Last week went by so fast, but that isn't why I haven't written. Brain block was the culprit. I sat, sluggish and fat on cookies and fun, and tired from constant motion. In these last hours of 2009, with a layer of white snow softening my window view and all four of my kids tucked up in their beds for the last time this year, my desire to share sweet thoughts about the holidays wars with the pull to end with a funny story.
I bring you both.
Hope your 2009 ends with a quiet snuggle and your 2010 is filled with hilarity and love. I hope any griefs this new year holds are tempered by joy. That's all we can really ask. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sleep Science
Nate is a very light, very finicky sleeper. It's an anomaly. As I've said before, my kids sleep well. They're in bed by 6:45 p.m., asleep by 7:15 p.m., and I don't hear from them again until some time in the sixes, preferably late sixes, the next morning.
It's not because I'm an awesome parent or because I've found the ultimate answer to the age old question - how the hell do I get these kids to stay in their damn beds all night because I'm old and tired and I hate under eye bags? It's because I'm mean and I don't care if my kids cry.
Whoa, Tonto, put down the phone, no need to call DYS yet. Of course, I care if they cry if it's important. If they're sick or in pain or terrified of the ceiling (? IT'S JUST A CEILING, THERE'S NOTHING THERE BUT PAINT). But, thirsty? Not tired? Itchy? Blankets on wrong? Hair rubbed the wrong way? Favorite sock/PJs/toy/animal/blanket/pillow/paraphernalia of any sort missing?
I. don't. care.
I had to walk up here to tell you how much I don't care? You owe me fifteen minutes in your bed in the morning. While we eat breakfast. Which means you eat a plain waffle for breakfast on the way to where ever I'm going.
That kind of includes my older babies, I admit. I hit a brick wall with "OH MY GOD I AM SO DONE WITH THIS NURSING OVERNIGHT THING, I AM SO TIRED, YOU ARE JUST PLAYING, I DON'T LIKE YOU AT 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 OR EVEN 5:00 A.M." written all over it in huge, bubble graffiti at approximately nine (Gee), okay seven (Cue), okay six (Nate) months and I let my babies cry it out.
Gasp. I know. The C. I. O. words. So blase. So years beginning of time through 1990. So cruel and heartless. Dude. Comere. Closer. Closer. Divulging parenting secret the experts won't tell you. (Whispering) it totally works.
It generally takes about forty-five minutes the first night, less from there, and after four days, with all three boys, it's been over and my life has returned to blissful well-restedness.
I'm not advocating crying it out. I'm not judging anyone who responds to every whimper until their kid is five. I don't think you are a bad parent if you absolutely can not bear the crying and you respond. I don't think you are a bad parent if you think it's important to comfort children to sleep and you nurse your three-year-old at 2:00 a.m./let your kids sleep in your bed/sleep in your kids' beds/hang upside down from your kids' ceiling until they fall asleep.
I am NOT judging sleep choices.
Flip side is: you don't get to judge me either. Yep. I let them cry. And it's not because I love my kids less than you do. It's not because my kids are less precious than yours. It's not because I'm a hard ass or I don't have feelings or I think it's fun to listen to a baby wail for forty-five minutes.
I just don't think whether or not we respond to kids at night determines outcomes. I don't think it matters, particularly, where you are on the spectrum of child raising from the most attachmenty of attachment parents all the way down the continuum to what some might call, ahem, drill sargenty. I don't think my kids will end up ruling the world because we all slept 10 hours a night and your kids will end up in jail. I don't think my kids will end up in jail because I was mean about bedtime and your kids will have six Ph.Ds. If consistency and love are there, I think it's kind of a crap shoot. Scary, I know.
Also, I am selfish and I consider sleep probably one of the top three most important things in my life along with hot showers and chocolate chip mint ice cream. I rank my sleep above causing my children mild upset/distress/discomfort. I don't put it above their health, safety or reasonable well being. I do consider it more valuable than avoiding forty-five minutes of crying at six-months-old. That's just me.
Enter Nate. Delightful, flirty Nate of the sinfully cute smiles. At three in the morning. Gah. I gave myself a concussion on that wall the week before Christmas at about three a.m. while he was gnawing on my nipple purely for entertainment and companionship and not at all for nutrition or because he intended to soothe himself back to dreamland in any kind of appropriately prompt manner and I let him cry himself to sleep three nights in a row. I nursed him down in my arms, ignored the fact that he transfers from arms to rigged chair/bassinet contraption like a hungry polar bear with a toothache, let him cry himself to sleep and then ignored his fussing/cooing/smiling ass until 6:00 a.m.
It worked. He slept better. Until he got a really bad cold the day after Christmas and yes, even heartless wicked witch me can not leave a baby wailing in his rigged bassinet when he can not breathe through his nose. I caved and now that he can breathe I'm going to have to start all the damn way over again.
I know that this second go around should involve his crib, but I don't want to make the switch because he sleeps so well in that car seat when he sleeps. I absolutely do recommend the car seat in bassinet sleeping system for small babies. They breathe better when they are upright like that and they are all snuggly in there.
Behold, the car seat/bassinet contraption of sleepfulness.
And. Bonus. For that tricky transition from arms to car seat/bassinet? I can nurse him in the car seat. That's right. I can set him in the car seat and still nurse him. I have really talented nipples.
I absolutely am. My left nipple is in his mouth. You can see his wee toes on the bottom left. I have crazy nursing multitasking skills. In just a moment, I can pop it out and leave him cashed out in the chair. Where he'll stay, sleeping peacefully for two or three hours. Unless it's the middle of the night and I'm actually trying to sleep, at which point, I give him fifteen minutes.
Nate and I went to his six month well baby check on Tuesday and my pediatrician, who has been through four babies with me and knows me well, asked me casually if he was still sleeping in his car seat.
Me: Uh huh.
Dr. Sarah: You should probably start thinking about transitioning to a crib. Or a flat surface of any sort.
Me: Uh huh. I know. I will. It's just, he's kind of a light sleeper and we just did the crying thing and then he slept through the night for like two days and then he got an awful cold, so you know. But, I will. I know I need to do it. He's starting to sit up and he's going to roll himself right out of that seat and hit the floor.
She laughed because she's awesome and relaxed like that.
Dr. Sarah: Well he'll be fine as long as it's on carpet.
Aha. It totally is. Now.
It's not because I'm an awesome parent or because I've found the ultimate answer to the age old question - how the hell do I get these kids to stay in their damn beds all night because I'm old and tired and I hate under eye bags? It's because I'm mean and I don't care if my kids cry.
Whoa, Tonto, put down the phone, no need to call DYS yet. Of course, I care if they cry if it's important. If they're sick or in pain or terrified of the ceiling (? IT'S JUST A CEILING, THERE'S NOTHING THERE BUT PAINT). But, thirsty? Not tired? Itchy? Blankets on wrong? Hair rubbed the wrong way? Favorite sock/PJs/toy/animal/blanket/pillow/paraphernalia of any sort missing?
I. don't. care.
I had to walk up here to tell you how much I don't care? You owe me fifteen minutes in your bed in the morning. While we eat breakfast. Which means you eat a plain waffle for breakfast on the way to where ever I'm going.
That kind of includes my older babies, I admit. I hit a brick wall with "OH MY GOD I AM SO DONE WITH THIS NURSING OVERNIGHT THING, I AM SO TIRED, YOU ARE JUST PLAYING, I DON'T LIKE YOU AT 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 OR EVEN 5:00 A.M." written all over it in huge, bubble graffiti at approximately nine (Gee), okay seven (Cue), okay six (Nate) months and I let my babies cry it out.
Gasp. I know. The C. I. O. words. So blase. So years beginning of time through 1990. So cruel and heartless. Dude. Comere. Closer. Closer. Divulging parenting secret the experts won't tell you. (Whispering) it totally works.
It generally takes about forty-five minutes the first night, less from there, and after four days, with all three boys, it's been over and my life has returned to blissful well-restedness.
I'm not advocating crying it out. I'm not judging anyone who responds to every whimper until their kid is five. I don't think you are a bad parent if you absolutely can not bear the crying and you respond. I don't think you are a bad parent if you think it's important to comfort children to sleep and you nurse your three-year-old at 2:00 a.m./let your kids sleep in your bed/sleep in your kids' beds/hang upside down from your kids' ceiling until they fall asleep.
I am NOT judging sleep choices.
Flip side is: you don't get to judge me either. Yep. I let them cry. And it's not because I love my kids less than you do. It's not because my kids are less precious than yours. It's not because I'm a hard ass or I don't have feelings or I think it's fun to listen to a baby wail for forty-five minutes.
I just don't think whether or not we respond to kids at night determines outcomes. I don't think it matters, particularly, where you are on the spectrum of child raising from the most attachmenty of attachment parents all the way down the continuum to what some might call, ahem, drill sargenty. I don't think my kids will end up ruling the world because we all slept 10 hours a night and your kids will end up in jail. I don't think my kids will end up in jail because I was mean about bedtime and your kids will have six Ph.Ds. If consistency and love are there, I think it's kind of a crap shoot. Scary, I know.
Also, I am selfish and I consider sleep probably one of the top three most important things in my life along with hot showers and chocolate chip mint ice cream. I rank my sleep above causing my children mild upset/distress/discomfort. I don't put it above their health, safety or reasonable well being. I do consider it more valuable than avoiding forty-five minutes of crying at six-months-old. That's just me.
Enter Nate. Delightful, flirty Nate of the sinfully cute smiles. At three in the morning. Gah. I gave myself a concussion on that wall the week before Christmas at about three a.m. while he was gnawing on my nipple purely for entertainment and companionship and not at all for nutrition or because he intended to soothe himself back to dreamland in any kind of appropriately prompt manner and I let him cry himself to sleep three nights in a row. I nursed him down in my arms, ignored the fact that he transfers from arms to rigged chair/bassinet contraption like a hungry polar bear with a toothache, let him cry himself to sleep and then ignored his fussing/cooing/smiling ass until 6:00 a.m.
It worked. He slept better. Until he got a really bad cold the day after Christmas and yes, even heartless wicked witch me can not leave a baby wailing in his rigged bassinet when he can not breathe through his nose. I caved and now that he can breathe I'm going to have to start all the damn way over again.
I know that this second go around should involve his crib, but I don't want to make the switch because he sleeps so well in that car seat when he sleeps. I absolutely do recommend the car seat in bassinet sleeping system for small babies. They breathe better when they are upright like that and they are all snuggly in there.
Behold, the car seat/bassinet contraption of sleepfulness.
And. Bonus. For that tricky transition from arms to car seat/bassinet? I can nurse him in the car seat. That's right. I can set him in the car seat and still nurse him. I have really talented nipples.
I absolutely am. My left nipple is in his mouth. You can see his wee toes on the bottom left. I have crazy nursing multitasking skills. In just a moment, I can pop it out and leave him cashed out in the chair. Where he'll stay, sleeping peacefully for two or three hours. Unless it's the middle of the night and I'm actually trying to sleep, at which point, I give him fifteen minutes.
Nate and I went to his six month well baby check on Tuesday and my pediatrician, who has been through four babies with me and knows me well, asked me casually if he was still sleeping in his car seat.
Me: Uh huh.
Dr. Sarah: You should probably start thinking about transitioning to a crib. Or a flat surface of any sort.
Me: Uh huh. I know. I will. It's just, he's kind of a light sleeper and we just did the crying thing and then he slept through the night for like two days and then he got an awful cold, so you know. But, I will. I know I need to do it. He's starting to sit up and he's going to roll himself right out of that seat and hit the floor.
She laughed because she's awesome and relaxed like that.
Dr. Sarah: Well he'll be fine as long as it's on carpet.
Aha. It totally is. Now.
Mine Love You Too
"Is today a special day, mommy?" Garrett asked me at the breakfast table the fourth day after Christmas.
We had a lot of special days in a row. A cookie decorating party. An ornament making party. Grandparents. Swimming. Special PJs for Santa. Santa's big arrival.
"No," I told him. "Every day can't be special. Today is just an ordinary day."
Remember my post about delighting in my children? I still make that a goal every day. I forget. I still yell. I still get impatient and overwhelmed, but I have started and stuck with one new daily practice. Right before I sing their lullabies each night, when I give each of them a tight hug and smell their yummy baby hair, I tell them something that delighted me that day. I keep it simple so that I don't get angsty about it.
You delighted me today when you told Miss K thank you.
I loved it when you cleaned up without whining.
I loved how patient you were with your picture drawing.
You delighted me today when you kissed baby Nate when he cried.
I thought it was no big deal until I forgot it one night and they all protested in their loud, whiny protest voices. "You didn't tell us what we did, you didn't say what you loved today."
On the fourth day after Christmas, at bedtime, I hugged them all tight and I said one thing that I loved that day. Garret said, "I love you, twinklelopalotus," and Saige said, "I love you mommysapasourus," because they think that is hilarious.
My dear little Quinn, he kept it simple. "Mine love you too," he replied.
He isn't going to say "mine" instead of "I" much longer.
As sappy and corny as it is, I fought tears and I said, "today was a special day, Garrett, because I got to spend it with all of you."
If I have one hope for myself in 2010, one prayer for my family for this new year and one wish for all of you, it's that. That you spend your days with the people that make them special.
And if I have one resolution, it's that I remember that every day is a special day.
Happy New Year, everyone. Thanks for being part of my life in 2009. I have very high hopes for 2010.
We had a lot of special days in a row. A cookie decorating party. An ornament making party. Grandparents. Swimming. Special PJs for Santa. Santa's big arrival.
"No," I told him. "Every day can't be special. Today is just an ordinary day."
Remember my post about delighting in my children? I still make that a goal every day. I forget. I still yell. I still get impatient and overwhelmed, but I have started and stuck with one new daily practice. Right before I sing their lullabies each night, when I give each of them a tight hug and smell their yummy baby hair, I tell them something that delighted me that day. I keep it simple so that I don't get angsty about it.
You delighted me today when you told Miss K thank you.
I loved it when you cleaned up without whining.
I loved how patient you were with your picture drawing.
You delighted me today when you kissed baby Nate when he cried.
I thought it was no big deal until I forgot it one night and they all protested in their loud, whiny protest voices. "You didn't tell us what we did, you didn't say what you loved today."
On the fourth day after Christmas, at bedtime, I hugged them all tight and I said one thing that I loved that day. Garret said, "I love you, twinklelopalotus," and Saige said, "I love you mommysapasourus," because they think that is hilarious.
My dear little Quinn, he kept it simple. "Mine love you too," he replied.
He isn't going to say "mine" instead of "I" much longer.
As sappy and corny as it is, I fought tears and I said, "today was a special day, Garrett, because I got to spend it with all of you."
If I have one hope for myself in 2010, one prayer for my family for this new year and one wish for all of you, it's that. That you spend your days with the people that make them special.
And if I have one resolution, it's that I remember that every day is a special day.
Happy New Year, everyone. Thanks for being part of my life in 2009. I have very high hopes for 2010.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sexiest Man Alive
There might be just a smidgen of bias.
Maybe he's not Brad Pitt, but doesn't he accessorize well? Babynater ala five year old bjorn. All the cool kids are wearing them.
Happy Birthday, my love. I didn't post this on your real birthday because I know how freaky you are about my imaginary friends in my internet world. That is how much I love you. Now please stop hyperventilating about the holiday cards. They are from people I have met. In real life. They were lovely and have families of their own and everything.
************************************************
Tying up a few loose ends. December is kicking my butt and my parents get here tomorrow and my sister comes on Wednesday and then ohmigoditsxmas and we've got I think a bajillion fun kid activities next week that all involve horrendous amounts of sugar and sticky things that children are supposed to touch like cookie decorating and ornament making. You'll be able to find me huddled in the corner, rocking, clutching a container of wet wipes. In between crafting and bread baking (I made another batch of challah and braided it into mini-loaves for preschool and I KNOW, it was briefly like I was the most collected, together, organized SAHM ev-ah and then in between dropping off the mini loaves at Ess and Gee's preschool and taking the rest of the mini loaves to Cue's preschool I called a complete stranger a b-i-t-c-h in a grocery store parking lot. In my defense, she totally was, but that does not really excuse my behavior.) and managing to get a few cards sent out and oh yeah (!) spending a little time with my children, I haven't been able to do much more on line than fly by twitter occasionally.
But. Tomorrow. Ess and Gee go to all day preschool camp. Just say it out loud with me. All.day.preschool.camp. Isn't it beautiful? Like a full orchestra playing Pachabel's Canon in D. My to do list shall be conquered.
And it's all good. It really is. This is the part of the holidays I love. We don't do a lot of presents. Santa brings only one gift to our house, something bulky for all the kids (this year a play kitchen, shhhh ;-) and Matt and I give each of the kids one present and fill their stockings. I love the going, the getting together, the making, the candle lighting, the baking, the note writing, the singing, the eating (oh, the eating, hello grandma's cherry cookies), the decorating. I love the traditions. Yesterday, the kids wore antler headbands and we danced in front of the finally decorated tree for an hour and I took one of those deep, warm breaths to stop the happiness from spilling right out of my eyes as silly, sappy tears.
All of that to say that there are two really important things I want to tell you in case I don't get back on the computer again until, oh I don't know, March. First, your comments on the Matching post were awesome. I loved them because so many of you identified with the issue and had dealt with it in some way even if you are not an adoptive family. Second, thank you for helping us with our holiday card question. We went with "another year, another Rudolf." I do believe I was slightly ahead in the voting (not that I counted), but Matt really liked it and as Andrea rightly pointed out, that may not, okay, most likely won't, all right, all right, probably most definitely won't ever work again.
***************************
Updated P.S. This post makes me sound like an ass. Of course there are three very important things that I want to tell you. The most important being a wish for the merriest and busiest and traditioniest of weeks for all of you. I planned to say that in a separate post. That I totally intend to publish before March. XO.
Maybe he's not Brad Pitt, but doesn't he accessorize well? Babynater ala five year old bjorn. All the cool kids are wearing them.
Happy Birthday, my love. I didn't post this on your real birthday because I know how freaky you are about my imaginary friends in my internet world. That is how much I love you. Now please stop hyperventilating about the holiday cards. They are from people I have met. In real life. They were lovely and have families of their own and everything.
************************************************
Tying up a few loose ends. December is kicking my butt and my parents get here tomorrow and my sister comes on Wednesday and then ohmigoditsxmas and we've got I think a bajillion fun kid activities next week that all involve horrendous amounts of sugar and sticky things that children are supposed to touch like cookie decorating and ornament making. You'll be able to find me huddled in the corner, rocking, clutching a container of wet wipes. In between crafting and bread baking (I made another batch of challah and braided it into mini-loaves for preschool and I KNOW, it was briefly like I was the most collected, together, organized SAHM ev-ah and then in between dropping off the mini loaves at Ess and Gee's preschool and taking the rest of the mini loaves to Cue's preschool I called a complete stranger a b-i-t-c-h in a grocery store parking lot. In my defense, she totally was, but that does not really excuse my behavior.) and managing to get a few cards sent out and oh yeah (!) spending a little time with my children, I haven't been able to do much more on line than fly by twitter occasionally.
But. Tomorrow. Ess and Gee go to all day preschool camp. Just say it out loud with me. All.day.preschool.camp. Isn't it beautiful? Like a full orchestra playing Pachabel's Canon in D. My to do list shall be conquered.
And it's all good. It really is. This is the part of the holidays I love. We don't do a lot of presents. Santa brings only one gift to our house, something bulky for all the kids (this year a play kitchen, shhhh ;-) and Matt and I give each of the kids one present and fill their stockings. I love the going, the getting together, the making, the candle lighting, the baking, the note writing, the singing, the eating (oh, the eating, hello grandma's cherry cookies), the decorating. I love the traditions. Yesterday, the kids wore antler headbands and we danced in front of the finally decorated tree for an hour and I took one of those deep, warm breaths to stop the happiness from spilling right out of my eyes as silly, sappy tears.
All of that to say that there are two really important things I want to tell you in case I don't get back on the computer again until, oh I don't know, March. First, your comments on the Matching post were awesome. I loved them because so many of you identified with the issue and had dealt with it in some way even if you are not an adoptive family. Second, thank you for helping us with our holiday card question. We went with "another year, another Rudolf." I do believe I was slightly ahead in the voting (not that I counted), but Matt really liked it and as Andrea rightly pointed out, that may not, okay, most likely won't, all right, all right, probably most definitely won't ever work again.
***************************
Updated P.S. This post makes me sound like an ass. Of course there are three very important things that I want to tell you. The most important being a wish for the merriest and busiest and traditioniest of weeks for all of you. I planned to say that in a separate post. That I totally intend to publish before March. XO.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Holiday Infection, Er, Spirit
I'm working on holiday cards tonight. Making them.
I also baked challah for Hanukkah on Friday and I'm deeply immersed in a little crafting project for the kids of some close friends.
That is bread that I made. From a recipe. With yeast and everything. I only had to call my mom like four times and it was all in the first hour while I was hyperventilating over the failure of my yeast to breathe or grow or whatever it needs to do to make the dough rise. Turns out it is too cold in my house for yeast to work. I hear you, yeast, I often complain to the management as well. Maybe I should refuse to rise.
Anyway, crafting, creating, baking. I'm thinking brain tumor. Actually, it's a spirit-of-the-season brain infection. Totally curable by dark, cold, gloomy January. For now, I'm looking through "twinkle yights" colored glasses.
And finally, after failing miserably to produce any holiday cards last year, I get to participate in Meghan's Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange. Behold, the front of our holiday card.
I can't show you the back because the message is a topic of debate.
Matt's pick is: "Another year, another Rudolf. (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
I like: "I'm Rudolf! No! I'm Rudolf! Mine Rudolf! (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
What thinkest thou? That's Shakespeare for which one do you like? Matt is currently winning on twitter. Not that it's a competition or anything. It is cute and his birthday is this week.
Hope the magic of the holidays has infected all your brains and you are seeing twinkle light colored spots every where you look.
I also baked challah for Hanukkah on Friday and I'm deeply immersed in a little crafting project for the kids of some close friends.
That is bread that I made. From a recipe. With yeast and everything. I only had to call my mom like four times and it was all in the first hour while I was hyperventilating over the failure of my yeast to breathe or grow or whatever it needs to do to make the dough rise. Turns out it is too cold in my house for yeast to work. I hear you, yeast, I often complain to the management as well. Maybe I should refuse to rise.
Anyway, crafting, creating, baking. I'm thinking brain tumor. Actually, it's a spirit-of-the-season brain infection. Totally curable by dark, cold, gloomy January. For now, I'm looking through "twinkle yights" colored glasses.
And finally, after failing miserably to produce any holiday cards last year, I get to participate in Meghan's Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange. Behold, the front of our holiday card.
I can't show you the back because the message is a topic of debate.
Matt's pick is: "Another year, another Rudolf. (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
I like: "I'm Rudolf! No! I'm Rudolf! Mine Rudolf! (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
What thinkest thou? That's Shakespeare for which one do you like? Matt is currently winning on twitter. Not that it's a competition or anything. It is cute and his birthday is this week.
Hope the magic of the holidays has infected all your brains and you are seeing twinkle light colored spots every where you look.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Matching
"Almost all the kids match," Gee declared.
I tensed a little in my miniature chair, wrapped both hands more tightly around my chai and waited to see if he would pursue it. Fourteen munchkins arrayed around the preschool snack table gave him varying levels of non-attention, fixated mostly on their little hoards of raisins and wheat crackers.
Vaguely, it occurred to me that "almost all" was a complicated concept. Their brains develop so fast. They inhale sophistication. I can watch their thinking process grow and change like bread rising.
"Almost all the kids are peach momma. We match. And Ess matches Teacher Miscilla."
Ess barked, a second after I predict it in my mind, "I match mommy's eyes."
This is a recurrent theme in our house for the last month or two. As their minds become aware of color. Of features. Of alike and not alike. Their brains breathe in, breathe out, puzzling it. Our skin is different. Our eyes are the same. Ess has a tummy mommy. I do not.
I'm torn by her desire to match me. We have worked so hard for three long years to attach as a family. My emotional identity as her mother is strong, but they are young, simple, physical beings still. She wants the hard evidence. She wants to belong to me in fibers and colors and names and skin. Words are not satisfactory. Love. Bond. Concepts can't be touched. They want to see and hold. Gee's hair matches Daddy's hair. Ess' eyes match Mommy's eyes.
I encourage it gently and hide my reservations. My fears are adult fears. I know that she needs an identity as she grows that includes her Haitian heritage and her brown skin. I know that someday soon a desire to match her white mother and not her African American teacher could mean that I have failed to combat the pervasive message in our society that white is beautiful. That princesses are blond. That different is bad.
Not yet though. I feel fairly confident of that. She tells me she is pretty. She smiles when I do her hair and asks if she can see it. Oh, she primps, it's beautiful. This four-year-old year, I see only a child exploring the ways she belongs in her family, not a child rejecting the way she looks.
The preschoolers looked to me, sticky handfuls of raisins half way to their mouths.
"I don't match," I reminded Gee, "my skin is olive. Ess' eyes match mine but her skin is chocolate like Teacher Priscilla. We are all unique. Who else has brown eyes?"
Four small hands went up. "I have blue eyes," an adorable little blond piped.
"You do. Who else has blue eyes?" More comparing. Liam has green eyes like Gee.
"But you're the only one with red hair," I told Gee, "we're all different and we all match."
Just as suddenly as it began, it's over. Their fickle attention shifted to something else, a spilled water cup, their dwindling raisins. Teacher Marietta directed them to the Rainbow Room where Ryan's Grandpa, an entomologist, is ready to show them his Australian leaf bugs. They are huge! They are interesting! The biggest one laid an egg on his hand! We talk about bugs and only bugs for days, but I know it will come back up. I know it's on their minds because of the way it surfaces and sinks and resurfaces in our conversations. Matching. Our skin. Our eyes.
This round is easy because they are easily satisfied. The hard questions wait for us around the corner.
I want to pour my heart into her. You are stunning. You are gorgeous. You are unique. Don't cave to them, with their airbrushes and their chemical treatments and their make believe women in their make believe lives. Don't think that pretty and picture perfect are equal. Don't think that there is a look, a hair color, a weight, a wardrobe that brings happiness. Happiness is a family that loves you. Happiness is friends to giggle with you all night. Happiness is wine night every Thursday. It's finding a passion. It's tracing 1000 year old carvings with your finger. It is pouring your heart into something and coming in second. It's in a hug. It is seeing your grandmother's eyes light up when she meets your baby boy.
It is inconstant. It takes effort.
If you try to bleach or tan or sleep or puke or buy or exercise or read or drug your way to it, it will always elude you.
She is too small. I know. She is too small for all these words. So, I put them here for her for someday. You can not know the weight of someone's heart by looking at them, darling. There are plenty of tiny blonds that cry themselves to sleep at night. There are redheads the world over that starve themselves in the name of a warped concept of beauty.
We are all different. We are all the same.
I tensed a little in my miniature chair, wrapped both hands more tightly around my chai and waited to see if he would pursue it. Fourteen munchkins arrayed around the preschool snack table gave him varying levels of non-attention, fixated mostly on their little hoards of raisins and wheat crackers.
Vaguely, it occurred to me that "almost all" was a complicated concept. Their brains develop so fast. They inhale sophistication. I can watch their thinking process grow and change like bread rising.
"Almost all the kids are peach momma. We match. And Ess matches Teacher Miscilla."
Ess barked, a second after I predict it in my mind, "I match mommy's eyes."
This is a recurrent theme in our house for the last month or two. As their minds become aware of color. Of features. Of alike and not alike. Their brains breathe in, breathe out, puzzling it. Our skin is different. Our eyes are the same. Ess has a tummy mommy. I do not.
I'm torn by her desire to match me. We have worked so hard for three long years to attach as a family. My emotional identity as her mother is strong, but they are young, simple, physical beings still. She wants the hard evidence. She wants to belong to me in fibers and colors and names and skin. Words are not satisfactory. Love. Bond. Concepts can't be touched. They want to see and hold. Gee's hair matches Daddy's hair. Ess' eyes match Mommy's eyes.
I encourage it gently and hide my reservations. My fears are adult fears. I know that she needs an identity as she grows that includes her Haitian heritage and her brown skin. I know that someday soon a desire to match her white mother and not her African American teacher could mean that I have failed to combat the pervasive message in our society that white is beautiful. That princesses are blond. That different is bad.
Not yet though. I feel fairly confident of that. She tells me she is pretty. She smiles when I do her hair and asks if she can see it. Oh, she primps, it's beautiful. This four-year-old year, I see only a child exploring the ways she belongs in her family, not a child rejecting the way she looks.
The preschoolers looked to me, sticky handfuls of raisins half way to their mouths.
"I don't match," I reminded Gee, "my skin is olive. Ess' eyes match mine but her skin is chocolate like Teacher Priscilla. We are all unique. Who else has brown eyes?"
Four small hands went up. "I have blue eyes," an adorable little blond piped.
"You do. Who else has blue eyes?" More comparing. Liam has green eyes like Gee.
"But you're the only one with red hair," I told Gee, "we're all different and we all match."
Just as suddenly as it began, it's over. Their fickle attention shifted to something else, a spilled water cup, their dwindling raisins. Teacher Marietta directed them to the Rainbow Room where Ryan's Grandpa, an entomologist, is ready to show them his Australian leaf bugs. They are huge! They are interesting! The biggest one laid an egg on his hand! We talk about bugs and only bugs for days, but I know it will come back up. I know it's on their minds because of the way it surfaces and sinks and resurfaces in our conversations. Matching. Our skin. Our eyes.
This round is easy because they are easily satisfied. The hard questions wait for us around the corner.
I want to pour my heart into her. You are stunning. You are gorgeous. You are unique. Don't cave to them, with their airbrushes and their chemical treatments and their make believe women in their make believe lives. Don't think that pretty and picture perfect are equal. Don't think that there is a look, a hair color, a weight, a wardrobe that brings happiness. Happiness is a family that loves you. Happiness is friends to giggle with you all night. Happiness is wine night every Thursday. It's finding a passion. It's tracing 1000 year old carvings with your finger. It is pouring your heart into something and coming in second. It's in a hug. It is seeing your grandmother's eyes light up when she meets your baby boy.
It is inconstant. It takes effort.
If you try to bleach or tan or sleep or puke or buy or exercise or read or drug your way to it, it will always elude you.
She is too small. I know. She is too small for all these words. So, I put them here for her for someday. You can not know the weight of someone's heart by looking at them, darling. There are plenty of tiny blonds that cry themselves to sleep at night. There are redheads the world over that starve themselves in the name of a warped concept of beauty.
We are all different. We are all the same.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Health and Safety
I'm flying to Dallas tomorrow to visit my grandmother. That makes today pretty much the most insane day ever. Nater helpfully stayed up all night last night so that he could sleep, like a little sleeping angel, from 7:00 a.m. until I woke him up - I am not kidding, there is absolutely no kidding in this entire post - until I woke him up at 11:15 a.m.
I woke him up because I needed a few items and Ess and Gee and Cue and I were tired of grouching at each other while I tried to get a million and one things done for my trip, so I decided to break up the day by going to Wal.mart. Will I never learn?
We ate packed lunches in the parking lot of Walm.art because we are ca-lass-sy like that. I called my sister and my mother to let them know that I was hanging out in my used minivan in the Wal.mart parking lot nursing my baby while my three other toddlers ate goldfish crackers and a man in full camo, I mean full camo, head to toe, loaded some kind of herd animal food into his truck. They like it when I give them these little visuals of my life on the border of Idaho.
When everyone was full and relatively non-grumpy, I assembled my little procession. Nater sat in his pumpkin seat on his stroller frame, Ess held the left hand side of the stroller, Gee held the right hand side and Cue "helped" me push the stroller. No, there is no where for me stand. Also, I was wearing a tacky red backpack. (In case you are visualizing.)
I neglected to fasten the strap that secures the car seat onto the stroller frame. That becomes important in a moment. (Matt never forgets that freaking strap and he is rolling his eyes at my trials and tribulations as I type this.)
The kids each had something that we needed to "find" in the store. That keeps them busy. Gee had his little magnifying glass because he thinks "finding" something at the store is like Blue's Clues and he needs it to look for clues. Click! I don't know what Click! had to do with anything but I assume it's an annoying Blue's Clues thing because we all have to say it as we walk through the store. Click! Click!
We made it halfway down the first aisle. Half way down. No kidding in this post. At all. Cue kept hanging from the stroller handle and I kept asking him, ineffectively, not to hang from the stroller handle and then my phone rang. I thought. I didn't actually ring. No one ever calls me because I never have my freaking phone, but I thought it rang and I put my ugly red back pack down to find it. In doing so, I let go of the stroller.
So you know what happened then right?
Cue tried to hang from the handle again and the entire stroller flipped over on top of him and the unsecured back of the car seat let go so that it too flipped over. I couldn't see them, but I imagine that he and Nate lay there, suddenly eye to eye, wondering what the hell just happened.
Right at that moment, as I lunged for my upside down baby and pinned toddler in a blind panic, a man walking passed us commented, without stopping to help, "that doesn't look safe."
You think? Well I'll be a camouflaged deer-feed buying Walm.art shopper. You must be some kind of safety engineer. What tipped you off, Einstein? The upside down baby? The toddler laying flat on his back with forty pounds of stroller and upside down baby on his chest? I wanted to retort something obnoxious and clever like that, but unfortunately at that exact moment, I was grovelling on the floor of Wal.mart trying to rescue my two small children from what was, in all fairness, an unsafe situation of my own making. So yeah. I had to eat the Wal.mart shopper parenting commentary. Bummer.
I righted the baby and stroller. Cue lay there looking utterly shell-shocked. Nater never took his fingers out of his mouth, but his expression was all "what's with the loop-de-loops, milk lady, I just ate? And whoa! It's bright here! Is this Disney World?" Thank all that is holy that he was secured in the actual car seat.
Then, Gee screamed, "A CLUE! A CLUE!" Because enough people weren't looking at us already and I'm like, "WHAT MFING CLUE?!!"
I need a clue. Here's a clue, dumbass, stop taking four kids under the age of five out in public. He pointed at the large puddle on the floor by Cue's head. The large puddle of my expensive, precious chai latte, which I bought because I drove to Wal.mart, where things are cheap and made in China. Oh. Okay. Sure. A clue. Investigate while I pick up your brother and make sure I haven't permanently damaged him in front of like 200 witnesses.
Cue seemed fine. I reassembled our procession, wiped up the chai with a wet wipe, scraped my last vestiges of pride off of the cold, gray tile Wal.mart floor, and we carried on following CLUES! to the MILK! Click! Click?
Nate fell asleep again in the car on the way home. He had slept six hours already by 2:00 p.m. today. He wants to make sure that he is very well rested so that he can keep me up all night and we won't miss our 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow morning.
**************************************
It's 9:30. I think it felt good to write that out. Takes the sting out. A little. Wish me luck, I'm off to Texas in a few hours. I'll be handling only one child for the weekend, so with any luck I will be able to properly orient him with the earth at all times.
(E, K, A and M, that title is for you. I'll miss you. Any chance we could start taking shopping trips as a group? Apparently, I'm a danger to myself and others and I need better supervision.)
I woke him up because I needed a few items and Ess and Gee and Cue and I were tired of grouching at each other while I tried to get a million and one things done for my trip, so I decided to break up the day by going to Wal.mart. Will I never learn?
We ate packed lunches in the parking lot of Walm.art because we are ca-lass-sy like that. I called my sister and my mother to let them know that I was hanging out in my used minivan in the Wal.mart parking lot nursing my baby while my three other toddlers ate goldfish crackers and a man in full camo, I mean full camo, head to toe, loaded some kind of herd animal food into his truck. They like it when I give them these little visuals of my life on the border of Idaho.
When everyone was full and relatively non-grumpy, I assembled my little procession. Nater sat in his pumpkin seat on his stroller frame, Ess held the left hand side of the stroller, Gee held the right hand side and Cue "helped" me push the stroller. No, there is no where for me stand. Also, I was wearing a tacky red backpack. (In case you are visualizing.)
I neglected to fasten the strap that secures the car seat onto the stroller frame. That becomes important in a moment. (Matt never forgets that freaking strap and he is rolling his eyes at my trials and tribulations as I type this.)
The kids each had something that we needed to "find" in the store. That keeps them busy. Gee had his little magnifying glass because he thinks "finding" something at the store is like Blue's Clues and he needs it to look for clues. Click! I don't know what Click! had to do with anything but I assume it's an annoying Blue's Clues thing because we all have to say it as we walk through the store. Click! Click!
We made it halfway down the first aisle. Half way down. No kidding in this post. At all. Cue kept hanging from the stroller handle and I kept asking him, ineffectively, not to hang from the stroller handle and then my phone rang. I thought. I didn't actually ring. No one ever calls me because I never have my freaking phone, but I thought it rang and I put my ugly red back pack down to find it. In doing so, I let go of the stroller.
So you know what happened then right?
Cue tried to hang from the handle again and the entire stroller flipped over on top of him and the unsecured back of the car seat let go so that it too flipped over. I couldn't see them, but I imagine that he and Nate lay there, suddenly eye to eye, wondering what the hell just happened.
Right at that moment, as I lunged for my upside down baby and pinned toddler in a blind panic, a man walking passed us commented, without stopping to help, "that doesn't look safe."
You think? Well I'll be a camouflaged deer-feed buying Walm.art shopper. You must be some kind of safety engineer. What tipped you off, Einstein? The upside down baby? The toddler laying flat on his back with forty pounds of stroller and upside down baby on his chest? I wanted to retort something obnoxious and clever like that, but unfortunately at that exact moment, I was grovelling on the floor of Wal.mart trying to rescue my two small children from what was, in all fairness, an unsafe situation of my own making. So yeah. I had to eat the Wal.mart shopper parenting commentary. Bummer.
I righted the baby and stroller. Cue lay there looking utterly shell-shocked. Nater never took his fingers out of his mouth, but his expression was all "what's with the loop-de-loops, milk lady, I just ate? And whoa! It's bright here! Is this Disney World?" Thank all that is holy that he was secured in the actual car seat.
Then, Gee screamed, "A CLUE! A CLUE!" Because enough people weren't looking at us already and I'm like, "WHAT MFING CLUE?!!"
I need a clue. Here's a clue, dumbass, stop taking four kids under the age of five out in public. He pointed at the large puddle on the floor by Cue's head. The large puddle of my expensive, precious chai latte, which I bought because I drove to Wal.mart, where things are cheap and made in China. Oh. Okay. Sure. A clue. Investigate while I pick up your brother and make sure I haven't permanently damaged him in front of like 200 witnesses.
Cue seemed fine. I reassembled our procession, wiped up the chai with a wet wipe, scraped my last vestiges of pride off of the cold, gray tile Wal.mart floor, and we carried on following CLUES! to the MILK! Click! Click?
Nate fell asleep again in the car on the way home. He had slept six hours already by 2:00 p.m. today. He wants to make sure that he is very well rested so that he can keep me up all night and we won't miss our 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow morning.
**************************************
It's 9:30. I think it felt good to write that out. Takes the sting out. A little. Wish me luck, I'm off to Texas in a few hours. I'll be handling only one child for the weekend, so with any luck I will be able to properly orient him with the earth at all times.
(E, K, A and M, that title is for you. I'll miss you. Any chance we could start taking shopping trips as a group? Apparently, I'm a danger to myself and others and I need better supervision.)
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Batting 1000
Tuesdays are crazy. Matt needs to leave the house with Ess and Gee close to eight in order to maximize preschool time. Technically, drop off is between eight and eight thirty, but in my opinion dropping them off at any time after about eight-oh-two is a waste of a perfectly beautiful half an hour when there could be two less kids in my house.
Since we all - and by we all I absolutely do mean Matt and I - don't roll out of bed until seven most mornings, it can be tight. I don't know why I do that. Stay in bed until seven. It's mostly miserable after six thirty. Ess and Gee and Cue are wrestling or licking through the safe paint on the walls in order to access the lead paint or dropping books down the heating vent in their bedroom. Nate is usually chewing on my nipple like it's an Olympic sport. I'm completely, uselessly awake and yet I can't bring myself to apply cold, bare foot to freezing floor until the clock says seven.
It just is. I entered their room already feeling a bit behind and they sensed my hurry with their little toddler-preschooler-shark hurry sensors. Instantly, they hit irritatingly slow and uncooperative mode. Where normally we would just get dressed, once they sensed hurry, Gee had his underwear on his head and Ess whinged because her arm wouldn't go into her sleeve and Cue screamed because I had the unbelievable audacity to fetch a clean diaper myself after he ignored my repeated requests that he please do so.
We made it through cereal only because Matt went down and got everything ready while I cracked the whip over getting dressed. I popped waffles in the toaster (because for some reason we have this pattern that they eat waffles after they eat a full bowl of cereal in the morning). As I re-entered the dining room, I caught Gee twirling his mostly empty cereal bowl around in a circle with his finger so that it resembled an old fashion record player except that instead of music pouring forth, milk streamed, in a perfect spiral, from the bowl and decorated my dining room.
"NO!! That's it!! You. are. finished. Get down. Go get your shoes on for school."
"But I want my waffle."
"No. No waffle. If you play with your food, you're done. Those are the rules."
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! WAHHHHAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAA!! (incoherent screaming/sobbing) WAHAHHHNT my WAAAAFFFFLLLEEEEE!! (incoherent snot bubbling)."
"GO! NOW! SHOES! I AM FINISHED WITH THIS BEHAVIOR."
He went amid regularly timed screams and dripping snot and heartbroken pleas for "hi-hi-hisssss wa-wa-wa-wa-ffle."
I was unmoved. This consequence is well-established in our house. Many, many children have left the table for playing with food. It is so expected that I am surprised he didn't pick up his bowl himself when I walked into the room.
My irritation grew as his drama continued and his shoes remained off. It was eight-oh-four. The great waffle scream fest was tragically cutting into preschool-children-are-not-here time.
He shuffled into the mudroom where his sister was ready to go and stood there sobbing. Matt sat on the bench, putting on his shoes. I could see the scene through the kitchen window that used to look out into the backyard and now looks down into the mudroom, like a movie, the volume muffled, the emotions taken out of me, removed. My sympathy returned, watching him cry. He is so little still.
"You are not getting your waffle, buddy, you know the rules," Matt told him in a calm, regulated voice. It was a statement of fact. He was not angry or irritated or hurried. "You can't play with your food. We still love you though, we always love you."
It is something I say often, but I had not said it that morning.
Gee's face crumpled and he cuddled into his Daddy's shoulder, sobbing. Oh. So then. Not the expected consequence at all. Not the waffle so much. Rather, the harshness in my tone, the impatience, the hard set of my face. My tired, understandable desire to have them gone for a few hours, even though I'll be there at noon, eager to get them back.
I am so thankful to have Matt on my team. Just when I am about to strike out, he hits it out of the park.
(Eight-oh-eight, the silence of one two-year-old with all the toys to himself. Coffee with cream and sugar. Sigh.)
Since we all - and by we all I absolutely do mean Matt and I - don't roll out of bed until seven most mornings, it can be tight. I don't know why I do that. Stay in bed until seven. It's mostly miserable after six thirty. Ess and Gee and Cue are wrestling or licking through the safe paint on the walls in order to access the lead paint or dropping books down the heating vent in their bedroom. Nate is usually chewing on my nipple like it's an Olympic sport. I'm completely, uselessly awake and yet I can't bring myself to apply cold, bare foot to freezing floor until the clock says seven.
It just is. I entered their room already feeling a bit behind and they sensed my hurry with their little toddler-preschooler-shark hurry sensors. Instantly, they hit irritatingly slow and uncooperative mode. Where normally we would just get dressed, once they sensed hurry, Gee had his underwear on his head and Ess whinged because her arm wouldn't go into her sleeve and Cue screamed because I had the unbelievable audacity to fetch a clean diaper myself after he ignored my repeated requests that he please do so.
We made it through cereal only because Matt went down and got everything ready while I cracked the whip over getting dressed. I popped waffles in the toaster (because for some reason we have this pattern that they eat waffles after they eat a full bowl of cereal in the morning). As I re-entered the dining room, I caught Gee twirling his mostly empty cereal bowl around in a circle with his finger so that it resembled an old fashion record player except that instead of music pouring forth, milk streamed, in a perfect spiral, from the bowl and decorated my dining room.
"NO!! That's it!! You. are. finished. Get down. Go get your shoes on for school."
"But I want my waffle."
"No. No waffle. If you play with your food, you're done. Those are the rules."
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! WAHHHHAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAA!! (incoherent screaming/sobbing) WAHAHHHNT my WAAAAFFFFLLLEEEEE!! (incoherent snot bubbling)."
"GO! NOW! SHOES! I AM FINISHED WITH THIS BEHAVIOR."
He went amid regularly timed screams and dripping snot and heartbroken pleas for "hi-hi-hisssss wa-wa-wa-wa-ffle."
I was unmoved. This consequence is well-established in our house. Many, many children have left the table for playing with food. It is so expected that I am surprised he didn't pick up his bowl himself when I walked into the room.
My irritation grew as his drama continued and his shoes remained off. It was eight-oh-four. The great waffle scream fest was tragically cutting into preschool-children-are-not-here time.
He shuffled into the mudroom where his sister was ready to go and stood there sobbing. Matt sat on the bench, putting on his shoes. I could see the scene through the kitchen window that used to look out into the backyard and now looks down into the mudroom, like a movie, the volume muffled, the emotions taken out of me, removed. My sympathy returned, watching him cry. He is so little still.
"You are not getting your waffle, buddy, you know the rules," Matt told him in a calm, regulated voice. It was a statement of fact. He was not angry or irritated or hurried. "You can't play with your food. We still love you though, we always love you."
It is something I say often, but I had not said it that morning.
Gee's face crumpled and he cuddled into his Daddy's shoulder, sobbing. Oh. So then. Not the expected consequence at all. Not the waffle so much. Rather, the harshness in my tone, the impatience, the hard set of my face. My tired, understandable desire to have them gone for a few hours, even though I'll be there at noon, eager to get them back.
I am so thankful to have Matt on my team. Just when I am about to strike out, he hits it out of the park.
(Eight-oh-eight, the silence of one two-year-old with all the toys to himself. Coffee with cream and sugar. Sigh.)
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thank You
I've tried to write a few different things for this last post of my thirty post marathon. Nothing is working. It feels like it should be good. Momentous. I have some big adoption posts I've been writing and rewriting. The kids are always doing things that I could talk about. Matt has washed his thirty-six year old truck like eight times in the last three weeks and that's just kind of hilarious.
Instead I'll say what's on my mind. Thanks. I enjoyed this month. Thanks for not getting completely bored of me and disappearing. Thanks for the encouragement. Thanks for the emails. I love your suggestions. I am totally putting vick's vapor rub on the soles of Nater's feet. I will absolutely sit and memorize every detail of the last time I nurse him. Thank you for commenting so lovingly on our swing victory.
Thanks Gayle and Maura for your hilarious daily thoughts. Thanks Mommy Geekology for reading chapter 1, page 1 and not laughing in my virtual face. Thanks Jessica Bern for being inspired and posting every day with me (no thanks for being way funnier than me though).
It feels good to have finished this without cheating or missing. It feels good to be done. I'll be back very soon, but definitely not tomorrow!
E&E Tally: 21768 words
Blog posts: 30/30
Instead I'll say what's on my mind. Thanks. I enjoyed this month. Thanks for not getting completely bored of me and disappearing. Thanks for the encouragement. Thanks for the emails. I love your suggestions. I am totally putting vick's vapor rub on the soles of Nater's feet. I will absolutely sit and memorize every detail of the last time I nurse him. Thank you for commenting so lovingly on our swing victory.
Thanks Gayle and Maura for your hilarious daily thoughts. Thanks Mommy Geekology for reading chapter 1, page 1 and not laughing in my virtual face. Thanks Jessica Bern for being inspired and posting every day with me (no thanks for being way funnier than me though).
It feels good to have finished this without cheating or missing. It feels good to be done. I'll be back very soon, but definitely not tomorrow!
E&E Tally: 21768 wordsBlog posts: 30/30
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Cheap Bone's Connected to the...
Speaking of Cos.tco, yes we were at the end of that last post there, I bought underwear at the big mecca of all things super-sized the other day. For me, not the kids. It did seem very weird if you want to know the truth, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I have had laundry crisis after laundry crisis lately and I decided it wasn't the result of any laundry slackerdom on my part, I just don't own enough pairs of pan.ties. (That was for Marinka, she hates the word pant.ies. Also for my mother, she is dying right now. "Stacey Kathleen O'Roarke (I made those last two up), are you now discussing your unmentionables on the internet?" Hi mom! Yes, I totally am.)
It was weird to throw the underwear right on into the cart (it'll hold four kids, three pounds of cheese and a fully assembled tool shed...go on, ten points, you know it!) with the life's supply of string cheese and cheap Italian restaurant quantities of pasta sauce (which, hmmmm, maybe the Cost.co people were wondering what I was up to with my underwear). Not that I'm a underwear snob. At one time I was a VS girl, but I downgraded to Tar-shay long ago. Co.stco though. Wow. Next, I'll sew my own underwear from old onsies.
That night, needing some affirmation, I told Matt while I scooped my bowl of chocolate chip mint ice cream (hands down the best flavor, there is no competition). I figured he would be behind me. He loves Cos.tco. If Cos.tco had existed when he proposed to me, I guarantee you I would be sporting a bright, shiny Cost.co special sparkly right now. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Me: I bought underwear at Cost.co today.
Him: (shocked look) The romance is truly dead.
Imagine my surprise.
Me: They were $9.99 for seven pairs.
Him: I love it when you talk all se.xy.
That's what I thought.
(Let's make my mom really squirm. Hey mom, know what the dots are for in se.xy and pant.ies? So some gross internet perv can't put "kids in se.xy cheese pasta pan.ties" into google and get your adorable grandchildren as their number one search result. I know. What is this world coming to? You can't even shop for pant.ies at Cost.co and tell the whole internet about it without putting little anti-search dots in the key words. It's a sad, sad state of affairs.)
(Are you all thinking, sheesh, good thing tomorrow is the final day of November because Stacey is slipping. Oh yeah? Well, where do you buy your underwear? Just kidding, me too.)
E&E Tally: 20620 words (working on it, the baby will not sleep)
Blog posts: 29/30
It was weird to throw the underwear right on into the cart (it'll hold four kids, three pounds of cheese and a fully assembled tool shed...go on, ten points, you know it!) with the life's supply of string cheese and cheap Italian restaurant quantities of pasta sauce (which, hmmmm, maybe the Cost.co people were wondering what I was up to with my underwear). Not that I'm a underwear snob. At one time I was a VS girl, but I downgraded to Tar-shay long ago. Co.stco though. Wow. Next, I'll sew my own underwear from old onsies.
That night, needing some affirmation, I told Matt while I scooped my bowl of chocolate chip mint ice cream (hands down the best flavor, there is no competition). I figured he would be behind me. He loves Cos.tco. If Cos.tco had existed when he proposed to me, I guarantee you I would be sporting a bright, shiny Cost.co special sparkly right now. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Me: I bought underwear at Cost.co today.
Him: (shocked look) The romance is truly dead.
Imagine my surprise.
Me: They were $9.99 for seven pairs.
Him: I love it when you talk all se.xy.
That's what I thought.
(Let's make my mom really squirm. Hey mom, know what the dots are for in se.xy and pant.ies? So some gross internet perv can't put "kids in se.xy cheese pasta pan.ties" into google and get your adorable grandchildren as their number one search result. I know. What is this world coming to? You can't even shop for pant.ies at Cost.co and tell the whole internet about it without putting little anti-search dots in the key words. It's a sad, sad state of affairs.)
(Are you all thinking, sheesh, good thing tomorrow is the final day of November because Stacey is slipping. Oh yeah? Well, where do you buy your underwear? Just kidding, me too.)
E&E Tally: 20620 words (working on it, the baby will not sleep)Blog posts: 29/30
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Flopping Fish Brain
I passed 20,000 words today in the saga of Emily and Eddie, which is nowhere close to 50,000 words, but, considering the distractions I have in my days, is pretty darn good. I'm pleased. It's a whole hell of a lot better than nothing and that is exactly what I had at the start of November. The best part is that I am only just now half way through my outline. The plot is more complicated in the second half, so if I continue, I ought to be able to reach between 50,000 and 70,000 words easily and that is, well, fun. It's fun. We'll leave it at that for now.
There are only two days left of posting every day. I have things to say. Half formed blog posts sift through the holes in my mind. I can't hold them. I am tired and the points and themes and images get clogged in the gears. I'll let this one jump and flip and reverse like my flopping fish out of water brain.
We did a craft. With acrylic paint. In my living room. Right? Matt was all, who are you and where is my severely craft-averse anal retentive wife? Recall, I need therapy to let my children eat popsicles. It gets better. I painted their little hands with honest-to-goodness, doesn't-wash-off-easily paint and we printed projects. They are going to be the kids' presents to aunties and grandparents for the holidays, so I can't get specific and give it all away, but they turned out downright adorable.
In case you fear my blog (or my body) has been taken over by aliens, no, no, it's me. I yelled at Cue so loudly while his little hand was covered in lemon yellow acrylic paint that he sat down on his bottom and did the open mouth, someone-killed-my-puppy cry. That would be me. His mother. I killed his puppy. For revenge, while I had the baby's entire hand painted bright green, he insisted on covering the wet canvasses with his nanny blanket so that they could "go nigh-nigh."
My crafty quota is filled for the century.
ALSO, because I don't have enough misery going on at night, Gee is sleep walking. Actually, he is sleep pee-pee dancing all around the upstairs. He's sort of looking for the toilet, but if one of us doesn't get there fast enough and aim him in the right direction, he'll pee on whatever is handy. He favors the step stool, which is like three freaking inches from the toilet.
Finally, I took all the kids to a large box bookstore because something is wrong with my brain. Reference above, re: non-water based paints. It was packed. The aisles were so narrow. Our little procession involving stroller and kids holding stroller on both sides and Cue "pushing" stroller (oh my god, Cue, there is no where for ME to stand when you "push" the stroller) did not fit. I failed to hit the eject button and bail before we were well and truly into the store and COULD NOT TURN AROUND.
I have new appreciation for Cos.tco and its wide enough for the pallet trolley aisles. Those are my people. The pallet trolley people (thumps chest above heart while flashing cost.co spelled in a bizarre gang-sign-esque configuration of my fingers).
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 20620 words
Blog posts: 28/30
There are only two days left of posting every day. I have things to say. Half formed blog posts sift through the holes in my mind. I can't hold them. I am tired and the points and themes and images get clogged in the gears. I'll let this one jump and flip and reverse like my flopping fish out of water brain.
We did a craft. With acrylic paint. In my living room. Right? Matt was all, who are you and where is my severely craft-averse anal retentive wife? Recall, I need therapy to let my children eat popsicles. It gets better. I painted their little hands with honest-to-goodness, doesn't-wash-off-easily paint and we printed projects. They are going to be the kids' presents to aunties and grandparents for the holidays, so I can't get specific and give it all away, but they turned out downright adorable.
In case you fear my blog (or my body) has been taken over by aliens, no, no, it's me. I yelled at Cue so loudly while his little hand was covered in lemon yellow acrylic paint that he sat down on his bottom and did the open mouth, someone-killed-my-puppy cry. That would be me. His mother. I killed his puppy. For revenge, while I had the baby's entire hand painted bright green, he insisted on covering the wet canvasses with his nanny blanket so that they could "go nigh-nigh."
My crafty quota is filled for the century.
ALSO, because I don't have enough misery going on at night, Gee is sleep walking. Actually, he is sleep pee-pee dancing all around the upstairs. He's sort of looking for the toilet, but if one of us doesn't get there fast enough and aim him in the right direction, he'll pee on whatever is handy. He favors the step stool, which is like three freaking inches from the toilet.
Finally, I took all the kids to a large box bookstore because something is wrong with my brain. Reference above, re: non-water based paints. It was packed. The aisles were so narrow. Our little procession involving stroller and kids holding stroller on both sides and Cue "pushing" stroller (oh my god, Cue, there is no where for ME to stand when you "push" the stroller) did not fit. I failed to hit the eject button and bail before we were well and truly into the store and COULD NOT TURN AROUND.
I have new appreciation for Cos.tco and its wide enough for the pallet trolley aisles. Those are my people. The pallet trolley people (thumps chest above heart while flashing cost.co spelled in a bizarre gang-sign-esque configuration of my fingers).
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 20620 words
Blog posts: 28/30
Friday, November 27, 2009
Small Prayers
Nate's not sleeping. It's horrible and exhausting and frustrating. And temporary. I'll say it three times so I remember and believe: temporary, temporary, temporary. It feels like it will never end, but it has only been four or five nights and I know, from experience, I know, it will end. He is teething and he has a terrible cold. Between the snot and his obsession with gnawing on his fists, he can easily waste the better part of our ten at night to six in the morning sleep routine.
The pattern of this week is not an easy one. I finally get him to sleep in his rigged car seat/bassinet contraption (patent pending) around eleven and at one thirty he is gnawing and fussing and making my heart pound by choking briefly on snot and just generally keeping me awake with his annoyingness. We nurse until two thirty, he sleeps until three thirty; we nurse until four thirty, he sleeps until five thirty; we nurse until six or so and he starts smiling and giggling and playing with my nipple.
I kick his snoring father and blurt out something borderline abusive and frightening and incoherent like 'take baby, might kill it, am dying.' Matt gets up and takes him away, blissfully far away, out of my earshot away, and lets him coo and smile and drip snot while he drinks a pot of coffee and reads the paper. I get a precious forty-five minutes to an hour of sleep before the rest of our merry gang wake exuberant for their day.
Most mornings, Nate falls back into a dead to the world, nothing will wake me, mouth open sleep between seven and eight and I can put him pretty much anywhere for the next three hours. I have had to wake him up to go to preschool.
I mean seriously, fates? Up yours. My fourth baby likes a bit of a lie in? My fourth baby. You find that funny, don't you? I might hate you just a little bit.
When he wakes naturally, he wakes happy and then comes my very, very favorite part of my day, week, possibly life right now. He coos, or sits contentedly in his old, recalled car seat set in his bassinet and looks around. He hardly ever cries. He just waits until I eventually get to a natural pause in breakfast, or dressing or another routine morning chore and scamper up the stairs to check on him.
When I see him awake through the door, I pause because the moment when he spots me fills my heart up to the very tippy top and overflows it all over the floor. The joy runs down the stairs and splatters all over my other kids. I step into the room and he sees me and he sparkles with happiness. His whole body wags. His smile cracks his cheeks and dribbles sprinkly bits of loveliness down his chin. (Or, yes, okay, that might be drool and snot, but it looks like sprinkly bits of happiness to me and I am temporarily sleep deprived.)
It is the most affirming thing. It causes such an answering pull in my heart. My own smile cracks my cheeks, my mood soars. It's almost enough to make me forgive him for the teeth and the snot and the whole 'I'd like to play at 6:00 a.m. routine.' Almost.
Please, please, gods of sleep and quiet and sanity. The teeth: let them break the surface. The snot: make it be gone. Grant me five consecutive hours. In the meantime, I can not be held responsible for my SB chai consumption.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 19690 words (breath of life)
Blog posts: 27/30
The pattern of this week is not an easy one. I finally get him to sleep in his rigged car seat/bassinet contraption (patent pending) around eleven and at one thirty he is gnawing and fussing and making my heart pound by choking briefly on snot and just generally keeping me awake with his annoyingness. We nurse until two thirty, he sleeps until three thirty; we nurse until four thirty, he sleeps until five thirty; we nurse until six or so and he starts smiling and giggling and playing with my nipple.
I kick his snoring father and blurt out something borderline abusive and frightening and incoherent like 'take baby, might kill it, am dying.' Matt gets up and takes him away, blissfully far away, out of my earshot away, and lets him coo and smile and drip snot while he drinks a pot of coffee and reads the paper. I get a precious forty-five minutes to an hour of sleep before the rest of our merry gang wake exuberant for their day.
Most mornings, Nate falls back into a dead to the world, nothing will wake me, mouth open sleep between seven and eight and I can put him pretty much anywhere for the next three hours. I have had to wake him up to go to preschool.
I mean seriously, fates? Up yours. My fourth baby likes a bit of a lie in? My fourth baby. You find that funny, don't you? I might hate you just a little bit.
When he wakes naturally, he wakes happy and then comes my very, very favorite part of my day, week, possibly life right now. He coos, or sits contentedly in his old, recalled car seat set in his bassinet and looks around. He hardly ever cries. He just waits until I eventually get to a natural pause in breakfast, or dressing or another routine morning chore and scamper up the stairs to check on him.
When I see him awake through the door, I pause because the moment when he spots me fills my heart up to the very tippy top and overflows it all over the floor. The joy runs down the stairs and splatters all over my other kids. I step into the room and he sees me and he sparkles with happiness. His whole body wags. His smile cracks his cheeks and dribbles sprinkly bits of loveliness down his chin. (Or, yes, okay, that might be drool and snot, but it looks like sprinkly bits of happiness to me and I am temporarily sleep deprived.)
It is the most affirming thing. It causes such an answering pull in my heart. My own smile cracks my cheeks, my mood soars. It's almost enough to make me forgive him for the teeth and the snot and the whole 'I'd like to play at 6:00 a.m. routine.' Almost.
Please, please, gods of sleep and quiet and sanity. The teeth: let them break the surface. The snot: make it be gone. Grant me five consecutive hours. In the meantime, I can not be held responsible for my SB chai consumption.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 19690 words (breath of life)
Blog posts: 27/30
Thursday, November 26, 2009
To Life
When we were little kids, my Dad called the goop inside of a pumpkin the "pumpkin poop." Is that common? No? My family was weird? Shocking. At Halloween, he'd get all gleeful and tell us it was "time to scoop the pumpkin poop."
Matt tells our kids it's spaghetti. Because he had a normal, decent childhood. My sisters and I never had a chance. We think it's hilarious to sing the most annoying songs in the history of the universe on long car rides or all day hikes so that they get stuck in other people's heads. We laughed until we cried when Dee recounted a NPR special about sexing turkeys at one memorable Thanksgiving feast.
Because my sisters and I inherited my Dad's bizarre sense of humor, my youngest sister sent me an email the other day entitled, "It's true." I knew it was going to be good...and it was.
Bestill my heart. Someone out there in the world shares my family's penchant for pumpkin potty humor.
I wish I could say that we are all together today, three glasses in and laughing our asses off, but they have gathered in the Lonestar state and Matt and I have decided that a kajillion children (or four) and holiday travel do not mix. So, we are here laughing our asses off with friends who are family, raising our third glasses (or fourth, who's counting? yes, Cue, you may have a sixth cupcake) to loved ones, near and far, to friends that get us through our days, to cupcakes, to pumpkin poop pie.
L'chaim, blog people, to life!
(Oh, you are totally going to have that song stuck in your head for days. I know you are reading this in Texas. I win.)
(What, what's that? It's sixty there? Low blow. You win. Love you.)
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 17735 words (finishing weak, so true to form)
Blog posts: 26/30
Matt tells our kids it's spaghetti. Because he had a normal, decent childhood. My sisters and I never had a chance. We think it's hilarious to sing the most annoying songs in the history of the universe on long car rides or all day hikes so that they get stuck in other people's heads. We laughed until we cried when Dee recounted a NPR special about sexing turkeys at one memorable Thanksgiving feast.
Because my sisters and I inherited my Dad's bizarre sense of humor, my youngest sister sent me an email the other day entitled, "It's true." I knew it was going to be good...and it was.
Bestill my heart. Someone out there in the world shares my family's penchant for pumpkin potty humor.
I wish I could say that we are all together today, three glasses in and laughing our asses off, but they have gathered in the Lonestar state and Matt and I have decided that a kajillion children (or four) and holiday travel do not mix. So, we are here laughing our asses off with friends who are family, raising our third glasses (or fourth, who's counting? yes, Cue, you may have a sixth cupcake) to loved ones, near and far, to friends that get us through our days, to cupcakes, to pumpkin poop pie.
L'chaim, blog people, to life!
(Oh, you are totally going to have that song stuck in your head for days. I know you are reading this in Texas. I win.)
(What, what's that? It's sixty there? Low blow. You win. Love you.)
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 17735 words (finishing weak, so true to form)
Blog posts: 26/30
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Grateful
Once, I sat on the roof of an absolutely disgusting six-story hostel in the middle of the pocked, crumbling maze of antiquity that is Istanbul and looked out over the rooftops and minaret spires and lights. Beside me in a circle of students and travelers and wanderers, sat a Danish boy named Soren. That "O" has a weird line through it and it makes a vowel sound that my brain does not recognize. He laughed at me, drunk and giddy on beer and height, as he tried to shape my unwilling tongue around the sound. Around us, that filthy ancient city twinkled and sprawled and managed to look both exotic and beautiful.
Once, I leaped, brave beyond reason from adventure and youth, from stone steps carved into a cliff on the side of the island of Capri into the churning, crashing waves of the Mediterranean Sea and swam fighting the push-me-pull-me swells through a narrow cave entrance. There, I tread water with four or five other ignorantly-brave kids and watched the microorganisms that live in that dark space sparkle and blaze in neon and diamond, jewels beyond counting.
Once, I galloped on an agile, sure-footed stallion named Kirhan, across the rock-strewn high plains of the Atlas Mountains. I laughed, laughed out loud in blind joy, at the rocks and my bare head and the risk and the world and danger and fate, at falls and concussions and medical evacuations by helicopter. I laughed and I gambled without counting the costs of loss and I won.
Once, I clung to the back of a rusty truck, on a mountain of rice, baked and windswept and thirsty, and listened to Haitian teenagers scream songs to Jesus all the way up a dry, littered riverbed into the heart of starvation's furious maw. My heart pounded and my dry throat went drier at the sight of hundreds of people sitting in two painfully long lines. I moved down the left hand line at a speed that left no room for breathing, shoving bag after bag of rice from a wagon, into the hands of another volunteer, who threw it into hungry lap after hungry lap. A whistle blew when the rice ran out and we dropped everything, sacks, makeshift wagons, dignity and pride and ran back to the already moving truck, where hands waited to pull us up, out of harm's way, away from the tide of frustration that occasionally became a riot.
Once, I slipped, in a bikini and a snorkel, into the still, green waters of Palau's lagoon and watched, in frightened delight as two silver and steel dolphins swam quiet circles around me. Dive down, their keeper called, they like to play. I sank down towards the warped mirage of the bottom sand and the larger one, the male, sank with me, face to face. He nodded and smiled and clicked his encouragement and I reached out in wonder, thinking I am the lesser creature here. We surfaced together, him beside me, and the keeper called, grab him, he's offering, but I only vaguely heard because the female was on my other side, her soft-but-steel gray muscles against my body, and they took me for a short ride together. A gift.
Once, I quivered, doubled over with misery and terror, on a train stopped in no-man's-land between Romania and Bulgaria. My passport was gone, stolen by the friendly girls who had shared our compartment, and I understood, briefly, facing the machine-gun-armed teenagers on the station platform, what it meant not to be a citizen of a powerful, first-world country in this enormous world.
More than once, I have wept at sights too awe-inspiring for words, experiences too intense to explain.
I would trade it all, every moment, every memory, every single bit of it for my right now. My family. Matt. My children. My friends, near and far. That's how grateful I am. I am equally grateful that I don't have to bargain.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all. May your cup overflow.
If you aren't too busy cooking, tell me a memory you treasure from your time before children.
E&E Tally: 17735 words (holidays don't count, right?)
Blog posts: 25/30
Once, I leaped, brave beyond reason from adventure and youth, from stone steps carved into a cliff on the side of the island of Capri into the churning, crashing waves of the Mediterranean Sea and swam fighting the push-me-pull-me swells through a narrow cave entrance. There, I tread water with four or five other ignorantly-brave kids and watched the microorganisms that live in that dark space sparkle and blaze in neon and diamond, jewels beyond counting.
Once, I galloped on an agile, sure-footed stallion named Kirhan, across the rock-strewn high plains of the Atlas Mountains. I laughed, laughed out loud in blind joy, at the rocks and my bare head and the risk and the world and danger and fate, at falls and concussions and medical evacuations by helicopter. I laughed and I gambled without counting the costs of loss and I won.
Once, I clung to the back of a rusty truck, on a mountain of rice, baked and windswept and thirsty, and listened to Haitian teenagers scream songs to Jesus all the way up a dry, littered riverbed into the heart of starvation's furious maw. My heart pounded and my dry throat went drier at the sight of hundreds of people sitting in two painfully long lines. I moved down the left hand line at a speed that left no room for breathing, shoving bag after bag of rice from a wagon, into the hands of another volunteer, who threw it into hungry lap after hungry lap. A whistle blew when the rice ran out and we dropped everything, sacks, makeshift wagons, dignity and pride and ran back to the already moving truck, where hands waited to pull us up, out of harm's way, away from the tide of frustration that occasionally became a riot.
Once, I slipped, in a bikini and a snorkel, into the still, green waters of Palau's lagoon and watched, in frightened delight as two silver and steel dolphins swam quiet circles around me. Dive down, their keeper called, they like to play. I sank down towards the warped mirage of the bottom sand and the larger one, the male, sank with me, face to face. He nodded and smiled and clicked his encouragement and I reached out in wonder, thinking I am the lesser creature here. We surfaced together, him beside me, and the keeper called, grab him, he's offering, but I only vaguely heard because the female was on my other side, her soft-but-steel gray muscles against my body, and they took me for a short ride together. A gift.
Once, I quivered, doubled over with misery and terror, on a train stopped in no-man's-land between Romania and Bulgaria. My passport was gone, stolen by the friendly girls who had shared our compartment, and I understood, briefly, facing the machine-gun-armed teenagers on the station platform, what it meant not to be a citizen of a powerful, first-world country in this enormous world.
More than once, I have wept at sights too awe-inspiring for words, experiences too intense to explain.
I would trade it all, every moment, every memory, every single bit of it for my right now. My family. Matt. My children. My friends, near and far. That's how grateful I am. I am equally grateful that I don't have to bargain.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all. May your cup overflow.
If you aren't too busy cooking, tell me a memory you treasure from your time before children. E&E Tally: 17735 words (holidays don't count, right?)
Blog posts: 25/30
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Brothers and Sisters
I've wanted to do this for a while. This is the perfect time, in the midst of all the holiday preparations and craziness.
Gee at five months.
Cue at five months.
Nate at five months.
Think they're related? (Oh and yes, I absolutely did have hundreds of pictures to choose from in a folder entitled "Gee - Five Months," followed by a pretty good selection entitled "December 2007," followed by pulling the most recent pictures off of my camera, realizing there was only one of Nater and none of him smiling and then using a picture my friend emailed me last week. No wonder youngest children have issues.)
Also, my kids have crazy hair.
Not to leave anyone out, here's my beautiful daughter at five months. We received monthly updates from the orphanage with one or two pictures. At the time, it felt like so little and now I'm beyond grateful to have them.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 17735 words
Blog posts: 24/30
Gee at five months.
Cue at five months.
Nate at five months.
Think they're related? (Oh and yes, I absolutely did have hundreds of pictures to choose from in a folder entitled "Gee - Five Months," followed by a pretty good selection entitled "December 2007," followed by pulling the most recent pictures off of my camera, realizing there was only one of Nater and none of him smiling and then using a picture my friend emailed me last week. No wonder youngest children have issues.)
Also, my kids have crazy hair.
Not to leave anyone out, here's my beautiful daughter at five months. We received monthly updates from the orphanage with one or two pictures. At the time, it felt like so little and now I'm beyond grateful to have them.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 17735 words
Blog posts: 24/30
Monday, November 23, 2009
Story Time
Someone asked in a comment many posts ago if we read to our kids and how we managed the crowd control. I read them books if they bring them to me throughout the day, but we have a formal story time as a part of our bedtime routine. They each get to pick one book when they are completely ready for bed and we all sit and read them together in our queen-sized bed.
It's funny. A long, long time ago, when I was pregnant with Gee and watching my two other children grow in an orphanage a thousand miles away, I had a fantasy I would replay often in my head. It was an idyllic picture of early mornings with a large family. I would wake up and hug each child drowsily as they crawled into our huge bed with spotless white sheets. We would snuggle, giggle, say good morning and then fall back to sleep for an hour or so, all curled together like puppies, until sunlight filled the room and the clock reached a decent time.
I think in my dream world, we all smelled vaguely of coconut and lemons and sunshine.
We definitely didn't smell like pee. In my real world, my kids reek of pee in the early morning. The night-trained one misses and the other two are wearing diapers so huge and swollen that I actually wrinkle my nose in disgust when I catch a whiff. They could never sneak in and wake me up by snuggling because I would smell them when they crossed the thresh hold of our room and about that time I would call, firmly, "the sun is not on, the clock does not say seven, back to your bed."
Truth is, I hate kids in our bed in the morning, in the night, pretty much at any time. I tolerate them as babies and then I want them to get out and stay out.
Further fantasy fallacies abound.
Our sheets are not clean. Even if they were when the night started, by the morning, the baby has puked on them.
There is nothing snuggly about small children sleeping. They are all knees and elbows and grabby little hands.
There is nothing decent about the time that our gaggle awakes for the day, nor would they be inclined to go back to sleep for an hour or so unless I hit them over the head with something heavy. Don't think I haven't considered it.
The window is more likely to let bleak, gray, winter light leak into our freezing cold room than buttery sunshine.
Some dreams never have a chance to get off of the ground. But, sometimes you can find their solid, golden core, if you are willing to allow the wrapping to look a little less perfect than you imagined.
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I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 16636 words
Blog posts: 23/30
It's funny. A long, long time ago, when I was pregnant with Gee and watching my two other children grow in an orphanage a thousand miles away, I had a fantasy I would replay often in my head. It was an idyllic picture of early mornings with a large family. I would wake up and hug each child drowsily as they crawled into our huge bed with spotless white sheets. We would snuggle, giggle, say good morning and then fall back to sleep for an hour or so, all curled together like puppies, until sunlight filled the room and the clock reached a decent time.
I think in my dream world, we all smelled vaguely of coconut and lemons and sunshine.
We definitely didn't smell like pee. In my real world, my kids reek of pee in the early morning. The night-trained one misses and the other two are wearing diapers so huge and swollen that I actually wrinkle my nose in disgust when I catch a whiff. They could never sneak in and wake me up by snuggling because I would smell them when they crossed the thresh hold of our room and about that time I would call, firmly, "the sun is not on, the clock does not say seven, back to your bed."
Truth is, I hate kids in our bed in the morning, in the night, pretty much at any time. I tolerate them as babies and then I want them to get out and stay out.
Further fantasy fallacies abound.
Our sheets are not clean. Even if they were when the night started, by the morning, the baby has puked on them.
There is nothing snuggly about small children sleeping. They are all knees and elbows and grabby little hands.
There is nothing decent about the time that our gaggle awakes for the day, nor would they be inclined to go back to sleep for an hour or so unless I hit them over the head with something heavy. Don't think I haven't considered it.
The window is more likely to let bleak, gray, winter light leak into our freezing cold room than buttery sunshine.
Some dreams never have a chance to get off of the ground. But, sometimes you can find their solid, golden core, if you are willing to allow the wrapping to look a little less perfect than you imagined.
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I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 16636 words
Blog posts: 23/30
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Final Tally
At midnight last night, clicker showed a final "mommy" count of 514 mommies. A little pee break around nine upped the final tally by seven. It involved Gee being unable to find the toilet in his sleep and Cue waking up as I tried to get Gee back into bed.
And the winner is: MKMom also known as Nissa. She guessed 529 mommies, just 15 off of the true total. Fifteen points, Nissa, love you girl.
A brilliant second place finish to Anna See of An Inch of Gray. Her guess of 463 mommies fell 51 mommies short of the correct number. Nicely done, ten points.
Shell holds onto third place with 582. She was 68 mommies away from the clicker total. Five points for Shell of Things I Can't Say.
An honorable mention goes to my mother, who calls herself itamot mom (is there any mommy out there mom). Cute right? She guessed 585, 71 mommies over. She knows her grandchildren well. Heather of Domestic Extraordinaire and Annje from Annje Unabashed were also in the running with guesses of 583 and 589, respectively.
You are all so much fun. Thanks for playing with me. Thanks for laughing at life with me. Thanks - truly thank you so much - for reading, for your emails, for your comments and your encouragement this month. I would have thrown in the towel ten days ago if you all weren't so good to me.
I'll post the points tomorrow. I'm so full I can't think. Matt and I had a date night tonight and I ate more than my fair share of the Great Wall of China dessert at PF Changs. It's a piece of chocolate cake as big as your head. No joke. The frosting is coated in mini-chocolate chips. And now I must go to bed. Happy.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 15613 words
Blog posts: 22/30
And the winner is: MKMom also known as Nissa. She guessed 529 mommies, just 15 off of the true total. Fifteen points, Nissa, love you girl.
A brilliant second place finish to Anna See of An Inch of Gray. Her guess of 463 mommies fell 51 mommies short of the correct number. Nicely done, ten points.
Shell holds onto third place with 582. She was 68 mommies away from the clicker total. Five points for Shell of Things I Can't Say.
An honorable mention goes to my mother, who calls herself itamot mom (is there any mommy out there mom). Cute right? She guessed 585, 71 mommies over. She knows her grandchildren well. Heather of Domestic Extraordinaire and Annje from Annje Unabashed were also in the running with guesses of 583 and 589, respectively.
You are all so much fun. Thanks for playing with me. Thanks for laughing at life with me. Thanks - truly thank you so much - for reading, for your emails, for your comments and your encouragement this month. I would have thrown in the towel ten days ago if you all weren't so good to me.
I'll post the points tomorrow. I'm so full I can't think. Matt and I had a date night tonight and I ate more than my fair share of the Great Wall of China dessert at PF Changs. It's a piece of chocolate cake as big as your head. No joke. The frosting is coated in mini-chocolate chips. And now I must go to bed. Happy.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 15613 words
Blog posts: 22/30
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Clicker Counter
A few weeks ago, during a particularly gruesome quadruple screaming jag, it occurred to me that it would amuse me to know how many times a day I hear the word "mommy."
I told some friends about it on a walk and we all agreed that you could never keep track for an entire day. You'd have to hire someone just to count. Unless... Unless! Unless, you had one of those awesome little things that official people hold at airports and concerts and sporting events? The little clicky things. You know how they click it your direction as you walk in the door and you get all kinds of "oh yeah, well click, click to you too," and you make that little hand clicking motion at them back. No? Maybe that's just me?
They are called Hand Tally Counters and they can be had on Am.azon for a mere five hundred pennies. That's right, an entire day of fun for under five dollars. And don't think I didn't get the super saver shipping because I did! Of course I did! And I superly saved! By buying $20.00 more in stuff I didn't need! To avoid paying $8.99 in shipping for a $5.00 item. Amazon wins again. Does it matter? They've already conspired with Goo.gle to take over the world.
So yesterday, my little clicker friend came and today, we count.
I know, he's kind of cute, right?
Wanna play with me? How many mommies do you think I count today? Before you guess, let me give you an example of Cue asking me a question.
Mommymommymommymommymommy - yes Cue - mommymommymommymommy - Yes! Cue! What? - mommymommymommymommymommy mommy? yes, what is it? mommy, where mine nanny mommy?
So that's 17 mommies for one question. Times a hundred kajillion billion questions a day. I know. Clicker only goes to 9999 so we may have to reset. But, I'll keep a running tally here.
1:37 a.m. Gee has to pee - Clicker says: 3 mommies
6:45 a.m.-8:15 a.m. Wake up, dressed, breakfast - Clicker says: 53 mommies (cumulative total)
They are now watching Thomas the bizarre little Tank Engine. Silence.
Extrapolate at will. I'll check back in in a couple of hours. You have to have made your guess by then to play. Let's say fifteen points to the closest guess, ten to second place and five points to third place. Counting ends at 11:59 p.m. tonight, but they go to bed about 6:45.
Oops, 8:45 a.m. diaper change and resulting whine-fest (ongoing) - Clicker says 67
Make that 79. Yeah, that's right, 12 times before I could change the time and hit publish.
Update #1: 1:07 p.m. You are all awesome. Okay play is closed, last comment in the game is #13, my lovely mother. We just returned from a solo Costco run (Where I refused to defer on a prime parking spot to a little old lady, but I waited forever and also FOUR small children by myself. I'm going to hell.), lunch with Daddy at work, and we are now in quiet/nap time until three. Clicker says 303 (Nate shrieked for the last fifteen minutes and I'm pretty sure if he could say mommy, he would have screamed it 1500 times, or possibly, I am starving, milk bitch.)
Update #2: 5:10 p.m. Actually, they kind of kicked butt this afternoon. We had a long quiet time. Clicker says 349. Impressive, but the dinner hour approacheth.
Update #3: 7:19 p.m. They went to bed at 6:45 p.m. Clicker says 507! I have to say, I thought it would be a hundred or so higher than that. I didn't expect to see Matt at lunch today, there were about 100 "Daddies" that threw the total. Cue also took a killer nap. Not that I'm complaining about that in any way.
That's still 42.2 mommies for each hour of awake time. One mommy every eighty-four seconds. For twelve hours. 720 minutes. (Yes, Matt totally had to help me with that math. I have lost all skills). That, my amazing fellow moms and dads, is why our days are long, but our years are short.
MKMom is currently in the lead with her guess of 529. Anna See is second with 463 and Shell is third with 582. I won't call the winners until midnight. You never know when a potty emergency might occur.
E&E Tally: 14772 words
Blog posts: 21/30
I told some friends about it on a walk and we all agreed that you could never keep track for an entire day. You'd have to hire someone just to count. Unless... Unless! Unless, you had one of those awesome little things that official people hold at airports and concerts and sporting events? The little clicky things. You know how they click it your direction as you walk in the door and you get all kinds of "oh yeah, well click, click to you too," and you make that little hand clicking motion at them back. No? Maybe that's just me?
They are called Hand Tally Counters and they can be had on Am.azon for a mere five hundred pennies. That's right, an entire day of fun for under five dollars. And don't think I didn't get the super saver shipping because I did! Of course I did! And I superly saved! By buying $20.00 more in stuff I didn't need! To avoid paying $8.99 in shipping for a $5.00 item. Amazon wins again. Does it matter? They've already conspired with Goo.gle to take over the world.
So yesterday, my little clicker friend came and today, we count.
I know, he's kind of cute, right?
Wanna play with me? How many mommies do you think I count today? Before you guess, let me give you an example of Cue asking me a question.
Mommymommymommymommymommy - yes Cue - mommymommymommymommy - Yes! Cue! What? - mommymommymommymommymommy mommy? yes, what is it? mommy, where mine nanny mommy?
So that's 17 mommies for one question. Times a hundred kajillion billion questions a day. I know. Clicker only goes to 9999 so we may have to reset. But, I'll keep a running tally here.
1:37 a.m. Gee has to pee - Clicker says: 3 mommies
6:45 a.m.-8:15 a.m. Wake up, dressed, breakfast - Clicker says: 53 mommies (cumulative total)
They are now watching Thomas the bizarre little Tank Engine. Silence.
Extrapolate at will. I'll check back in in a couple of hours. You have to have made your guess by then to play. Let's say fifteen points to the closest guess, ten to second place and five points to third place. Counting ends at 11:59 p.m. tonight, but they go to bed about 6:45.
Oops, 8:45 a.m. diaper change and resulting whine-fest (ongoing) - Clicker says 67
Make that 79. Yeah, that's right, 12 times before I could change the time and hit publish.
Update #1: 1:07 p.m. You are all awesome. Okay play is closed, last comment in the game is #13, my lovely mother. We just returned from a solo Costco run (Where I refused to defer on a prime parking spot to a little old lady, but I waited forever and also FOUR small children by myself. I'm going to hell.), lunch with Daddy at work, and we are now in quiet/nap time until three. Clicker says 303 (Nate shrieked for the last fifteen minutes and I'm pretty sure if he could say mommy, he would have screamed it 1500 times, or possibly, I am starving, milk bitch.)
Update #2: 5:10 p.m. Actually, they kind of kicked butt this afternoon. We had a long quiet time. Clicker says 349. Impressive, but the dinner hour approacheth.
Update #3: 7:19 p.m. They went to bed at 6:45 p.m. Clicker says 507! I have to say, I thought it would be a hundred or so higher than that. I didn't expect to see Matt at lunch today, there were about 100 "Daddies" that threw the total. Cue also took a killer nap. Not that I'm complaining about that in any way.
That's still 42.2 mommies for each hour of awake time. One mommy every eighty-four seconds. For twelve hours. 720 minutes. (Yes, Matt totally had to help me with that math. I have lost all skills). That, my amazing fellow moms and dads, is why our days are long, but our years are short.
MKMom is currently in the lead with her guess of 529. Anna See is second with 463 and Shell is third with 582. I won't call the winners until midnight. You never know when a potty emergency might occur.
E&E Tally: 14772 wordsBlog posts: 21/30
Friday, November 20, 2009
Red Umbrella
Matt and I toured Pompeii trailing behind this neat, crisp Italian woman with a red umbrella. It was both the best of days and the worst of days, depending on whether we looked at the situation with humor or horror in any given moment. We'd signed up for the tour off of our cruise ship and subjected ourselves to the care of Red Umbrella Woman on purpose. There was no one to blame.
We hung way back behind the last stragglers in the group, plaguing Red Umbrella Woman with our tardiness all day, and alternated between amusing ourselves by mocking her and grumbling in irritation. (We also stopped to gape in UTTER horror as a fifty-ish adult man in full possession of all of his facilities, pried a piece of rock from a 2000 year old building and dropped it into his camera case as a souvenir. We actually looked around to see if we were a part of some kind of horrible reality show that parodies obnoxious tourist behavior to see how fellow travelers will respond. But no, the guy was just an asswipe.) She kept up a never-ending chirpy stream of information and instructions while always moving us onward, our fearless leader, red umbrella open and held high above her head.
I had an uncomfortable revelation, about four o'clock today, after a long, busy day of never ending instructions and information. Put on your pants, don't throw your cup, put on your shoes, you should really still be wearing your pants, go and use the bathroom, that is a peanut bar, it's your snack, stay with me, keep up, don't straggle, I need good listening, when did I tell you we could do that, the pants, truly, I don't jest, that is a present, it's not for you, yes you can give it to him, there will be cake, please hold the stroller, stay with me, cars!, don't straggle, I said there would be cake, not right this minute, you must be wearing pants to eat cake, don't touch that, don't touch that either, it's bird seed, birds eat it, No!, Wait!, birds eat it, go upstairs and take off your pants, pajamas on, where are you, teeth, pick books, get in bed, iloveyouohmygodgoodnight.
All I lacked was the red umbrella. And if they would follow it, I would carry one.
(Come back earlier than usual tomorrow morning. I have a new toy and it's going to be a fun day around here. For me, at least.)
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 13747 words
Blog posts: 20/30
We hung way back behind the last stragglers in the group, plaguing Red Umbrella Woman with our tardiness all day, and alternated between amusing ourselves by mocking her and grumbling in irritation. (We also stopped to gape in UTTER horror as a fifty-ish adult man in full possession of all of his facilities, pried a piece of rock from a 2000 year old building and dropped it into his camera case as a souvenir. We actually looked around to see if we were a part of some kind of horrible reality show that parodies obnoxious tourist behavior to see how fellow travelers will respond. But no, the guy was just an asswipe.) She kept up a never-ending chirpy stream of information and instructions while always moving us onward, our fearless leader, red umbrella open and held high above her head.
I had an uncomfortable revelation, about four o'clock today, after a long, busy day of never ending instructions and information. Put on your pants, don't throw your cup, put on your shoes, you should really still be wearing your pants, go and use the bathroom, that is a peanut bar, it's your snack, stay with me, keep up, don't straggle, I need good listening, when did I tell you we could do that, the pants, truly, I don't jest, that is a present, it's not for you, yes you can give it to him, there will be cake, please hold the stroller, stay with me, cars!, don't straggle, I said there would be cake, not right this minute, you must be wearing pants to eat cake, don't touch that, don't touch that either, it's bird seed, birds eat it, No!, Wait!, birds eat it, go upstairs and take off your pants, pajamas on, where are you, teeth, pick books, get in bed, iloveyouohmygodgoodnight.
All I lacked was the red umbrella. And if they would follow it, I would carry one.
(Come back earlier than usual tomorrow morning. I have a new toy and it's going to be a fun day around here. For me, at least.)
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 13747 words
Blog posts: 20/30
Thursday, November 19, 2009
FYI
Matt would like you to know that I left Ess' water bottle at school on Tuesday and it had to be tracked down today. This shit always bites me in the ass. He also informed me five minutes ago, as he headed to bed at 11:35 p.m. and I said I would be up once I finished my blog post, that there are many, many things that he would prefer to see me do every day for a month. Blog posting does not make his top, oh, I don't know, five thousand.
A few national months that I can think of that might interest him more:
NaPoWaMo (national pot washing month)
NaCloFoMo (national clothes folding month)
NaPhoAnMo (national, Stacey has to actually turn on her cell phone, keep it in her near vicinity and ANSWER it when it sings at her month because he had to leave work today after the preschool tried to reach me multiple times to pick up Gee after a little accident that left him without appropriate school attire. Oops.)
NaParCarGarMo (national park the car in the garage month) This one should probably have the addendum W/OHiWa (without hitting the wall)
NaCoDiMo (national cook dinner month)
NaPuFreBaCriMo (national put the freaking baby in his crib to sleep month)
NaNoToTherMoMO (national no touching the thermostat month) aka:
NaFreToDeMo (national freeze to death month)
NaNoBloMo (national no blogging month)
NaQuiWoMo (national quit worrying month)
I could do this all night. In fairness, this was his idea. He retorted back over his shoulder as he trudged up the stairs, "when is NaSeHaMo?" I'll leave it up to your imaginations.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.
E&E Tally: 12642 words (Damn.)
Blog posts: 19/30
A few national months that I can think of that might interest him more:
NaPoWaMo (national pot washing month)
NaCloFoMo (national clothes folding month)
NaPhoAnMo (national, Stacey has to actually turn on her cell phone, keep it in her near vicinity and ANSWER it when it sings at her month because he had to leave work today after the preschool tried to reach me multiple times to pick up Gee after a little accident that left him without appropriate school attire. Oops.)
NaParCarGarMo (national park the car in the garage month) This one should probably have the addendum W/OHiWa (without hitting the wall)
NaCoDiMo (national cook dinner month)
NaPuFreBaCriMo (national put the freaking baby in his crib to sleep month)
NaNoToTherMoMO (national no touching the thermostat month) aka:
NaFreToDeMo (national freeze to death month)
NaNoBloMo (national no blogging month)
NaQuiWoMo (national quit worrying month)
I could do this all night. In fairness, this was his idea. He retorted back over his shoulder as he trudged up the stairs, "when is NaSeHaMo?" I'll leave it up to your imaginations.
I'm closing my comments for most of the month of November while I participate in National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. I can't ask you to talk to me every freaking day for thirty days. That's cruel and usual punishment. My email is always open - anymommyoutthere@gmail.com.E&E Tally: 12642 words (Damn.)
Blog posts: 19/30
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Mother's Milk
I breastfed Garrett exclusively for a year. Determinedly. Doggedly. From my mom-of-four perspective, a bit over-the-top obsessively. It's not that I didn't enjoy it. I did. Breastfeeding is easy for me. Once the little blisters on my nipples harden into callouses (I do know how much you love these little nuggets of TMI), and I can stop Bradley method breathing through the latch on, it's all good. Simple. Healthy. Snuggly and fun.
I know it's not always that easy. I've seen friends struggle with low supply and difficult latch. I'll just tell you straight up, I have National Geographic boobs. Small, with enormously long nipples. My nursing nipples can nip through four layers. Nothing stops them. On the bright side, only a baby absolutely determined not to nurse could miss those suckers (aha). They look exactly like the nipples that come with Gerber bottles. I kid you not. I would take a picture, but you know, I don't need that kind of traffic.
With Garrett, I fell hook line and sinker, weighted down by all my first-time mom insecurities, for the whole, formula is evil it shall not pass thy baby's lips line. I struggled a little. Not with nursing so much as with the time and space restrictions. I couldn't go anywhere without the baby. I hated pumping. (I still hate pumping, I'd rather tote the baby everywhere.) I worked for six months and I would skip lunch to dash to his nanny's house and feed him so that I didn't have pump.
I don't want to paint nursing as a negative experience. I adore it. I love the ease of it. The deep, physical attachment with my child. I love the portability, the lack of mess, the lack of need for sterile bottles or accouterments of any sort. I love the noises they make, the little sucking sounds, the nuzzling and routing. I love a milk-drunk baby, out cold in my arms with the little-old-man-contented face on. As they grow, I love the smiles. I love the way an alert, four-month-old baby pauses to survey the room and then snuggles back in, smiling up at me, his little tongue already curled into a tube, ready for his next sip.
My favorite and sharpest memories of Garrett's infancy are lying beside him, pressed together like lovers for his early morning nurse. I can hear him gulping milk greedily after six hours of sleep. I can almost feel the pleasurable sensation of the release in pressure, the lessening of the ache as he drinks. I remember the equatorial sun, never failing to make its appearance over the cliff line outside our bedroom window at six in the morning. It hit the foot of the bed and then the light sheet and then my legs and finally his face where I stroked it gently as he drank. That might be the most content I have ever been, with no where else to be, nothing more important to do, no other children I was ignoring, Matt happy to watch us and doze in the heat.
It's restrictive, though. The lack of freedom wore on me. At exactly a year, I poured cow's milk into a sippy cup and said, here you go kid, that whole boobie thing, it's over. I didn't mourn it. We were heading to Haiti and our family was about to grow. I felt satisfied that we'd both gotten what we needed from the experience.
I nursed Quinn until he was eight-months-old not even close to exclusively. I still hated pumping and I couldn't imagine, with two other kids under two, not having some freedom to escape, some time that was my own. We bought formula. It felt almost laughable that I'd refused to buy any before then. I nursed him primarily, but when it was inconvenient or I needed a break or I had plans I could just...leave. It was good. I was a more confident mother and with confidence came the ability to think for myself. There are as many ways to feed a baby as to skin that poor proverbial cat and if the baby was happy, well hallelujah, pour me another glass of wine because he should sleep for five hours.
I didn't mourn the end with Quinn either. I went to my sister's bachlorette party. I tried to pump, it didn't really work, he didn't really care...and done. We wanted another baby and so I wasn't all that sad about jump starting my ovulation.
I thought I would want to hold onto this phase with Nate until the bitter end. He takes formula, don't misunderstand me, I'll never unring that little bell of occasional freedom, but I thought I'd want to nurse him for as long as he wanted to nurse. Until we looked into each other's eyes and both thought, wow weird, alrighty then.
I don't. I both adore it and I'm tired of it. I sit here typing this with one hand and I cherish his solid weight in my other arm, his little llama lips on my nipple, at the same time I think in the back of my mind, how much longer? Is six months long enough? He takes a bottle, he had formula at three-weeks-old when I shoved him at my long-suffering mother and jetted to Chicago for the weekend. I have a girls' weekend planned in two months and I don't want to pump. I don't own a pump. I've been playing with the idea of weaning him before then. He'll have started solids. He'll be able to hold a bottle in his chubby little hand. It would work.
Yes, my motives are purely selfish. Have I mentioned that I hate pumping? My reservations are purely selfish as well. Will I regret it? Will I look back and wish I had nursed him as long as possible? That I'd held onto this fleeting baby phase as long as possible? Or am I, four kids and five years later, just a realist? Nursing will end. We will reach the end of his babyhood and step off into toddlerdom whether I watch it slip through my tightly clasped hands or I give it a pat on the bottom on my way to catch a plane.
I don't have a neat wrap up for this one. I don't have a neat wrap up for five years straight of pregnancy and babies and nursing either. I have so much. I am not complaining. I guess, this time around, whether I choose it or not, whether I'm ready or not, whether I'm a little tired of it or not, I do have to mourn.
E&E Tally: 12642 words
Blog posts: 18/30
I know it's not always that easy. I've seen friends struggle with low supply and difficult latch. I'll just tell you straight up, I have National Geographic boobs. Small, with enormously long nipples. My nursing nipples can nip through four layers. Nothing stops them. On the bright side, only a baby absolutely determined not to nurse could miss those suckers (aha). They look exactly like the nipples that come with Gerber bottles. I kid you not. I would take a picture, but you know, I don't need that kind of traffic.
With Garrett, I fell hook line and sinker, weighted down by all my first-time mom insecurities, for the whole, formula is evil it shall not pass thy baby's lips line. I struggled a little. Not with nursing so much as with the time and space restrictions. I couldn't go anywhere without the baby. I hated pumping. (I still hate pumping, I'd rather tote the baby everywhere.) I worked for six months and I would skip lunch to dash to his nanny's house and feed him so that I didn't have pump.
I don't want to paint nursing as a negative experience. I adore it. I love the ease of it. The deep, physical attachment with my child. I love the portability, the lack of mess, the lack of need for sterile bottles or accouterments of any sort. I love the noises they make, the little sucking sounds, the nuzzling and routing. I love a milk-drunk baby, out cold in my arms with the little-old-man-contented face on. As they grow, I love the smiles. I love the way an alert, four-month-old baby pauses to survey the room and then snuggles back in, smiling up at me, his little tongue already curled into a tube, ready for his next sip.
My favorite and sharpest memories of Garrett's infancy are lying beside him, pressed together like lovers for his early morning nurse. I can hear him gulping milk greedily after six hours of sleep. I can almost feel the pleasurable sensation of the release in pressure, the lessening of the ache as he drinks. I remember the equatorial sun, never failing to make its appearance over the cliff line outside our bedroom window at six in the morning. It hit the foot of the bed and then the light sheet and then my legs and finally his face where I stroked it gently as he drank. That might be the most content I have ever been, with no where else to be, nothing more important to do, no other children I was ignoring, Matt happy to watch us and doze in the heat.
It's restrictive, though. The lack of freedom wore on me. At exactly a year, I poured cow's milk into a sippy cup and said, here you go kid, that whole boobie thing, it's over. I didn't mourn it. We were heading to Haiti and our family was about to grow. I felt satisfied that we'd both gotten what we needed from the experience.
I nursed Quinn until he was eight-months-old not even close to exclusively. I still hated pumping and I couldn't imagine, with two other kids under two, not having some freedom to escape, some time that was my own. We bought formula. It felt almost laughable that I'd refused to buy any before then. I nursed him primarily, but when it was inconvenient or I needed a break or I had plans I could just...leave. It was good. I was a more confident mother and with confidence came the ability to think for myself. There are as many ways to feed a baby as to skin that poor proverbial cat and if the baby was happy, well hallelujah, pour me another glass of wine because he should sleep for five hours.
I didn't mourn the end with Quinn either. I went to my sister's bachlorette party. I tried to pump, it didn't really work, he didn't really care...and done. We wanted another baby and so I wasn't all that sad about jump starting my ovulation.
I thought I would want to hold onto this phase with Nate until the bitter end. He takes formula, don't misunderstand me, I'll never unring that little bell of occasional freedom, but I thought I'd want to nurse him for as long as he wanted to nurse. Until we looked into each other's eyes and both thought, wow weird, alrighty then.
I don't. I both adore it and I'm tired of it. I sit here typing this with one hand and I cherish his solid weight in my other arm, his little llama lips on my nipple, at the same time I think in the back of my mind, how much longer? Is six months long enough? He takes a bottle, he had formula at three-weeks-old when I shoved him at my long-suffering mother and jetted to Chicago for the weekend. I have a girls' weekend planned in two months and I don't want to pump. I don't own a pump. I've been playing with the idea of weaning him before then. He'll have started solids. He'll be able to hold a bottle in his chubby little hand. It would work.
Yes, my motives are purely selfish. Have I mentioned that I hate pumping? My reservations are purely selfish as well. Will I regret it? Will I look back and wish I had nursed him as long as possible? That I'd held onto this fleeting baby phase as long as possible? Or am I, four kids and five years later, just a realist? Nursing will end. We will reach the end of his babyhood and step off into toddlerdom whether I watch it slip through my tightly clasped hands or I give it a pat on the bottom on my way to catch a plane.
I don't have a neat wrap up for this one. I don't have a neat wrap up for five years straight of pregnancy and babies and nursing either. I have so much. I am not complaining. I guess, this time around, whether I choose it or not, whether I'm ready or not, whether I'm a little tired of it or not, I do have to mourn.
E&E Tally: 12642 wordsBlog posts: 18/30
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