and found that I had missed my chance. I'm telling you, it's like being virtually trampled in a Black Friday rush every single year.

It's almost enough to cancel my AmEx. But, just like those fools who keep showing up to Target at 12:01 a.m., every year I hope I'm the one walking out with the good deal and not the one being trod underfoot by the stampeding masses.

Long discussions about nothing

2010-11-27T20:12:00.002-06:00

You know how, when you're in the first blush of love/infatuation, and you spend long hours on the phone talking about everything and nothing? Hanging on one another's every word? Don't let people tell you that goes away.

For example, today, in the car, we had a long, fulfilling discussion about buying an artificial tree and holiday traditions we have yet to establish for our family.

Both of us grew up with artificial Christmas trees. I have a general preference for the real thing - it's cheaper in the short-run and I don't need to store it the other 11 months out of the year. Still, for the first many years of our lives together, he had a car that did not lend itself to bearing a real tree around, so we had a gorgeous fake that took hours upon hours to set up each year. (To be fair, not all of those hours were demanded by the design of the tree. My husband's preferred method of stringing lights involves layering the light strands as one completes the layers of branches going up.)

We ended up selling the Big Ass Tree last year because the damned thing took up - and I do not kid when I say this - half of our dining room. We live in under 900 sq ft of space, the husband, kid, dog, and I. The tree was practically a fifth roommate. We sold it to a friend and packed off to spend the holidays out of town.

Today, we embarked on the hunt for the Perfect Artificial Tree. In my husband's opinion, this means the tree is pre-lit with LED lights (there's a reason for this, though, I could not tell you what it was - I'll pay attention next time he mentions it if you really are that curious) with (and this is important) real needle looking needles, not the flat papery fakey McFakester bristles.

I'm not going to blaspheme and compare the search for this tree akin to the search for the Holy Grail. But I want to. I really want to.

Today, he did find a tree close to his ideal for the low low price of a pinky toe. He hemmed. He hawed. I stayed in the car, warm in my ambivalence. He came out to consult with me as he mulled over his decision. He cautiously made the purchase, peppering the salesman with questions about the return policy.

On the way home, as he talked through his feelings of buyer's remorse, he asked me what I thought of the tree. I reiterated that I preferred a small real tree over the artificial one. That I thought putting up a tree a month before Christmas was too much. That my Hallmark delusion is that we would shop for a smallish real tree the week before Christmas, decorate it as a family while sipping hot cocoa (made with MILK!). The tree would stay up until Epiphany and then come down and continue on its journey in the Circle of Life.

This led to a discussion about holiday traditions and which ones we're hoping to celebrate as a family. It was a thoughtful discussion, perhaps one of the more considered ones we've had of late.

He's still going back and forth on the tree. It's a lot of scratch to sink into a tree that we'll possibly one use every other year given that I would like us to spend at least half the holidays with my out of state family.

Reason #457 Why My Husband Is A Better Person Than Me

2010-11-23T08:25:00.004-06:00

We went on a school tour last weekend. A local private school with one of those alternative philosophies. It was my idea, of course, because my husband is so far from thinking about when our child might be potty-trained, much less where she might go to school. We keep talking about moving further out from the city, so I like to do research in advance. (This is a lifelong habit, folks. I recall poring over college catalogs in the 8th grade.)

Anyway, we had to get up and out of the house at the barest of daybreaks (thank you, Daylight Savings Time), drive 45 minutes to the school, and leave our child with the on-site childcare. She was not happy to be left, though I hear she adjusted just fine.

My husband? Not so much. It didn't help that the tour began with a "Kumbiyah" (how do you spell that?) type of song. Not only did we happy few parents sing this song, but we sang it in three part rounds and then, then! six part rounds. Because that's what we were prepared to do at 9 a.m. I could hear my husband adding up how much I owed him with every verse.

He played Skeptical Dad very well by not-quite-demanding to know why there were no computers in the classrooms of this private elementary school. The answer failed to satisfy: that the school believes children learn better by developing their minds unplugged before being augmented by electronic devices. As an engineer by inclination and profession, this was so far out of his worldview, he didn't know where to start arguing with the teacher.

I suspect they lost him for good during the welcome-fairy-candle-lighting song. This alternative was too alternative for my Midwestern born, bred, and raised on fast food husband.

Even so... on the long drive home, my husband conceded that, while he had his concerns, if I really wanted it for our daughter, we could send her there. I can only imagine him participating in some of the parent activities...

As long as my kid doesn't have to juice fast during the holidays with her dad

2010-11-18T10:35:00.003-06:00

Phone rings at work.

me: This is Jen. How may I help you?
@: Hey, honey, it's me.
me: Hey. What can I do for you?
@: I'm watching the episode of Glee that's on the TiVo and I just want you to know that I'm leaving you for Gwyneth Paltrow.
me: Is that right?
@: Yeah, I'm texting her right now. She's pretty hot in this episode.
me: You didn't think she was hot before?
@: She always seems so uptight in her movies. But here she's hot.
me: You know she cooks, too? She just had a cookbook come out this summer.
@: Excellent. We're going to name our next kid Grapefruit.
me: You wouldn't let me name our daughter Greer, but you'll give her Grapefruit? So done with you.

2010-11-12T15:02:00.002-06:00

I sent the baby to daycare today even though I have the day off. Initially, this was so I could catch up on some sleep and muck about the house for a little bit. Rather than nap in the blissful peace and quiet, I took the opportunity to do four loads of laundry, haul out the sewing machine for an hour, and now, make pizza dough for tonight's dinner.

I'm saying it myself so you don't have to say it for me: dumb.

KIT

2010-11-09T09:14:00.005-06:00

My new work schedule is not helping matters at home. In mentioning this to my dad, I realized that he and my mom must have done this for years. They often worked contrary shifts, with the occasional schedule synchronicity. I never gave much thought to the fact that this must have been an incredible weight on their relationship for so long. I can hardly imagine how @ and I are going to make it to the end of the month without more major blow-ups, but there must be people who live this way. I look forward to the day that we are not among them.

Someone please explain this to me

2010-11-01T15:15:00.003-05:00

What is a Mom Congress?

I'm hanging out, fantasizing about the day when I will have time to pursue interests other than eating, sleeping, and chasing around a toddler, looking through local adult ed classes. An ad for Georgetown's School of Continuing Studies pops up and I decide to poke through it. I'm nowhere near Georgetown, but I'm interested. Among the programs offered: Mom Congress.

(record scratching)

Huh?

I can't figure out what this is. Is it a certificate? Is it an event? Should I be offended and on the lookout for The Man proscribing women's roles in the family? Is it like Model UN for moms, but with Congress rather than the UN? Oooh, do I have a shot at playing Nancy Pelosi? Because I would totally make a fabulous Nancy Pelosi!

Someone with more brain cells than I have, please explain this to me. I really do want to know.

How many times will I let her down?

2010-10-26T17:19:00.003-05:00

Last week, Mo happily pulled the copy of Duck & Goose out of her library bag and sat on the floor, flipping through pages as I washed the dishes. Not twenty seconds later, the sound of a page being gently ripped into oblivion disrupted our quaint domestic picture. I rushed over and said, firmly, but perhaps a bit too loudly, "No! No ripping!"

I struggled to take the book out of her lap. She struggled to hold on to it and continue the task she had begun.

In the end, we both won. I got the book, and she got half the page.

I smacked both of her hands and scolded her. Her tiny, angelic face crumpled and she began to sob. Deep, wracking sobs from the chest. She cried as she has rarely cried before. The cries of a child who has been betrayed by a person so central to her world that she's unsure what to do next.

I was too furious to comfort her. That she should destroy a library book, especially one that I was so excited to find for her! Isn't she old enough now to be able to deal with real books, not just board books? Why is it so hard for her to amuse herself independently? Am I asking too much of her at this age? How do I handle all this destructiveness without attempting to force her to be a "good girl"? And, mostly, WHAT THE HELL, MAN?

*sigh* She cried in earnest and I stewed in my rage for several minutes before I picked her up off the floor and carried her to the rocking chair in her room. (Really, the Chair of Reconciliation. It's where we go to make up every time we have a falling out.) She clung to me with both arms and legs, wanting to be soothed. In the end, I was left with nothing but shame and frustration at having resorted to hitting her to get my point across. Don't get me wrong: I believe in spanking. I'm just not sure it was appropriate in this case.

I know I have a long future ahead of me in which I will disappoint her (and vice versa) in a hundred thousand little ways. Again and again. I hope the good stuff will far outweigh the bad.

I might be the most ridiculous person I know

2010-10-13T16:37:00.002-05:00

So, I satisfied my taste for smug documentaries about Other People's Parenting last week by indulging in Nursery University about the insane/inane nursery school hoopla in NYC.

I was happily chuckling at the panicked power dad trying to "manage" the process when a nursery director from a competitive program gave the following advice on a panel: "Please don't say 'I've NEVER done anything LIKE THIS before!'"

I am ashamed to say I used that approximate phrase a few weeks ago when I called a local private school to inquire about an open house. I remember telling the admissions director that "I didn't want to be one of THOSE parents" that gets all caught up in trying to find the right school, but that I was curious and wanted to bring my husband along. Sending Mo to private school will be an extremely expensive luxury when we live in a district with excellent public schools. I believe in preparing for campaigns like this early.

Now I felt a little foolish at having said that. Especially so since we haven't settled whether to send her to preschool at all.

What's with the internal pressure? I don't know any Joneses to keep up with and yet I find myself calling a school about an open house for my 20 month old.

I might be the most ridiculous person I know.

Ah. So this is what fun looks like.

2010-10-11T16:41:00.002-05:00

My growth as a Mommy has tended to be in the domestic crafty-type dimension, what with taking up knitting and sewing dolls recreationally. @'s growth has gone in the Clark Griswold-y type stuff.

Don't get me wrong. He was always a little Clark-y. Particularly at Christmas. There was the Christmas we had to tape off our guest room/office because the waving Santa light display that he put up to win an apartment complex contest (grand prize $100) required that the window be partially open. And the tree isn't complete without Christmas Voltron underneath it. He hauls it out at the beginning of the holiday season and it haunts our house until New Year's Day.

So, it's not a complete shock that he really wanted to take Mo to a pumpkin patch to pick out a pumpkin. I didn't protest, figuring I would get one of those super-cute photo ops of Mo to rival that of Cletus. "Oh, Jen," I hear you saying as you shake your head. Don't think you're speaking so quietly that I can't hear your disdain for my folly.

It wasn't that bad. Honest.

Even if the pumpkin patch was 1 hour away.

Even if it was 85 degrees, and completely crowded as every single family in the county attempted to take care of all pumpkin-related needs during The Last Weekend of Decent Weather We're Going To Have Until June.

Even if it featured at least THREE animatronic displays (two of which involved chickens singing and/or dancing). (At a farm? At a farm, people?)

I appreciated the dearth of shady places to sit because I wanted to top off the tan.

I almost didn't mind being elbowed and jostled every time I tried to take two steps backward so that my photos of my kid involved both her and the animal with whom she was fascinated. I'm glad you got into my shot, Mom with adorably matching twins. You're right. Your kids are way cuter than mine, especially with those ginormous bows twice the size of their heads.

And you, family of three strollers which contain none of the children currently orbiting the five bewildered adults nominally supervising them. I was pleased to meet all of you as you blocked my path and did not move, though no clear destination presented itself. Your eloquent enactment of that philosophical dilemma "why are we here" brought tears to my eyes.

Our two hours at the pumpkin patch was not nearly enough time to be hustled and bustled and "amused". Wouldn't you know? We even forgot to come home with an overpriced pumpkin! I was sorry to miss the hayride, the teacups, the rocket drop, and the silly "pose here" cut-outs. We'll just have to go again next year.

99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall

2010-09-24T14:57:00.002-05:00

It feels as though time has just... stopped. Although it's not true, I feel as though I haven't laughed in weeks. My heart is heavy. My job is 40 hours a week of non-stop suckage. My husband, though still the funny, sweet, generous guy I married, plucks every wrong nerve with his every breath. He can't NOT get on my nerves these days. My toddler, gorgeous, happy, energetic and chatty kitten gets into anything and everything and she just won't be reasonable when I pull her out of it.

I feel tired and on the verge of tears every time I stop to think. Things suck and they don't seem to be getting any better.

I suppose we've broken up with our marital counselor since we haven't rescheduled the appointment we missed over a month ago. We should find another one. Soon.

Mommy Daddy Dino Sit Down

2010-09-07T14:20:00.002-05:00

These are just some of the words my adorable muffin of a tot is now saying on a regular basis.

Also, "go" as in when I pick her up from day care, her first word is "GO". Sometimes followed by "bag" lest Mommy forget that she also had a bag of stuff with her.

We should not forget "yooooGUHT", "cookie", "'cado", "'nana", and "raisin" for some of her favorite food options.

And, of course, "shoes on?" and "stop it!" which you might think are funnier than ten George Carlin jokes by the way we laugh every time she says them.

After our trip to the zoo last weekend, the new phrase is "bye bye, zeeba".

The child is too precious for words.

This is something I remind myself of when she's shouting for more episodes of "Kipper", a cartoon to which my daughter is addicted. Rather than try to wean her off with some other kiddie-Methadone, I encourage the addiction. I'm counting on it to at least get me through my single parent adventure weekend to visit my dad later this month. (A trip that I've dreaded from the moment I booked it. Temporary insanity is the only reason I thought I might be okay to travel solo with a 20 month old.)

Mo has favorite books now. She loses her mind for books, pulling them off shelves and sitting happily in piles of them, insisting on hearing the same ones repeatedly in succession. Corduroy, Daddy Hugs, Elmo's Puppy, Five Little Pumpkins, Llama Llama Misses Mama. I should be so glad she's a reader, but some days I wish I could get her to play with her blocks with half as much enthusiasm so I could catch a nap, or at least close my eyes for an extended pause.

Of course, I wrestle with my bossy little bit of a baby and remind myself that she's just struggling for independence. She's figuring out her own stuff and I am supposed to let her do that. I gotta tell you: breathing deep isn't doing much for my zen except making me dizzy. And we haven't even entered the 2s yet.

I watched Surviving the Cut: Army Ranger School over the weekend, wondering where I could find a nice instructor to hand me an agreement to drop out and try again next time.

Melinda, stop freaking me out. I'm right behind you.

Just when you thought it was safe

2010-08-27T13:45:00.004-05:00

We've been coasting along. A relatively pleasant summer, aside from the awful heat. Thinking about giving up marriage counseling.

Until we had a very ugly and largely random fight a couple weeks ago. The kind of fight after which we still aren't talking about it except to say "it was brutal". (Brutal in the sense that both of us were very worked up. No name-calling or personal attacks involved. Nothing below the belt.) Neither of us wants to go back to the topic.

The topic, boys and girls? The one that had both of us nearly leaping out of our seats (we were in the car, so there were no slammed doors, pots or what-have-you)?

Children's birthday parties. Specifically, whether or not our daughter should have a birthday party each year.

I'm just betting

2010-08-16T12:26:00.003-05:00

I'll bet there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for why some retailers are now marketing "skinny" jeans for my toddler. By perfectly reasonable, I do not mean "in hopes that someday I, as her mother, might buy this ridiculous product".

And, while you're crafting that perfectly reasonable explanation, you'll also figure out why toddler boys should be wearing "carpenter" pants. Do you know, I don't even think Handy Manny or Bob the Builder wear carpenter pants?

I'm cranky today.

Guys/Girls/Date

2010-08-13T10:24:00.002-05:00

In the halcyon days before we became parents, actually scratch that, before we were married, we decided it was healthy to continue to spend time apart as well as time together. I would encourage him to get together with friends. He would encourage the same for me. We would talk about how we should do things together to "keep the relationship fresh".

We agreed that, if we should someday have children, we should continue these practices. After all, if we didn't nurture ourselves as individuals and as a couple, what kind of example would we be setting for our hypothetical children? How would they learn that mommies and daddies could pursue their own dreams, that even though we loved them, we had a higher commitment to our selves that sometimes took us away from them?

Heh. It's always funny to think back on that kind of thing.

@ doesn't really do Guys Night. Mostly, for lack of Guys. I take my blame for that. We're oddly co-dependent. It's not all my fault, though. The Guys who stood up for him at the wedding either have their own families now or live fairly far away or work insane hours or, some combination of the preceding.

I don't really do Girls Night. Also due to my general co-dependence. Plus, a little bit of laziness. I do have Girls. I am simply too lazy to trek around on public transit to see them. Unfortunate for me because they're really great ladies and I know it's going to be a good time if I make the effort.

Date Night, though. I feel keenly the loss of the dream of Date Night. The marriage counselor suggested we needed to give this a real shot. I said it wouldn't work. We're both big talkers and poor executers. It would be dead in the water before it got off the ground. Case in point: I had a Date Night scheduled for last month (we agreed to attempt this monthly). It was cancelled due to a) frugality (unwillingness to spend money on an outing and a babysitter) and b) ... yeah, frugality. Actually there was some talk of just wanting to hang out as a family. So, Date Night did happen. It looked less like the sunset kayak ride on the Chicago River I planned and more like the three of us having dinner at a fabulous Mexican restaurant. Unfortunately, cut short by our overstimulated toddler who, while not disturbing the tables around us (as those tables assured us), was driving us nuts by ripping the paper off the table twice and tossing bits of food on the carpet. (Carpet? In a restaurant? Whatevs.)

You say potato, I say tomato.

I can't blame it on @. Both of us dig our heels in at inconvenient times. I suppose I just wish it were different. I wish we could be one of those couples who not only believes in the value of pursuing individual dreams as well as shared ones, but also lives that belief.

.

2010-08-04T16:16:00.002-05:00

A good, kind, and sweet friend has struggled mightily in the last several years to sustain a pregnancy.

It finally happened for her and her loving husband late last year. She swelled up like a balloon, glowed, bitched about the pain, wrung her hands over the in-laws. She did all the things you're supposed to do as a happy pregnant woman.

When she went into labor two nights ago, I was joyous. Elated. I was more thrilled for her pregnancy than I ever was for mine.

Today, the doctors confirmed the baby passed during labor.

My heart is broken.

Imaginary Conversations I Have With My Husband

2010-07-30T12:41:00.004-05:00

One of the tools recommended to us in counseling is that we have a daily check-in conversations. They don't need to be long, maybe 10 minutes. They don't need to be about work or home stuff specifically.

We don't do it. It sounds hokey and trite, and what the hell, dude? We talk all the time. So we don't do it.

Every once in a while, I wish we did. Not just to check in about where we're at (in case you forget to ask while discussing the laundry or groceries). Also to check in with how we feel about parenting, both in a general and a specific sort of way. There doesn't ever seem to be a good time to talk about it. Maybe a formalized habit would ensure that we have that space.

This is prompted by a Facebook post by a friend from this week. She linked to The Unschoolers Bill of Rights. I read it, vaguely nodding along at the feel-good-ery of it before noticing the comments (on Facebook, not Blogspot) indicating that this was written as a response to Rosemond's Bill of Rights for Children. Of course, curious, I read that one, too.

Perhaps it's odd that I did not find the original sad or controlling, contrary to several of the Facebook comments. I nodded along with the original as well.

In my hopes for my daughter, I'd like to think I will live close to both of these. That I will say "yes" far more than I say "no" (though 20 times a day might be excessive). That she will know she is loved, adored, and not the center of my universe (though she's certainly no farther than Venus). I hope that she will see us take good care of our household and take good care of her own possessions.

I have many hopes and dreams for the kind of parent I would like to be. So far, I would like to think I'm doing alright. I'm not living the enviable parenthood of Meg at SewLiberated (I say that without a trace of sarcasm, y'all - she makes it look so very easy), but I am living true to who I am, which might be even better.

This is the kind of thing I would like to be able to talk to my husband about without it feeling out of place. I don't want it to be a big deal. I want it to be a normal, ongoing conversation between us: who we want to be as parents and how we can help each other get to that place.

There's no real reason we don't have these conversation. I haven't expressed this wish out loud. Mostly because I feel a little bit embarrassed - it sounds so hokey, doesn't it? to talk about parenting with your spouse? why must everything be examined and discussed? I won't bring it up. I know he'd be onboard with the idea. And then it would falter because I lack the follow-through to make sure we do this consistently.

I should check KCam's Twitter feed

2010-07-27T11:55:00.003-05:00

Recent exchange as we were getting onto the highway:

Me: Whoa! 290 is a ghost town. On a Saturday afternoon.
@: I know. This is crazy.
Me: You know what it is, don't you? The Rapture happened. We've been left behind.
@: Now that you mention it, I felt something pulling me this morning, but I shook it off. I wonder if that's what it was.

Were they ever this young?

2010-07-22T16:00:00.002-05:00

I can't believe it's been over 15 years. I stopped watching GH when Sonny married Lily over Brenda.

In the Shop

2010-07-22T12:04:00.002-05:00

We're sort of "in the shop" these days. A little after Mo's birthday, following yet another tense disagreement, I suggested (strongly) that we should pursue counseling. The terse exchanges had mounted up to where I felt we were just in a bad place. Though we both knew this to be true, and vowed on multiple occasions to repair this, we weren't making any headway. One of my fears has been that we'll let little stuff like this erode our relationship quietly until the day when we realize we're not so much happy together as we are holding on out of habit.

Not to knock those who stay together out of habit. It's a tried-and-true method of marriage. It's just not for me.

Given the lack of crisis at the outset, I'm not sure how you know if it's working. We still have tense moments - his ongoing (unwarranted and possibly overblown, IMO) concerns over Mo's health hasn't helped. There are the everyday worries about money, though he's been far better about this since we started and I give him a lot of credit for that. We had our first baby-free vacation and had fun. We go back and forth about selling our home or finding new jobs. I grumble that I still do the majority of the house and child-related work, but I'm better about asking for help and he never says no. We get her to bed at night and disengage from one another. He'll turn on the television to watch a show or play a video game. We'll shuttle the laptop between us. I'll do dishes or laundry or knit.

We're humming along with the routine as if nothing has changed. I suppose nothing HAS changed.

How do we know when we're better? I wonder if counseling is our magic feather: if we stop going, will the tension increase again? Or was I overreacting before? Would we have reached this statis without it?

We aren't broken, but I wouldn't say we're fixed yet, either.

Overheard at my house

2010-07-19T18:13:00.002-05:00

@ and Mo are watching The Good Night Show on Sprout while I prepare dinner. Kids are talking about love and who they love.

@: I'm waiting for the fat kid to come on and say he loves cake.

*rimshot* To think this man is influencing my daughter's sense of humor.

When Everything I Do Is Wrong

2010-07-06T12:54:00.002-05:00

At some point in my childhood, my mother and assorted adults around me decided that I was a perfectionist. This label explained why I was an anxious child, grave and vaguely worried as a matter of course. This was not true, but it didn't sound like a bad thing to be, so I went with it. (For years, I persisted with the label in spite of the fact that I am truly, at my core, a "just good enough" kind of person.)

Really, what I am is idiosyncratically particular (read: FUSSY) and emotionally unable to deal with not getting my own way. When things don't go my way, I have one all-purpose response: divest myself emotionally from the circumstance. Perhaps not the healthiest response, but it got me through.

The trouble is: what gets you through isn't always the best way to live your life.

It has come to me recently that this emotional inflexibility just might be one of the things that's bogging down my marriage. I've noticed that I often leave @ with nowhere to go when I get upset about something. In many cases, he's damned if he does IT because I was deliberately leaving IT undone and he's damned if he doesn't do IT because I was testing him to make sure he was paying attention and he failed. Doesn't matter what IT might be. IT is a lot of things, from feeding the baby to not putting my jeans in the dryer. I spend a lot of time being mad at him for not reading my mind.

The realization happened in the course of one of our regularly schedule disagreements. I noticed that my husband was making a valid point critical of my behavior yet I could not accept his criticism. I stopped arguing because I knew my own position was indefensible, but I could not give him the satisfaction of admitting that I knew he was right and that I wasn't behaving properly.

One of my fears has been that our relationship would end because I have an incredible resistance to being wrong. I'm wrong every day, I get a lot of practice at work and in friendships. I make an effort to be quick to admit it when it happens. Maybe I should have been less worried about my resistance to being wrong and more concerned about the fact that I have difficulty with criticism. That one feels a lot harder to overcome.

Color struck

2010-06-30T14:42:00.003-05:00

Something small and silly happened this morning. I'm sharing it without really knowing how I feel about it. Before I share it, I feel compelled to share three things:

First, my folks are different races. When I was a child, I would say what my mom told me to say when people asked the inevitable question, "what are you?" or it's charming variation "what nationality are you?". I would take a breath and recite, "My mom's white and my dad's black, so I'm mixed."

That was fine until I was a teenager. In a fit of sullen teenage pique I decided the question was stupid. What am I? A person. What nationality? I'm a US citizen, born right smack-dab in the middle of the country in the fine state of Kansas. Usually, that and a blank look would drive people to bite their tongues for anything further "delicate" questions. Because, really... the fact that my mom's white doesn't matter to the people who care that my dad's black. And answering that I'm black is enough to the people who are just asking to satisfy some social need to check my race box. I don't want to get into my ancestry if it's just a casual conversation.

Second, I assumed - apparently quite naively - that my daughter would also be black. There's no underestimating my surprise that she isn't. The blond highlights, the blue/grey/hazel eyes. The pale white skin. It's all a mystery to me. And, frankly, it makes me a little sad. I had hoped not to be the odd one out in the family photos, I guess. I thought that would be my husband's role. It's a small matter, though. The love I have for my daughter has absolutely not even the slightest to do with her hair, skin, or eyes.

Third, though I'm fairly light-skinned, in some light - dawn, for instance - curled up with my husband, my skin looks dark. I smile a little to myself, pleased, when I notice it. Normally, I feel pale and sallow, an unhealthy yellow shade. So, to see myself as brown-skinned is a relief and a confidence boost better than a fresh coat of make-up.

So that's three things. And now the story which is bound to be anti-climactic:

This morning, on the floor with my daughter after she had woken up, playing in the half-light of her room, before the shade was raised, I looked at her and her skin looked dark. I caught my breath, I was so happy.

Two Months

2010-06-25T20:20:00.002-05:00

Two months is all it took in order for us to run through this year's FSA budget. It took us 11 months to blow through the same amount last year. A couple of echocardiograms for Mo wiped out the bulk of it.

Today was, I hope, the last health professional consult on Mo's teeniness. She's up to 20 lbs 9 oz - 2.5 lbs more than she was at her 15 month appointment. @, who has spent the last two months straining, stressing, and worrying over every single morsel of food that passes her lips (sometimes twice when she spits it back out) was thrilled to hear this. I was mostly thrilled that this was yet another professional reassuring my husband that our daughter isn't dying of malnutrition.

The tension in our house has been wretched for the last two months. @ wrings his hands and hovers over Mo at every meal time. If she doesn't eat the three or four things in front of her, he pulls out three or more. I thought our trip to Vegas was a corner he had turned, but the last couple of weeks have seen a return of all strain. It's gone far enough that I no longer worry about what Mo will and won't eat. It's enough to know that she won't starve. I do worry about @ and what he's putting himself through. This got hold of him something fierce. The nutritionist said as much in the consultation today. She said she thinks "failure to thrive" is a cruel diagnosis to give parents, that it should only be used in extreme cases of abuse. Parents tear themselves up over it.

Failure. We fail our children in so many ways. We exhaust ourselves to avoid failing in the ways our parents did us, and sometimes go too far on the other side.

So we have a new plan. Designated meal times with no eating outside of them. Try that for two weeks and see what happens.

Life After Baby

2010-06-09T12:20:00.003-05:00

Stop me if you've heard this one...

Before the baby, I was all "I am my own person, with my own interests and dreams, and I will not become so consumed by my child that I will forget this". I was Thoroughly Modern Mommy-to-Be, ready to stamp out all hints that this child wasn't going to change me. I was going to continue to rock, thereby setting a positive example for my daughter of what it means to be an independent wife and mother.

Heh.

I am completely and totally this kid's bitch. Not so much in the indulgent-whatever-my-muffin-wants kind of way. But more in the suffocating-borderline-stage-mommy kind of way. I am smitten with Momo to a degree that is probably unhealthy, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth when I have to part with her. (It's an ugly scene in the morning when @ whisks her off to daycare.)

So, whereas two years ago, I would have been all "HELLS YEAH, I WANT A GIRLS WEEKEND" about baby-free travel, now I'm a little more reluctant. For our trip this past weekend, I was able to mask it, letting @ take the reins as Co-dependent Parent as part of his current obsession with the baby's health. I got to be the sane one. It's a new look for me. ;)

For three days, the two of us went back and forth like nutjobs. At the same time we couldn't imagine ever vacationing without our beloved Momo again, we were contemplating our next trip to Sin City. (What? We had fun, even if we lost more than we planned in the casino slot machines.) We wondered and raged at the parents pushing babies in strollers up and down the Las Vegas Strip. (Seriously, people... cover your kids! It's 102 degrees out and your three month old is baking in full sunlight. There's a hood on the stroller. Use it! Better yet, think better of taking your six year old to the M&M store given that there are crowds of folks handing out nudie cards just outside the door. I know I'm not supposed to judge other parents, but I'm judging.)

As for Momo, I'm not sure what she made of her weekend with Nana and Papa. She wouldn't let % out of her sight the entire time. Her big kid cousins would not do to amuse her. When they brought her home, she took one look at @ and me and began to sob uncontrollably. She clung to @ all night, refusing to let me hold and cuddle her. It hurt to imagine the stress and fear she needed to release now that we had returned. Thankfully, all seemed forgiven this morning.

I wonder what happens now. As much as we loved our weekend, neither of us was thrilled to leave the baby at home with her grandparents. I don't want to postpone travel until Mo is old enough to accompany us/enjoy it. We've talked about visiting London and Paris next spring. It's been our plan to bring Momo with us. I suppose the only way to learn how it'll go is to take the trip and watch what happens.

Gratuitous Gratitude Post

2010-05-25T13:03:00.005-05:00

Mo has some fantastic curls. A little reddish, a little blondish. Inevitably, she'll hate them, but for now, I'm over the moon about her beautiful, perfect halo.

Things for which I am grateful on this random Tuesday:

Air conditioning - These weekend was sweltering, even for me, a gal who likes things about 3 degrees warmer than normal people.

@ - who installed the air conditioners yesterday so that his family could get a decent night's sleep. On his last trip to Costco, he also picked up San Pellegrino Italian-style sodas - I'm working my way through the limonata cans first because the aranciata are my favorite. I love Italian-style soda. It reminds me of the way Fanta tastes in Europe, more fizzy, a little bite, and not nearly as sugary.

Series 3 TiVo with Netflix streaming - a marriage of two perfect things. I've been watching the Australian drama McLeod's Daughters while I avoid housework.

Hope - I've been daydreaming of my next job. No idea where it will be or what I'll be doing, but I'm eager for the possibilities inherent in something new.

I ramble a lot

2010-05-21T10:06:00.005-05:00

A long time ago, when I was a wee lass with my afro puffs in rubber bands with the little balls on them, I read a short story in one of those anthologies they put together for elementary children. I don't recall who the author was, though I believe that it was some well-known science fiction writer. Bradbury or Asimov or someone similar. The story was about two children who find a book in their grandfather's attic. The children have trouble reading the book because the words stay still and they have to turn the pages.

I recall being sad for the children in the story even as I read it.

My parents would tell you I was a bookish child, though I wouldn't describe myself that way. I am not a reader. I read, but usually not as a matter of some sort of inner compulsion. I do it because it's something I know how to do, it's not messy, and I can do it curled up in bed or on the couch or wherever. As a child, I could do it without being pestered to go outside or interact with other children. Big bonus.

When @ gifted me an Amazon Kindle two years ago, I was unsure. The device made reading even more portable. The number of books I could tote around increased one thousand-fold. In addition, our tiny home would not groan under the weight of my new purchases. (To be honest though, I buy far fewer books these days and make vigorous use of the public library.) But the tactile sensation of holding a book wouldn't be there, and that's what I loved most about reading: being curved around a book, warm, cozy and safe, same as the bookseller in The Neverending Story spits out while mocking Bastian.

I remember reading Anne of Avonlea twenty times the first summer I had the book. The pages absorbed the perspiration from my hands and began to smell slightly sweet. I smudged the ink in the corners. The messy remains of small insects were crushed between the pages of A Wrinkle in Time. A sticker from a spelling bee graced the back cover of Ralph S Mouse. My set of The Chronicles of Narnia - with the cover artwork that will always be "definitive" to me - worn round at the edges. I've split vertically the cover of my copy of Pride and Prejudice (stolen from a high school English teacher). My personal history infused along with the tale. That's what I get from reading and re-reading my old favorites.

I wanted these same memories for my daughter. I want her to know what it is to huddle on the couch on a rainy afternoon to discover what mischief Ramona Quimby might be getting into. Perhaps, to painstakingly copy the letters from Are You My Mother? as I did when I wanted desperately to learn how to write.

I know that I cannot fight the coming changes in the publishing industry. It now seems likely that Mo will keep her high school textbooks on an electronic device rather than being burdened with 5-10 lbs of books each night. I had hoped at least that childhood books - these classic texts that I had read, after my mother and grandmother - would still be tactile, solid. My heart swells to watch her gnaw on the edges of Mr. Brown Can Moo.

This iPad ad reminded me of all this today. I wanted to say something about the soft memories of books and stories, about what we wish to carry forward from our own childhoods to recreate or pass along to our children. Things change so quickly now from childhood to childhood. I cannot imagine what she will want to pass along to her own children.

Goings on

2010-05-15T20:57:00.004-05:00

Yay:

Iron Man 2 was satisfying. Even enjoyable. I reiterate my aforementioned distaste for post-credit nonsense, though.

I know I'm late to the party, but Avatar: The Last Airbender is rocking my world. I'm debating whether I'm going to let the whole movie casting controversy keep me from seeing it on the big screen. Social justice vs. seeing a "live action" Appa.

Finishing a public library bender. I was checking out two books a week for a while there. Now that that's wrapped up, I have a stack of magazines I'm itching to catch up on.

I spent three days in the southwest at a work-related conference, recharging my enthusiasm for my chosen field. It's a nice shot in the arm, you know, even if I'm still somewhat desperate to get out of my current gig. Which brings me to...

Nay:

Still in my awful, awful job. When I left my last job, I promised myself I wouldn't let another job make me physically ill ever again. How soon I forgot. I'm not quite in as bad a shape as I was last time, but it's pretty close. I wish I felt confident that I could just walk away, but I feel terrible even suggesting it now that we've got a child in the house.

My house is a mess, and I'm beginning to suspect that's never going to change.

The kiddo has been diagnosed with failure to thrive. She hasn't gained weight since she was six months old. She's okay, for the most part, happy, healthy, and beginning to exert her independence. She's just very, very skinny for her height and age. @ is beating himself up about the situation. I've been talking about her static weight for months, with everyone brushing me off, assuring me that she was just fine. Now that the pediatrician has weighed in with concern, he's feeling a little guilty for not taking it seriously before. Mo will be fine. We're pumping her full of ice cream and whatever fattiness we can get down her gullet.

Helping me help myself (aka, wallowing in self-help books)

2010-05-04T14:27:00.004-05:00

I've never met someone who had no art in them, though it's buried sometimes. Markets are crying out. We need you to stand up and be remarkable. Be human. Contribute. Interact. Take the risk that you might make someone upset with your initiative, innovation, and insight - it turns out that you'll probably delight them instead.
- Seth Godin, Linchpin

I'm more ashamed of my addiction to self-help books than I am my penchant for (not addiction to) romance novels. Judith McNaught made me happy and kept me sane(-ish) during some of the worst days of my life. But when I pick up books like The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, I feel a little dirty. The Kindle has put an end to some of that shame - not entirely because e-books are awfully overpriced for not involving paper, ink, and the cost to ship the aforementioned paper and ink.

Reading self-help books of the business persuasion is perhaps not the best thing to do when one is in a funk regarding one's work situation. I want to get caught up in Godin's enthusiasm and evangelism. I read what he says, get fired up with new ideas to test, proceed into the offices of my leadership and get shot down. Depressed. Oh, Godin. I know you say my company is looking for "someone with passion and energy, capable of seeing things as they are and negotiating multiple priorities as she makes useful decisions without angst", but it's just not true. I've been that person. My leadership doesn't want to hear it, and has said as much time and time again.

I know what your next response will be: then it's time to start looking for a new gig. I'm doing all I can. In fact, I recently went for broke in an interview for a job I wanted more than I wanted to give birth at 40 weeks of pregnancy. Man, passion counts for squat.

*sigh* I'm not giving up. Just having a moment before I resume the inspiration/resignation cycle.

Nummy nummy nummy

2010-04-27T10:31:00.002-05:00

Mo is talking. She's quite the Chatty Cathy, too. She babbles right along and looks at you in the pauses, waiting for your response to her scintillating observations. I'm never quite sure what to say to "nummy nummy nummy". Is it a question? A statement? Worse yet, is it a joke I'm not getting? I do my best to nod sagely in order to affirm whatever it is that she has just expressed. I hope she's not traumatized by the experience of not being understood.

On the more intelligible end of the spectrum, we have "papa", "dada", and "mama". I'm not sure those words mean what she thinks they mean, but it's progress. Also "up" which comes across more as "up-buh" with the emphasis on the latter syllable.

Mo has entered toddlerhood with abandon. Diaper changes are a nightmare of squirming and cursing (so far, the cursing is only in my head). Every small disappointment results in her lying prostrate on the ground, sobbing with grief. I shouldn't laugh, but sometimes I hide a snicker under the sobs. She *can* walk, but chooses not to do so, unless walking on one's knees counts. She rolls and giggles and pulls her books off the shelf. She tries to tickle us which is really one of the most fantastic things ever :)

Unfortunately, she's also a bitty little thing. She is getting taller, but not gaining weight. Everyone has been patting my hand, telling me not to worry about the fact that she weighed the same at her 12 month appointment as she did at her 6 month. Finally, at last week's 15 month check-in, when she showed evidence of putting on a whole half pound in three months as well as the "completely normal though previously undisclosed and not to be worried about" heart murmur, the doctor referred us to Chicago Children's Memorial Hospital.

Ugh. I know it's nothing. It's going to be nothing. Why doesn't that make me less panicky?

Bad Mom #1

2010-04-19T14:42:00.003-05:00

Motherhood is doing strange things to me. I have gone a little psycho. Well, maybe not psycho because it's like I can see my former self on the other shore, waving "hello" and inviting me over to play. But I'm perfectly happy on this side of the river and not inclined to visit. I vaguely recall that one of the defining characteristics of a psychotic is that they don't know they're psychotic. So I have that in my favor. I'm just garden-variety neurotic. Which we already knew.

Anyway, I've lost a good portion of what little grasp I had on "it".

For months - MONTHS, people - I have been super-excited about taking the baby to classes. We're going to do stuff! We're going to do baby art classes, and baby music classes and swimming and tumbling and ballet and play groups and Chinese and play outside and all that stuff but not too much stuff because I don't want Mo to be overprogrammed and she should really just have time to be mellow and be a baby, right? The impulse to be lazy has carried the day since she turned 6 months old (that's when a lot of the baby-education stuff starts). I held out until now: Mo had her first swim class yesterday.

We arrived at the gym a little early. The young man swiping IDs gave me a dubious look and asked if I really intended to bring the stroller in with me. "Why yes. I mean, I could leave it here, but that would defeat the point of having some method of restraining my toddler, wouldn't it?"

We got ourselves dressed with a minimum of fuss. We showered before entering the pool area - it's never too early for good pool etiquette. She was dubious about the shower business. The water pressure is a bit much in the gym showers. We watched the other children splashing around in the pool with an expression of interest and apprehension.

And then I was so foolish as to pull her into the pool with me. The water, you see, was cold. This was not to Mo's liking. She fussed and struggled. I reminded myself that pools are always cold when you first get in. Once her body adjusted, she'd like it fine. She loves the bath, right?

She hated it. The two other babies in class laughed, giggled, and splashed. Momo cried. They blew bubbles and crawled along the side of the pool. Mo tried scaling the side of the pool to get out. OUT! When we were too far away from the side, she tried scaling me, like a small monkey trying to get to the highest ground possible. She clawed and climbed and even bit me a time or two.

The instructor asked us to hold our babies by the torso and drag them gently forward. Babies will kick "almost instinctually". Not Mo. She wanted no part of kicking. About half-way through the 30 minute class, she began to shriek. Apparently Mommy was not getting the message that the situation was not acceptable. By the time we reached the end, my child was full-on traumatized.

I bundled her up in a towel and hustled my blue-lipped girl into the showers. Maybe some warm water would ease things. It did bring her back down to a soft sob that returned to full-strength when we left the shower.

She cried for a full 30 minutes after the lesson was over, she was so upset, so disturbed. I've never been a card-carrying attachment parent, but I felt this experience might well have gotten me banned from even flirting with the phrase. The things I put my poor girl through.

Remind me of this story next time you hear me get all excited about taking a class with my kiddo, would you?

Life is good

2010-04-07T20:20:00.002-05:00

Mo is sitting in bed, an hour after her bedtime, singing and pressing the little button on her lullaby Gloworm that incites the device to play 20 second music clips. Listening to her sing to herself is one of the sweetest things I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing, though, I won't lie: I wish more that she'd go to sleep. I know she needs the rest.

There's never enough rest. Some days it feels like there's never a break from the worrying. @ and I are slowly finding our way back to a comfortable rhythm with one another. No sooner does that stress ease than things take a major unexpected (if not entirely unforeseen) turn at work. Chaos is love, I guess. Stability is entropy is death.

What we're looking forward to: more than you can believe, I'm looking forward to the end of my husband's graduate program. He has two more classes after this one. I've been unsuccessful in talking him into doubling up on classes, so it looks as though he'll be finishing up in December, praise be to your deity of choice.

A somewhat impromptu trip to Las Vegas in June. I lost my shit a few weeks back about @'s penchant for freaking out about our financial situation, and how it's cramping our stated shared desire to travel more often. I trotted out the bargain that we made years ago: one big vacation a year, alternating domestic and international travel. Of course, what with the pregnancy of doom and our child's first year, we didn't do any of that last year (holiday travel to be with family does.not.count). I'm itching to go somewhere. Anywhere. Even Vegas.

Mother's Day. I know it sounds a little indulgent to be looking forward to Mother's Day, but I put in a fairly specific request for a Mother's Day present this year. I'm looking forward to that.

We have friends we haven't seen in years - so long they probably aren't "friends" any longer. More like acquaintances. I'm less excited about seeing them than I am about my plan to make cream puffs for the occasion. (I have leftover confectioner's cream from the danish pastries I made - that went uneaten - for Easter.) When I get the time/space/inclination to bake sweets, I generally find it to be a good time.

So, maybe life is a lot better than I've been thinking it is. Remind me of that the next time you hear me yakking otherwise.

Platonic notions of motherhood

2010-03-28T11:02:00.003-05:00

I talk a lot about what we're teaching our daughter to @. I worry about her learning to drop food off the side of her chair to feed the dog, or "stifling her creativity" by not allowing her to play in the pot&pan cabinet.

Before the baby, I had a running list of Things Women Should Know, a list I often didn't measure up to. The baby is just the latest excuse for not measuring up to some impossible notion of perfection. It calls to mind Elizabeth Bennet in the parlor, discussing Accomplished Women with Darcy and Miss Bingley.

So far, my list of what Good Moms Do:

Put at least two solid meals on the table each day without resorting to fast food. More vegetables and protein than carbs. Bonus points for moms who engage the child in the cooking process.
Sews Halloween costumes.
Takes her child to playdates and tumbling lessons.
Cleans the humidifier weekly.
Scrubs the Diaper Champ weekly.
Bothers to train the dog to cope with small children.
Colors Easter eggs with her child even though she's too young to understand it.
Obeys the urge to check up on the child when she cries out in the middle of the night.
Gladly takes the in-laws up on offers to babysit.
Dresses the child appropriately when the weather is cold.

It's a short list yet. Looking at the list reminds me that my mom may not have done some of these things - my mom wasn't much for cooking or her mother-in-law, and I love her all the same. Let's hope the same is true for my daughter.

Believing in your dreams

2010-03-15T20:25:00.003-05:00

"You could say this advice is priceless," she said. "Are you listening?"
"Yes," said Tiffany.
"Good. Now... if you trust in yourself..."
"Yes?"
"...and believe in your dreams..."
"Yes?"
"...and follow your star..." Miss Tick went on.
"Yes?"
"...you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy. Good-bye."

- The Wee Free Men, by Terry Pratchett

More than I can chew

2010-03-04T11:42:00.004-06:00

At 33, I still throw myself into things foolishly, passionately, and, sometimes, disastrously. It's the reason reading and web-surfing are horrible hobbies for me. I'm all about someone's bandwagon.

Right now, I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to attempt violin lessons again, plus study a foreign language, continue knitting (still fun! go figure!), go to grad school, and, my new preoccupation: I'm going to run a half-marathon.

Of course I am. I ran both cross-country and mid-distance track events in high school without any smidgen of athletic prowess - I was only doing it to show how "well-rounded" I was so I could get into a good college. But, I read one great book about running and suddenly I'm contemplating buying a couple pairs of running shoes, downloading training schedules, and wondering if I could talk my husband into taking a trip to Disney World next year for the Disney Princess Half-Marathon.

Not a full marathon. No, that would be crazy. Just a half. I could totally manage 13.1 miles, right? Right?

In the meantime, I've abdicated morning baby duty in favor of 20 more minutes of sleep. Yeah. I can manage ALL of this :)

Motherhood only looks easy

2010-02-25T16:09:00.003-06:00

The cranky toddler? She had an ear infection.

Yikes. We gave up and took Mo to the doctor last Monday where it took the pediatrician all of ten minutes to peep in her ears, pronounce the diagnosis, and send us on our way with a prescription for antibiotics. Oops. We had no idea what an ear infection looked like. Even if she had been giving us the "classic signs", we wouldn't have known. I feel terrible that she may have been suffering with this for a few days before we wised up.

Now, she's just cranky with early onset toddlerhood.

My wonderful Mikey-like eater has started expressing an opinion about her food. She gives us a happy little shake of the head if she doesn't want it. She doesn't grump about it. She just doesn't want it. Usually, all it takes is just putting the spoon down so she can feed herself. She is my daughter, after all, and is genetically incapable of turning down food.

It's crazy to me that she's growing up so fast. Nineteen college tuitions aside, if Michelle Duggar's babies were anything like mine, I can see the appeal.

2010-02-10T08:18:00.003-06:00

My child is revealing some mad dramatic skillz that she'd been hiding for a while. This last weekend was the first time I would actually use the insipid momspeak phrase "crankypants". Mo rocked a killer toddler refusal-to-nap-and-hey!-I-want-that combo. Any time something might be taken away from her was the END OF THE WORLD, complete with wailing and gnashing of teeth (which still works even if you've only give five of them - go figure). The poor munchkin just could not get things to go her way. It was exhausting for all of us.

And yet, she comes by it honestly. So much so that I have a small inward laugh every time she melts down. @ is a skilled pouter and I've been known to lose my cool on a regular basis (just to keep the skills up, you understand?). I laugh now when the worst that happens in her life is that she is prevented from gnawing on the remote because it will be sooooo much less funny in ten years when the meltdowns are about issues of greater magnitude.

The house is quiet

2010-01-29T20:40:00.004-06:00

Mo is asleep. She came home from daycare wired and excited, wriggling up, down and across everything and both of us. I set her to bed early, partly because I needed the break and partly because she's wired from not napping more than 20 minutes all day. I wish the child would sleep in the daytime - thank goodness she sleeps like a rock at night.

@ is asleep after a long, stressful week. We argued this morning after the unpleasant discovery that having a child is not the tax boon we had been hoping. We made up in that uneasy way you make up when you know the issue will come back again only you're too tired to continue arguing the point just now.

The dog is curled up under a stool, as is her general wont. I think she knows she'll be taken to the groomer tomorrow where they will shave her to get rid of the extraordinary number of mats in her hair. Poor, neglected pup.

I'm hungry and exhausted, wishing I had more hours in the day. I started something on double pointed needles yesterday. I'm both eager and dreading getting back to it. The needles are fiddly and my hands cramp from the effort, but the yarn is a beautiful variegated purpley-pink. Still, I'm engrossed in a book - nothing strenuous - Anne of Green Gables - and it's so hard to turn away when Anne cracks her slate over Gilbert's head. *sigh* Gilbert Blythe and that silly Anne Shirley.

The house is quiet. We all are resting.

Milestone and sleepwalking

2010-01-22T16:08:00.005-06:00

Aside from a raging case of PMS that bordered on a PMDD awareness spot, the first birthday came and went with little fanfare. My mom and siblings came into town, we had everyone out for pizza and cake. I was in such a foul mood, I saw the end of my marriage quite clearly in front of me. I made deep withdrawals on the relationship bank account on this one.

My general winter mania has subsided. The last vestiges of it will be taken care of this weekend as I take a two-day pastry class at a local cooking school.

(Two days! Pastry! Yay, carbs! I am not a great cook, but I enjoy baking immensely when I actually bother to do it. While I do feel more than a twinge of regret that this will mean my husband is flying solo with the baby this weekend - he deserves a week's vacation with pay for what I put him through last weekend - I'm giddy about the idea of learning to make croissant dough and beef wellington. You know, because all those nights we opt to have cold cereal for dinner, I've been kicking myself for not working up the nerve to wrap beef in pastry. Clearly I had no better use for the money burning a hole in my pocket.)

I've finished a few knitting projects and find myself enjoying knitting. It's a little frustrating, though, because I'm still quite slow. @ has sighed more than once that I'm ignoring the television (and him, because television viewing is a team sport in this family) to fiddle around with needles and yarn. It'd be nice if it didn't take so long.

I didn't make big resolutions this year as I usually do. While I wouldn't go so far as to call it "the next feminist issue", I am intrigued by Arianna Huffington's Sleep Challenge. The average number of hours of shut-eye I get is diminishing. Not due to the baby; I'm getting to bed later and later. I wish I could say that I am sacrificing sleep for the endless household chores, but that's not it. The house is a still a mess. I'm just up longer to see it. So, I'm nominally committing to getting to bed earlier.

That may be the extent of my current ambitions. To sleep more. Work is uninspiring, despite the fact that I'm having a great year so far. The days are quiet and routine, which I enjoy. Things putter along, and me with them.

Saying the same thing everyone says, pt. 2

2010-01-04T15:13:00.006-06:00

I am well aware that I am not the first parent in the world. I'm not the best. I flatter myself to think I'm not the worst. I call my friends or the doctor when I have questions that can't be answered by one or the handful of baby reference books I have. Mostly, though, like most of my friends, I'm winging this whole fiasco.

The kid hasn't broken so far, despite the fact that she shut the drawer on her fingers this morning while I was practicing that school of parenting known as "benign neglect". She eats, she laughs, she plays, she poops. She's low maintenance, really, except when she isn't which is so rare that I blog much less about adventures in child-rearing than I thought I would.

I would like to think this is why it is understandable that @ and I were quite alarmed over the holiday when Momo refused to sleep at my father's house. The entire week that we were at my dad's place. Hours of wretched, wracking sobs. The child sounded distraught.

We are not so well-equipped to handle this kind of thing since she's never been like this. Of course, that she does it at my dad's place led to all manner of parental advice-giving. Which was about as well-received as you might imagine.

On Momo's diet:
"You don't feed the baby enough solid foods."
"We feed her solids, Dad, but the books say most of her nutrition needs to come from breastmilk or formula for the first year."
"Jen, I'm talking about the way generations of babies were raised, not some quack trying to prove a new technology."

On Momo's stranger anxiety:
"Jen, you're making it hard for other people to watch your child."
"How do you mean?"
"You pick her up every time she cries. She depends on you and won't go to anyone else."
"I think it's just stranger anxiety, Dad. This is the age for it. We don't push her."
This led to an interlude in which my father attempted to cuddle with Momo through a 30 minute crying jag as she tried to wriggle out of his arms. Finally, she gave up and fell into a nap punctuated with little sobbing hiccups.

On my choosing to let the child play independently for long stretches of time:
"You ignore your daughter and knit all day long."
I am particularly talented, you will note, in that I both pick up my daughter too much and ignore her. All at the same time.

On my insistence on having a car seat for the baby:
"I rode in cars without a car seat. You and your brother and sister rode in cars without car seats. I'll go slow. There's nothing to worry about.)

*sigh* It was a good visit, but I'm glad to be home.

Saying the same thing everyone says

2009-12-18T10:13:00.004-06:00

"Crazed love"? "My constant fevered fear that/you'd die"? Who am I kidding? This is the rest of my life.
- Melinda

I was talking to a co-worker the other day. We were discussing the tragic death of a baby in an airport last month.

It's not a new thought - all parents have it, I imagine - but somehow it catches me by surprise again and again and I cannot breathe for a moment. There is no safety any longer. And the best that I can hope for is that this continues to be true and that I will go to my grave still holding my breath that she will be okay.

She is delightful and delighted. Her sense of humor is emerging. She tries to blow raspberries on her dad like he does on her and it makes her laugh when we laugh. She loves games of chase, both as the chaser and the chasee. Feeding herself is a treat. On her own, she gravitates either toward the dog's water bowl, or the bathroom trash can. :) She's pulling herself up to standing and fussing if she's left on the ground while we move about our home. Her books belong on the floor, not the shelf, and all toys must be emptied of the bin.

In another month, she'll be one. Where does the time go?

About my husband

2009-12-16T08:14:00.003-06:00

Something I love:
That he will catch five minutes of Tabatha's Salon Makeover with me and be so unopposed to watching it that he finishes the episode after I've gone to bed.

Something I do not love:
That I will find his ABC gum on the side table rather than in the garbage can.

It's like this

2009-12-01T14:05:00.003-06:00

A couple weeks ago, I squealed with delight over a beautiful red coat. It had a cute flare at the hips and a triple collar with big, chunky buttons. It is also way too much money for me to want to spend, even at 50% off at Bluefly.com. Still, in my excitement over the coat, I emailed a link to @ with it.

@, in the generosity and thoughtfulness that keep me in love with him, purchased the coat as my Christmas present. As it was not available locally in both red and my size, he had it sent from another branch of the department store. He was very excited to buy me something I wanted so much.

Unfortunately, he bought the coat in the upper range of my usual complement of sizes. The coat is a shade large for my frame.

Do I keep the coat that's a little bit too big and too expensive? I don't need a new coat. What I need is to re-line my old coats because all of them are shredded. Do I ask him to get me the one I truly want? (He'd have to pay for shipping again. Boo to the department store for not shipping it to another branch for free.) Do I just take the one in the correct size in black that the local store already has?

This is the dilemma of someone who does not know want. I asked him to return it altogether. It was too much money and I have too many coats as it is, none of which I am prepared to part with in order to make room for something new.

I think I've hurt his feelings, though. He's complained more loudly than usual this year that he doesn't know what to get me for Christmas. He'd hit upon a great idea that he was sure would be perfect, and I asked him to take it back. Where's the win-win in this situation?

When did I get crafty?

2009-11-17T12:23:00.010-06:00

My father called for his weekly Sunday night chat.

Dad: @ says you're making a doll for Mo?
Me (swearing quietly at the sewing machine): Yup.
Dad: When did you get so crafty?

Indeed.

It wasn't worth pointing out that this is not exactly a new impulse, even if it has been dormant for many years. I remember being a crafty-ish kiddo. I come from crafty-ish people. My father went through a number of hobbies, including ceramics and macrame, before settling on photography as his avocation. My mother would sometimes spend quiet nights on the couch with a cross-stitch. (My whining, bored seven year old self would find a hoop, needle and thread dropped into my hands if I could not otherwise occupy myself.)

I recall asking for, and receiving to equal parts delight and horror, a child's sewing machine as a Christmas present when I was six or seven. I told my mother I wanted to make my own dolls and doll clothes. She checked out a large book on doll-making from the base library, photocopied all 200+ pages of it for me, as well as giving me a large bag full of felt, rick rack, google eyes, needles and thread.

I had to learn to crochet in the German school we attended briefly - I remember it being fun, but not knowing what to do with it.

When I decided I wanted to write, my mother bought me beautiful bound journals and my father gave me lovely "grown-up" pens. When I decided I wanted to take pictures, my father bought me a beautiful film camera, a motor drive!, and some rolls of film. Not once, in all these years, have my parents remarked on the hobbies that are in vogue for a season and quickly pass, a fact for which I am certainly grateful.

So, I consider myself as having crafty-ish impulses, even if few things ever stick.

My husband knows all this, which is why he has kept his doubts about this doll-making enterprise. Good thing, too, because I would not have borne it well to hear his "I told you so" harmonizing with my own inner-cursing-monologue as I ripped the seams out of the body of the doll for the third time last night...

The doll's head and hands. Yes, I know one hand is bigger than the other.

The body of the doll with a soda can for size comparison.

I haven't yet attached the head, but I wanted to be certain it was a good size for the body.

The clothes for the doll are a little more daunting a project. I'll tackle that this weekend, I think.

In Which the Internet Gets Me In Trouble

2009-11-02T13:47:00.004-06:00

It must be winter. I know this because winter often finds me embarking on new projects with zeal akin to religiosity. Many people, including those prone to depression, find that winter is a time of gathering in, of rest, reflection, and recuperation. Or just deep dark sadness. Ever randomly contrarian, winter often charges my batteries. I get excited, find myself scouring the internet reading site after site after site, and, worst of all, purchasing equipment for new ventures.

I purchased a violin in winter. I cut my hair off in winter. A few years ago, I blew quite a bit more than I should have on photo equipment in winter. I sign up for classes at the gym! learn a new language! with wild abandon (despite the fact that I hate the CTA in winter most of all). I don't wait for New Year's to prompt me to be a Better Me. All it takes is a temp below 50.

This year's mania takes the form of doll-making. I have been admiring Waldorf dolls and made up my mind that Momo should have one. Never mind that the child displays not the slightest interest in any of the stuffed animals that she has, nor the small pocket doll that someone gave her. Truly, it's not about her, and I admit as much. Not only should she have the doll, but I should make it! I blame the internet for making it so easy to find forums of people fanatical about their projects.

I may be delusional, but I'm not stupid enough to think my meager cross-stitch experience equips me to go it alone on this venture. I purchased a kit from a highly recommended vendor. I did contact the vendor to be certain that I would not need a sewing machine for this venture. She assured me I did not. (For the doll, at least. The sleep gown will require some stitching that I will need to beg another friend to do.)

The kit has not yet arrived, but I am whetting my appetite looking at all the adorable Waldorf dolls on Etsy, fueling my overblown expectations and inevitable disappointment. My enthusiasm for the dolls has spilled over into a sudden, violent desire to learn to knit as well.

I imagine cozy nights with my daughter when she is 5, in which she sits at my feet, playing with her beautiful Waldorf dolls (made painstakingly by moi) as I knit a new sweater for one of them.

It's a nice picture. Don't ruin it for me ;)

2009-10-22T14:38:00.003-05:00

I had a whole post about our anniversary dinner, which took place during a brief and happy interlude of a weekend full of what might have been the flu. There was an amusing exchange about upgrading our marriage to the premium package that just sounds dirty out of context.

But rather than talk about that, I want to wax prosaic about the awesomeness of Facebook quizzes. FB quizzes take Cosmo quizzes to the next level. I don't need to know my girlfriend style (stealth commando), or whether I need to be more aggressive at work. The information that I really need - the stuff that illuminates little corners of my personality as yet unexplored - is:
What old school Sesame Street character I am (Roosevelt Franklin)
What sci fi show I belong on (Battlestar Galactica)
What female celebrity would play me in a movie (Anne Hathaway)
What Twilight character I am (Jasper)
What Gossip Girl character I am (Jenny Humphrey *gag*)

These are the questions. Who cares that the quizzes are often completely transparent (not unlike their Cosmo predecessors) and often poorly spelled? I am uncovering who I am, one quiz at a time.

Unlike Melinda, I choose to phone it in and post less than once a week ;)

2009-10-08T15:29:00.002-05:00

Upon waking this morning...

@: I have the song from The Karate Kid stuck in my head.
me: The Peter Cetera song?
@: You're the best around/nothing's going to ever break you down
me: Well, you are the best around, so that's not surprising.
@: I think I want them to play that at my funeral. Along with a slide show.
me: Who doesn't love a good funeral montage?
@: I can already picture some of the scenes from it.

*****

We do.not.stop sniping at each other. My maternity leave was fine. But the last few months, our days are peppered with short-tempers on both sides. He gets the baby out of bed too early, I let her cry too long. He doesn't change the diaper often enough, I complain about having to pick her up from daycare. It's always something.

I resolve to do better, to be more patient, to remember that both of us have exactly the same amount of experience in raising children. And that all goes out the window at 11:30 at night.

I dream of Jeannie

2009-10-04T21:05:00.002-05:00

@ woke me up on Saturday the same way he wakes me up every morning, depositing an adorable mass of arms, legs, and gaping maw next to me on the bed. He ran out to pick up breakfast sandwiches from Panera after walking the dog. As an extra special treat, he took the baby off my hands so I could get in that last two hours of sleep that I need to function like a normal human being.

The reason for the star treatment? He dreamed that I had fallen out of love with him and wanted a divorce.

Last night, I had a very vivid dream of my own that I drowned him - quite accidentally, I assure you! - in the bath.

I wonder what is says that divorce dreams seem to be appearing with some regularity. What's going on in my subconscious?

Oh Kanye (yes, I'm late on this one)

2009-09-24T06:43:00.006-05:00

I may need to reconsider my stance on Twitter given that I feel like I just don't take the time to write out full blog posts any longer.

Today's mega-tweet:

I feel partially responsible for the whole Kanye West thing.* I wish I had seen his outburst during the post-Katrina telethon four years ago as what it was: a cry for help. This is a man who suffers from a very special form of television-induced Tourette's. I don't want to jump on the bandwagon and talk about the rudeness of his gesture. Instead, I want to urge people to make it safe for Kanye to seek the treatment that he has put off for too long.

Also, if he was going to interrupt the poor girl to talk about how awesome someone else's video is, I would have hoped the video would be more impressive than the "All the Single Ladies" video. Maybe I'm missing something, but particularly on the heels of Michael Jackson's death, I can't see how it is the greatest video of the week much less ALL TIME.

*Ever since GWB reminded me last year of the role I played in the economic downturn, I have been trying to own up to my part in other dramas on a national scale.

2009-09-21T19:51:00.003-05:00

The funeral was nice, I suppose. A pastor who did not know her very well did the service. He butchered a few family names (my maternal peeps are Norwegian and Danish, easy names to butcher), made strange small talk. Oddly, he called out her remaining family by name and wanted us to wave or otherwise indicate who we were when he said our name. I haven't been to many funerals, but this kind of roll call seemed unnecessary. For one, it highlighted that my sister was the only grandchild not present. For another, most of the family members know one another, and if you didn't know the person, then there was probably a good reason for that. But whatever. She sleeps with her fathers and I'm picking nits.

Momo traveled well, much better than I did, in fact. One of our flights took off and then turned back, not in an "emergency landing" kind of way, as the flight attendant announced repeatedly. More in the "the captain has found something wrong with the plane and thinks we ought to turn around to fix it before proceeding to our destination". Which I might have appreciated except that I felt I was pushing my luck already having confined my eight month old to my lap for the previous four hours and I just wanted to get the final one hour leg of the trip over with. But whatever. We arrived at our destination three hours late, but in one piece and that's what counts, right?

I don't have more to say. I'm out of living genetic grandparents. My mom is now an orphan.

Days of remembrance and grief

2009-09-12T15:21:00.002-05:00

My grandmother passed yesterday. She's been in and out of the hospital over the last two months, following a particularly violent stroke and after some horrific care. She'd been on morphine since Tuesday, as her body began to slowly shut down.

She is a distant figure on my horizon. My mother's mother. A girl from South Dakota who married and had her first child (my mom) at 18. She quickly divorced and married my grandfather before having three boys in sunny southern California. She never learned to drive. She took care of her husband and children all their lives, except my mom, who struck out on her own soon after high school. She had a series of foul-tempered white poodles, all named Peppy. Today would have been her wedding anniversary.

With her passing, my mom becomes something of an orphan. My grandfather, her stepfather, is still alive. That relationship has always been tumultuous. I don't know how much comfort it brings.

True story

2009-09-02T20:39:00.003-05:00

Way back when we were first dating, @ and I saw Ocean's 11 in the theater. The theater was full, it was an evening show. During the show, a baby cried out. Not a lot, not excessively, but it was apparent an infant was in the theater. One of our fellow moviegoers griped loudly about the child's presence.

Okay, I'm not going to defend taking a baby to a sure-to-be-popular movie on opening weekend. That just wasn't smart on the part of the parents. Still, in the moment, the person complaining about the baby was more annoying than the baby was. I remember feeling a little sorry for the parents who probably just wanted a night out, but perhaps couldn't afford a sitter. (Remember: not defending the choice. Just experiencing a little sympathy.)

So, fast forward a few years, and we've got our own little bundle of joy. We went out for a nice dinner with my husband's parents. The restaurant isn't three-digit entree fancy, but it's a step up from Olive Garden and such.

I figure Sunday, at 5 p.m., the restaurant shouldn't be busy. We brought the baby with us.

Mo is seven months old now, and has discovered her vocal chords. She's a talker. :) Lots of baby babble, streams of "mamama" and "dadada". For us, it's cute, though we realize it is perhaps less so during a church service or in a shop. We do our best to hustle her out of whatever public forum she chooses to grace with her operatic tones (except for that one time in the post office - I'm sorry, fellow customers, please blame the dreadfully slow service at the local PO).

You know where I'm going, don't you?

For the most part, the baby was fine. She spoke up a little bit during the meal, but not much. We brought a few toys, she sat in the high chair and her grandmother doted on her most of the meal. So why were the couple across the way giving me death glares for having the baby in the restaurant?

*sigh*

.

2009-08-26T15:09:00.005-05:00

Oh, are you still here? A little something I picked up for you at the gift shop on my way home today:

*****

I've heard it said that the first year of parenthood is incredibly hard on a marriage. I assumed that the stress was due to the all-consuming nature of taking care of a small, helpless person. Foolishly, I assumed that an easy baby meant we would avoid all that nonsense.

Maybe not so much.

I'm tired. @ is tired. I miss him. He's in the next room and I miss him. He sleeps next to me and I miss him.

I know what the solution is: spend more time with him. Connect. Nurture the relationship. Sweet merciful cake, I'm so tired, I'm tempted to put off wooing him back until she's potty trained.

.

2009-07-29T10:20:00.004-05:00

I can't say for certain that I feel more anguish now when I hear stories of children being harmed now that I've birthed a child. I've always felt a little raw about desecrations of human dignity and decency. Lately, I feel as though there just seem to be so many more of these stories coming to the fore. The tragedies were always there, I'm sure, but either I've become more tuned in or by some freak occurrence, the quantity in my news feed has increased.

A woman in San Antonio ate her 3 1/2 week old baby.

A 10 month old dies of cancer within a month of her diagnosis.

A pregnant woman finds that her unborn child has a condition with almost no chance of survival and spends the last four months of her pregnancy planning the birth and the funeral, knowing that the being kicking the crap out of her uterus won't see the end of her first day outside of it.

A mother puts her four month old down for his nap and returns 20 minutes later to find that he has died of SIDS.

For some reason, I picked up Uwem Akpan's Say You're One of Them. So far, it is beautiful. Lyrical. Confusing with its mixed of French, English and local African slang. And it's breaking my heart. I'm only 1/3 to 1/2 through the story of the children being sold into slavery by their beloved uncle and I'm not sure I can finish it.

I feel weak and powerless when I hear these stories. I want to curl up in bed with my little girl, nurse her and rock her to sleep.

I know that the odds are that she will survive her childhood with minimal emotional scarring. The odds are good that she and I will struggle with one another through her teenage years and possibly become friends in her 20s. That I will see her graduate college a reasonably whole human being.

But stories like these make the things I know so hard to remember.

2009-07-20T20:05:00.004-05:00

I love my family the same way I love winter: from a distance. I somehow thought it might be nice for them to come up for Momo's baptism next month. They aren't even here yet and I'm regretting it already. My brother wants to be at Lollapalooza the entire weekend, my mom is worried that my father's girlfriend wants to take her place as Mo's grandmother, @'s mom is worried that she won't get to hold the baby at all since my family will want to do that...

Now I'm just whining for no good reason. I should just focus on the positive: that they're all going to be here to witness and celebrate with us.

Mo turned six months this past weekend. I'm still completely smitten with her, but she only has eyes for @. If we're laying on the bed, she stares in his direction until he makes eye contact at which point she dissolves into giggles. When she wakes up, she's all smiles for me, but the moment she sees her dad, she starts bouncing up and down excitedly. She sees him across the room and flashes both her dimples. She's a total Daddy's girl. Mommy's okay in her book, but Dad is where it's at. He's completely over the moon for her as well, so it's hard to be jealous. I love the sight of the two of them together.

I wish I had more interesting things to talk about. Like how I'm finally got around to reading House of M and am currently cranking my way through Messiah Complex. Or how I started a photo project that scares the pants off me. Or how I wanted to like the sixth Harry Potter film more than I actually did. But, really, right now it's all about the baby.

2009-06-26T07:58:00.002-05:00

So much for Man in the Mirror being in my head. Now it's "I'll Be There": just look over your shoulder, honey! He was a talented, but deeply disturbed man. I pray he's now found peace, and that his alleged victims have as well.

I have more vacation days than @, and mine are all use-it-or-lose-it. This summer, as I've done the last several summers, I burn off the last few days by taking a string of Fridays off. Three day weekends are kind of nice.

This summer, I'm looking forward to spending them with my baby girl. My husband and the daycare provider both cluck their tongues and say how nice it must be to have a day to myself. I'm not there yet. I want to be with her. I don't want to waste a day off by sending her to daycare so I can do my own thing. I won't lie and say it wasn't awesome last week when my best friend came up to watch the baby all day while I did household chores. Still, I want to spend these hours with her. That'll change soon enough, I suppose.

As if by magic

2009-06-19T12:21:00.003-05:00

Songs that have recently popped into my head unbidden and will not leave:

Man in the Mirror
Do Wah Ditty (yeah, that's really the name of the song... color me surprised)

and I can't think of the third one because Man in the Mirror is back on top.

.

2009-06-12T12:21:00.002-05:00

You know what's not funny? The button on my brand new shirt that keeps popping open.

I gained a reasonable amount of weight with the baby. And given that she was a sizeable newborn - 9 lbs, people! - I lost a lot of it early on. At two months post-partum, I breathed that deep sigh of relief that a woman who lives in yoga pants breathes when she can finally wedge herself back into her pre-pregnancy jeans. At three months, I had officially dipped below my pre-pregnancy weight.

It's creeping back up on me. I'm up another five pounds. That in itself is a nuisance, but what's really upsetting is realizing that the weight is not where I left it! I'm carrying a ridiculous layer of fat around the midsection and my boobs are popping out of my shirts. I'm still wearing maternity clothes to work, y'all.

I bought two or three shirts for work in order to keep myself from looking utterly ridiculous at the office. Unfortunately, one of them - a cute lime green number with ruffles - has popped five times already today.

Given this opportunity to rethink my general lack of style, I hired a wardrobe consultant to help me sift through my clothes. Well, I hired. In the last week or so, guilt over my lumpen form and anxiety over the cost prompted me to cancel the appointment.

Would that yoga pants were acceptable work attire.

Not enough hours

2009-06-04T09:41:00.002-05:00

Most days, I feel like I've got a good grip on the baby thing. Not that there aren't little freak-out moments - I'm still the same neurotic mess I was pre-baby. But I've got this.

What I don't got is a lot of time for my stuff. Part of that is just that Mo is an infant. (Where's the newborn/infant dividing line? Is she a newborn for the first three months? Six? Year?) We wake up, nurse, play for a few minutes before she's bundled off to daycare. In the evening, she comes home, we nurse, play for a few minutes, bathe if it's Bath Night, and then do our going-to-bed routine. After she's asleep, I wash bottle parts and pump parts, pump one more time, wash those parts (I could stick them in the dishwasher, but between the two of us, we only generate a full load every other day). I might tackle at least one household task - laundry, catching up on the hill of filing still left from my maternity leave, wipe a toilet, sweep a floor.

If I'm lucky, I might be able to watch a movie with @, though he's a little put out because he can't watch the super-loud stuff for fear of waking the baby. If I'm *really* lucky, I might be able to convince him to curl up in bed with me for five minutes before he decides that he has better things to do.

Sigh.

I keep meaning to start taking pictures again. The baby was supposed to be great for practicing portraiture because I'd have easy access to a model. Yeah, no. It doesn't work like that. Taking care of her needs takes precedence, of course. And setting up equipment takes too long and/or doesn't work given that we still haven't cleared all the clutter created by squeezing one more person into our IKEA-showcase-sized home.

I'll get back to it someday. Maybe in a few months when she's walking. Yeah. Because a newly mobile baby and a light stand seem like a great combination...

Shameless consumerism

2009-05-29T22:10:00.003-05:00

Somehow, I have found myself on a bag binge of late. It started with a crazy expensive diaper bag and has now snowballed into all types of bags.

Add to that that I am finally getting around to checking out the hullabaloo about etsy.com.

This is a bad, bad thing.

I have fallen in love. I have visited this bag at least 20 times today. I'm obsessed. It makes no sense: I don't even carry a handbag on a regular basis.

I've dragged my boss and one of my student employees into this etsy obsession with me. What can I say: I'm an evangelist. And, apparently, a relentless consumer of goods.

A little gloat will do ya...

2009-05-27T09:36:00.004-05:00

Facebook is the best thing ever for cheering me up. I just spotted an ex's baby. A big ex. The ex that I thought I would marry and live happily ever after with before he decided I no longer fit his life's ambitions, but I digress. His kid? Not even half as cute as mine. So there.

*****

We've mucked around and procrastinated on finding a church to call home for many years. @ grew up Lutheran. My own Protestantism is fairly generic, though I called a United Church of Christ congregation home for several years. Now that we have the kidlet, and we agree that we'd like to raise her in a church community, we're actually trying to take the search seriously.

Church shopping kind of sucks. You have to go more than once - in case the pastor is having an off-day sermon-wise, and also to get a feel for the community. Then there can be issues of theology: my aunt always asks me if the church preaches the gospel. While I'm not sure any churches we have visited are close enough to the Good Book for her, they all seem okay on the surface. I haven't gotten wrapped up in thorny dogmatic issues yet.

I struggle with the lack of "people who look like me". I'm not AME or COGIC or any other denomination that would almost guarantee more brown bodies. Usually, we chalk up a congregation as "diverse" if there are three dark faces in the pews. (Depressing.) I realize it's somewhat a cosmetic issue. I'm not going to sidle up to the African American families and try to bump fists or anything. But still, it needles that diversity is so difficult to come by.

The race card is one reason I've been fighting a nearby Lutheran congregation @ has taken a shine to. To say that he's wild about it is untrue, but it's near, it's Lutheran, and the congregation seems friendly enough. We've seen a couple of African American families at the services (never more than one at a time, so it's possible they rotate their attendance*). So that was that. This is where @ has decided to have the baby baptized and I'm going along in a "I don't have any better ideas" kind of way.

Until this last Sunday. I took the baby out of the service just before Communion because she was getting antsy. It seemed an opportune moment to explore the rest of the building. Checked out the kindergarten rooms, and peeked into the church offices. All stellar. We wandered to the nursery (advertised in the bulletin as having a silent pager system to alert parents when their child was having trouble). I loved it. Big, clean with lots of natural light (why do church nurseries always seem dark??). Plenty of toys neatly put away. Cubbies for the kids. Changing table in the corner with a sink for handwashing right beside it. Two gliders, playpen, exersaucer, and bouncy chairs for infants.

I told @ I would be okay with joining the congregation. Perhaps a shallow reason to choose a church, given that Mo will only be little for so long, but it works.

*****

*Did I ever relay the story about the time we went to a local Lutheran church in our delightful suburb, nationally vaunted for its diversity? It was several years ago before we were married. We sat through the service and when it came time to "pass the peace", the couple in the pew in front of us turned and mentioned that they hadn't seen us in several weeks and inquired after our children. We smiled and nodded that we left the kids at home that day. After we left, we decided that it probably wasn't a good sign on the diversity front if we were already being mistaken for another white guy/black woman couple. We never went back.

.

2009-05-20T15:41:00.003-05:00

The remake of Footloose will star Chace Crawford and Miley Cyrus. Even my cheesy high school/dance/80s movie loving heart will not let me watch this. Maybe when it plays on TBS. Maybe.

I met with a registered dietitian yesterday to discuss my horrific eating habits. I have been known to inhale an entire bag of mini Snickers in one sitting, without thinking. It's bad. Know what else is bad? My body fat percentage. It's well out of the "normal" range. Oops.

.

2009-05-15T07:51:00.002-05:00

You know what sucks?

Besides a lot of things, it sucks to see the scariest thing you can imagine, that thing you know is looming out on the horizon that you can't avoid really, turn out to be closer than you knew.

That sucks a lot.

Big Yellow Taxi

2009-05-08T11:49:00.003-05:00

I'm generally a pessimist. I'm a doom and gloom, whatever-I-love-won't-be-here-tomorrow kind of gal. Sometimes, I rationalize it away as a vaguely Zen-ish philosophy: everything is temporary. But for all the pessimism, there are things that I count on as True. True in a way that would invoke catastrophe if it were to be Not True.

Another friend has announced that her marriage is on the ropes. Well, not so much the ropes as laying on the mat and the count is approaching ten. It's a couple that I love dearly, that I wouldn't imagine apart under any circumstances whatsoever. They're struggling with the same old story: something comes out of (seemingly) nowhere to knock them for a loop.

At the same time it breaks my heart, it terrifies me that something may be lurking in the corners of my relationship with @. It's always all about me, isn't it?

2009-04-30T11:37:00.002-05:00

I'm going to stop calling her Queen (a tongue-in-cheek reference to the fact that she looks entirely white) and start calling her Momo. Because that's what I imagine she's saying when she sucks on her lip like this.

She's a seriously pretty baby, y'all. The pictures don't even do her justice.

First 100 Days of Queen's Reign

2009-04-28T11:56:00.002-05:00

To recap Queen's first hundred days:

Gaining weight steadily. Recently passed the 13 pound mark.

She's a giggler. The daycare provider says she laughs a lot for a baby her age.

She doesn't care for pooping. It's still alarming.

But she's adjusting to taking baths.

Tummy Time is not her thing either.

Prefers sucking on her hands to the pacifier.

Like War Buddies

2009-04-27T14:54:00.005-05:00

My wife was out and I was home alone with Emma when my mother called. She said, "Oh, so you're baby-sitting"? As politely as I could manage, I answered, "I call it fathering."
- Lawrence J. Cohen, Playful Parenting

I will say this: there's very little that's sexier than watching the guy who knocked you up blow raspberries with your child.

We're still working out the logistics of how to get ourselves ready in the morning while spending the precious few waking moments we have with Queen. It helps to remember that we're in it together so I don't throttle him. As long as he's more useful alive than dead, at least.

Oh, THERE it is

2009-04-23T09:59:00.002-05:00

Here I am, on Day Four of Return to Oz. (I was going to write "Return to the Valley of the Shadow of Death", but that seemed needlessly melodramatic.) People keep checking in, asking me how I'm doing, reminding me that it gets easier, asking about the baby and who's watching her during the day.

I've been good. Fine. I got a little choked up on Monday morning when we dropped her off at daycare. I sulked and snapped at @ on Monday night when it became apparent that I may not pump enough milk at work to meet the baby's needs. But I'm fine. I enjoy my time in the office, and while I would rather be with Queen, I don't feel as though something is missing. I've been thinking that the transition back to the office was going to be cake. Lucky me.

Until this moment when I'm barely holding back sobs at my desk.

Queen's daycare provider reported that she had a bad day yesterday. She wouldn't nap. She didn't want to be put down. She fought being in the Snugli. The daycare provider told my husband that she was frustrated that she couldn't prepare lunch because she had to hold Queen. When my husband pointed out that she could put Queen down - the baby will get over not being held - she said the crying was disruptive to the other children and besides, she doesn't believe in letting the baby cry. Which is great and I love that she's so attentive, but I'm also a realist. If you have other kids to attend to, Queen will have to adjust. There's nothing wrong with that, even if it sucks in the short-term.

Hearing that my baby girl had a rough day was difficult. Especially when she was so calm and cuddly in my arms after work yesterday. My arms is the world she knows. All is right when we're together.

What's upsetting is waking up to learn that the daycare provider has spent time surfing the web for advice on how to cure Queen's colic (have I considered giving up chicken?) and reviewing various sites for sleep advice. I know this because she cut and pasted clips to send us.

For real? I know the newborn phase can be trying. I count my blessings that, for the most part, I enjoyed Queen's first thirteen weeks. I was rarely sleep deprived, the baby is giggly and affectionate. Multiple people remarked on how easygoing she seemed to be. So, forgive me if I think you're a little premature to suggest that perhaps I might want to change my diet to reduce my child's colic. Queen does not have colic. I have imaginary internet friends who have colicky babies. Mine is not one of them.

I'm sure the daycare provider is just trying to get ahead of any problems that might be long-term. I just wish she'd wait for the baby to settle into her new routine - this IS a big shift for her, after all - before calling for a huddle on how to deal with Queen's problems. In the meantime, I wish I was home with my little one so she didn't have to cry all day and that's breaking my heart.

This morning

2009-04-21T13:49:00.003-05:00

Me: My dream last night ended with us getting a divorce.
@: Oh really? What happened?
Me: I dreamed I went down to the basement and the storage space was half-empty. I asked you what you did with the things down there and you said you put them away somewhere else.
@: The empty boxes downstairs?
Me: Yes, but I knew you had thrown them away. So I told you that I didn't want to be married to someone who would throw my stuff away without talking to me first and I told you to get a divorce lawyer.
@: Because I got rid of some empty boxes?
Me: Yes. And I was kind of hurt that you were all like, 'yeah, whatever' about the fact that I was divorcing you. I wanted you to at least be a little broken up about it.

Thirty minutes later
@: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
@: I would never throw away your boxes without asking you.

I got one of the good ones, ladies.

Things to do at 5 a.m. when you're sleepy

2009-04-11T05:30:00.003-05:00

* Obsess over designer diaper bags online (even though you secretly agree with your husband that it's a little nutty - you're choosing to chalk it up to your unique charm) There's a gorgeous Rebecca Minkoff bag at nordstrom.com. I've never been a bag lady, but I think that purchase would put me over my quota ;)
* Obsess over whether you'll be able to pump enough to nourish the baby when you go back to work (and try to figure out when breastfeeding became such an emotional issue to you)
* Obsess over whether there's really anything you can do to keep the baby from crying on her first longish car trip on Sunday
* Obsess over the general disarray of your home and imagine how much worse it will get very shortly
* Wonder if you should be taking the time to play Animal Crossing: City Folk because surely all your villagers hate you and have moved away since you've been ignoring them since the baby was born (there are spring fish to catch!)
* Wonder how you're going to find a new job/whether you should ask for a promotion at the old crazy one (without wallowing in negative energy that helps no one)

Turns out, my early morning to-do list is pretty long.

I'm not signing up for Twitter. This will have to do.

2009-03-30T22:02:00.004-05:00

The kid? Still cute. She gurgles now. It's adorable :)

The husband? Still saintly. He came home from work one day last week when I thought I was going to die from the Mystery Flu.

The job? Still don't want to go back to the madhouse.

Battlestar Galactica finale gets one thumb up. It loses a star for endless ending a la The Return of the King.

Kings on NBC is a weird little show and I like it more than I should. I think they might be speaking in iambic pentameter, but I've never been able to pick up on that.

I'm working on it

2009-03-22T19:26:00.003-05:00

A side note: I am tickled that the Coke commercial I fell in love with in Ireland has made it to the US shores. (The one with the guy imitating a ring tone sound. Shut up. It's corny-sweet.)

I'll be heading back to the office in just about a month. I told my husband I wanted to stay home for the baby's first 12 weeks, so that's what I'm doing. Come the Monday after her 12th week, I'll be back in the office.

After years of supporting, but not entirely respecting, women who choose to stay at home to raise their children rather than return to the workforce, I find myself in the awkward position of wanting to be one of them. Ouch. Okay, part of it is a dismal work situation. But the adult interaction that moms say they miss when they stay at home? I don't miss at all. At least, not yet.

My heart aches a little when I realize that once I go back to work, my daughter will spend the majority of her waking hours with someone else for the rest of her life. Daycare, preschool, real school, college, and life. I wish we had her to ourselves just a little bit longer. I was telling a friend I feel a bit like a divorced parent who only gets to see the kid on weekends.

I shouldn't whine, right? Both my parents worked most of my life and I feel like I spent plenty of time with them. So, these things turn out fine. And I truly believe that we can't make the workplace more friendly toward women (working mothers and the childfree alike) with women dropping out in great numbers. You gotta show up to be heard. But, the small voice inside me says that I don't want to be heard; I just want to smile and giggle with my daughter as she wakes up to the world and begins to become her own person. It only lasts so long, you know?

Yeah, I'm not quite okay with it yet. It may be a while.

Hm

2009-03-15T23:12:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure I can explain to my husband the difference between being into Buffy and Angel and being into Twilight. But I know there's a difference somewhere.

Re-Kindling my love of books

2009-03-12T08:33:00.003-05:00

Before I start, a warning: don't judge. Your judging eyes are not welcome here.

So my husband gave me a Kindle for Mother's Day last year. I had just discovered I was pregnant the day before, and it was kind of an "oops, I'm sorry I got you knocked up" gift. He thought it would be useful, particularly given that I'd be at home with a newborn during winter. (At the time, it seemed extravagant, though given the course of my pregnancy, it wasn't extravagant enough.)

I have mixed feelings about the Kindle. It's easy enough to read. And no, I don't miss the feel and weight of most books. It's discreet - no embarrassment over the cover of one's current bodice-ripper. I still buy books I'd want to read if the electricity went out - Gaiman's The Graveyard Book was a recent purchase (worth it!!) - but most books aren't in that category these days.

My primary objection is the cost of the books. I object to dropping $10 on a book that I no longer have access to if I decide not to own a Kindle some day. I don't buy disposable reads. If I spend money on a book, I want to have access to it until I decide to give it away or sell it. I would have less difficulty coughing up the cash if they asked for somewhat less per volume. I don't even shell out $10 for an iTunes album, and I don't need an iPod to listen to those. Why can't they come up with some kind of book rental scheme, similar to what Amazon does with movie rentals? Better yet, set up a Netflix/Audible.com scheme by which I pay a monthly fee that covers whatever I'm looking to read that month?

Anyway, this whole rant is moot. My Kindle broke after reading three books on it (disposable reads like a Shopaholic book and Rilla of Ingleside). Then my replacement Kindle turned out to be broken, too. The replacement's replacement should arrive today. If that one doesn't work, I give up. :)

What what, party people?

2009-03-04T10:44:00.004-06:00

Hello, my imaginary friends and random passersby! I missed you. In my absence I have repeatedly attempted to formulate the plot of my next post, but I got nothing. Bumpkiss. (Bupkiss? Diddly squat? Jack nothing?) I've composed long, thoughtful musings on:
our recent purchase of a new car,
our first extended outing with baby in said car,
my first hypochondria-by-proxy freak out over my child's extreme (IMO) nasal congestion,
and grumblings about my beloved dog who I am trying to get on The Dog Whisperer because she barks her head off and wakes the baby at importune times.

Well, the musings weren't that long and/or thoughtful. The only thoughts really going through my head are: I need to lay down and when will I be able to sleep like I used to?

I shouldn't complain. Baby is still sleeping through the night, when she can breathe. (She's *that* mythical baby, people.)

But man, my back hurts from holding her all day. With all the dread and worry about post-partum depression, the midwives and social workers and shrinks drummed it into my head that I need to hold the child as much as possible. So much so that I'm only half joking when I say that I fear putting her down in these first several months will lead to her eventual evolution into a sociopath.

So that's what I'm thinking about lately. How 'bout you?

2009-02-24T13:34:00.002-06:00

So They say that the first year with a child can sorely test your marriage. I am choosing not the argue with that.

Ways in which @ has been an awesome partner:
For the first three weeks, @ was on "baby duty" in the late evening while I went to bed at my normal time. I pumped breastmilk before retiring so he had a bottle to give her if she was hungry, and I hit the sack. (You may not know this about me, but I am a Sleeper. My body's sleep drive has never met a dose of caffeine or adrenaline that it couldn't overcome for some shuteye. If I need the rest, I'm down for the count. Unless you count the two days prior to the wedding. That was some freak occurrence there.) Anyway, @ is awesome.

He went back to a very stressful work environment.

My dad was here for a week and @ was unfailingly gracious about it. They talked electronics and savings accounts and quirky things that I do that drive other people crazy. @ oozes effortless charm. It's really quite a sight.

He has single-handedly researched and is currently negotiating the purchase of our next car. (The two-seater sports car that he's had for nine years is shockingly uncomfortable with the new addition.)

@ has also single-handedly researched and managed all the details of our mortgage refinance. I think I might have pulled out two documents from the file cabinet. But it's all him.

Bless @ and his house.

Reasons for which I might throttle @:
He has been working an hour and a half late nearly every night since he went back to work. I know times are tough and his company has been laying people off (including one guy who had had a heart attack just the week before!). He's trying to make a good impression by putting in the extra hours. And the baby is such a good baby that I'm not incredibly taxed by being home alone with her and the dog all day long. But, still, I could use the relief. I have asked him to maybe not stay so late - maybe just an hour instead of an hour and a half? Or perhaps just doing it a couple days a week? No dice. I'm 90% joking when I ask him if he'd rather lose his job or his marriage.

Wait. That might be the only reason.

Well, poop. I thought I had more to complain about.

Good peeps

2009-02-16T17:00:00.002-06:00

If you want to do something awesome for a friend/relative that has just given birth, I recommend you contact either Melinda or my dad for tips. I have spent much of the last week and a half lounging on my happy ass, letting these two lovely people help me out with the baby. They did all the things that I'd be embarrassed to ask someone else to do, even if I were to pay them to do so: washing my dishes, cleaning the kitchen, walking the dog, etc. And, as payment, I let them hold my baby. Which they seemed to treat as some sort of fair trade, so I guess it works out well for all of us. :)

God bless both of them. I didn't know how much I needed the break.

10 Things

2009-02-04T22:41:00.004-06:00

10 Things I Like/Love About My Newborn:

1. She makes little noises throughout the day, including...

2. the little hum she makes while nursing.

3. She has my nose.

4. Her perfect little bow of a mouth that...

5. she shapes into a tight little "O" like she's surprised about something.

6. The hilarious way she tries to get both of her arms around my boob as she nurses, as if she's hugging it to her face because it might go somewhere.

7. Her rapid expression changes.

8. She is a great sleeper, just like me. (so far, knock on wood)

9. That she has an expressed preference for how she's held - horizontal cradle, not vertical over the shoulder.

10. The way I keep looking to see if she has moles in the same place as me, even though that's extremely unlikely.

She's pretty cute, y'all, and I'm a fan.