On Friday Ollie began giving kisses, and so far I am the only lucky recipient. The girl has got timing.
Unlike the Cracker's early "Mmmmmmm-ah!" smoochies, Ollie's are silent: just two baby hands and a wet, wide open mouth lean-in. And as if that weren't already enough to make my heart melt, she lingers.
Showing posts with label Mushy Moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mushy Moments. Show all posts
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Smitten.
Thirteen Pounds of Personality
Five months, three weeks, and one day old. Unbelievable.
Soaking in the babyness
Five years (and seventeen days) apart
My Little Cracker
Five months, three weeks, and one day old. Unbelievable.
Soaking in the babyness
Five years (and seventeen days) apart
My Little Cracker
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Proud Mama
Cracker: "I'll be the Dad, you be the Mom, and you be the kid."
Boy @ park: "But I'm a boy. I don't want to be the Mom."
Cracker: "That's okay, we can be a family of two Daddies!"
Boy @ park: "But I'm a boy. I don't want to be the Mom."
Cracker: "That's okay, we can be a family of two Daddies!"
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
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Monday, April 21, 2008
There's a placenta in my fridge
Introducing
OLIVE MOR.AN
16 April 2008
5:58pm
6 pounds, 8 ounces
20 inches
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
If They Mated
Circa 2001, we were out at Dave & Buster's with our friends Brooke and Rusty when we came across one of those novelty takeapictureoftwopeopleandseewhattheirkidswilllooklike photo booths. All you had to do was fork over a few bucks, select your ethnicity, and smile for the camera. Rusty, as seriously funny as he is seriously Caucasian, and I should note married to a natural blonde, had to be talked out of selecting Asian.
Good times.
Really?
The laughs grew as we realized that our fake supposedly composite children resembled each other more than any of us. It was oh so not scientifically based.
A friend of mine was commenting today on her blog about how she had suddenly realized, through pictures, that her new daughter's hair is changing. I've always gotten a kick out of watching people grow up through pictures, trying to guess what they will look like as they get older, not just as children but through their adult years as well. Probably because I am an only child, I have always been especially fascinated by siblings. When anyone we know has a second child my first question if they resemble their older sibling as a baby. It's not so much the individual features that I'm interested in, but the overall picture.
Earlier this month J's sister had her second child. Our family had a great time guessing what our new niece would look like. Her son, undoubtedly is the spitting image of my ex-BIL. Taking my SIL's fair skin and striking red hair and combining it with her fiancée's dark olive skin and Cambodian roots was a combo that we just could not picture. She was only a few days when Jon's mother produced a picture of him as a newborn that you would have sworn was our new niece Emily. Freaky identical.
(I can't describe Emily except to say she's outrageously beautiful. There are a few pictures on Flickr.)
J resembles his dad, and he unquestionably resembles his sister, but she is certainly not just a male version of him. Neither of them look even related to their mother. When a long lost half-brother of theirs showed up at my FIL's door a year ago both my SIL and FIL thought it was J. "They could be twins!" Whatever...we didn't think so. But I did think he absolutely looked like my FIL. I've always been told that I look like both my parents, though I more strongly resemble my dad. Everyone agrees that the Cracker looks like my dad, but not usually like either one of us.
Confused? So am I, and I actually know all these people.
Today Jen reminded me of the time when I too realized, through a picture, that the Cracker had lost almost all of the dark brown hair he'd been born with. It was a really weird moment: you've been there nonstop but you miss the gradual change until one day it just slaps you upside the head.* We had just gotten a hiking backpack and I just had to take pictures of His Cuteness in it even though he was still far too young to actually ride in it.
*(Personally, I blame hats. I had quite a serious baby hat fetish. Trying to find a picture of his hair was way harder than it should have been.)
12 days old
6 weeks old
His hair quickly came back in: light brown at first, gradually becoming blonde.
And then there's that really neat point where they stop being infants and start being little people, and you can finally really see what they're going to look like as child. As they grow they look so much the same yet older.
16 months
A few months ago, as I noticed that the Cracker's hair is slowly getting darker, I began to wonder what color hair he will have as an adult. I think the reason people ask about his hair is that he has the same weird almost greyish tint that mine does. (Or maybe I'm just going grey?) I suspect it will be in the brown family, and I'm really starting to lean towards thinking it will be the same as mine. (Except by then I will be grey, and we'll never get a good side by side comparison.)
Good times.
Really?
The laughs grew as we realized that our fake supposedly composite children resembled each other more than any of us. It was oh so not scientifically based.
A friend of mine was commenting today on her blog about how she had suddenly realized, through pictures, that her new daughter's hair is changing. I've always gotten a kick out of watching people grow up through pictures, trying to guess what they will look like as they get older, not just as children but through their adult years as well. Probably because I am an only child, I have always been especially fascinated by siblings. When anyone we know has a second child my first question if they resemble their older sibling as a baby. It's not so much the individual features that I'm interested in, but the overall picture.
Earlier this month J's sister had her second child. Our family had a great time guessing what our new niece would look like. Her son, undoubtedly is the spitting image of my ex-BIL. Taking my SIL's fair skin and striking red hair and combining it with her fiancée's dark olive skin and Cambodian roots was a combo that we just could not picture. She was only a few days when Jon's mother produced a picture of him as a newborn that you would have sworn was our new niece Emily. Freaky identical.
(I can't describe Emily except to say she's outrageously beautiful. There are a few pictures on Flickr.)
J resembles his dad, and he unquestionably resembles his sister, but she is certainly not just a male version of him. Neither of them look even related to their mother. When a long lost half-brother of theirs showed up at my FIL's door a year ago both my SIL and FIL thought it was J. "They could be twins!" Whatever...we didn't think so. But I did think he absolutely looked like my FIL. I've always been told that I look like both my parents, though I more strongly resemble my dad. Everyone agrees that the Cracker looks like my dad, but not usually like either one of us.
Confused? So am I, and I actually know all these people.
Today Jen reminded me of the time when I too realized, through a picture, that the Cracker had lost almost all of the dark brown hair he'd been born with. It was a really weird moment: you've been there nonstop but you miss the gradual change until one day it just slaps you upside the head.* We had just gotten a hiking backpack and I just had to take pictures of His Cuteness in it even though he was still far too young to actually ride in it.
*(Personally, I blame hats. I had quite a serious baby hat fetish. Trying to find a picture of his hair was way harder than it should have been.)
12 days old
6 weeks old
His hair quickly came back in: light brown at first, gradually becoming blonde.
And then there's that really neat point where they stop being infants and start being little people, and you can finally really see what they're going to look like as child. As they grow they look so much the same yet older.
16 months
A few months ago, as I noticed that the Cracker's hair is slowly getting darker, I began to wonder what color hair he will have as an adult. I think the reason people ask about his hair is that he has the same weird almost greyish tint that mine does. (Or maybe I'm just going grey?) I suspect it will be in the brown family, and I'm really starting to lean towards thinking it will be the same as mine. (Except by then I will be grey, and we'll never get a good side by side comparison.)
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Because I Had To
Dinner was ready, the Cracker was napping, and I had a good 4 hours to kill before the Grey's season finale.
(I've been reading on the net that there's going to be a lot of sex tonight. GA is my porn, so they better not be lying.)
I was checking in over at Wannabe Hippie when I found Elaine's post about becoming a bone marrow donor.
OMG...I have to do that.
Okay, really my first instinct was more along the lines of "I want to do that but it's a little bit scary." But being a sucker for sick kids and being a mother myself, it quickly turned into "I have to do that." Because if I am ever contacted it will be for a damn good reason.
I called J and asked if he had any objections, since if I did ever match he would have to deal with me. And take care of the Cracker. Of course it helps that he's totally used to these random kinds of phone calls at work.
So I did it. Already signed up, just waiting for my cheek swab kit which should arrive in 2-3 weeks.
Starting in 2007 (yes, New Year's Resolution, ugh, along with never ever again taking a bag at any store, which another post I'll probably never write) I promised myself that when a good opportunity arose I would stop hesitating and start acting. This is way cooler than donating 11 inches of hair to Locks of Love which was what I finally did two months ago after years of thinking someday. (Yuppers, chopped it short, from elbow length to above the neck, and no, I'm not sharing pics at the moment because the dude made my bangs too heavy when I wasn't even supposed to have bangs and I'm already trying to grow it out again.)
So anyway, it's something to think about. During the Thanks Mom Marrow Donor Drive they are waiving the $52 registration fee.
(I've been reading on the net that there's going to be a lot of sex tonight. GA is my porn, so they better not be lying.)
I was checking in over at Wannabe Hippie when I found Elaine's post about becoming a bone marrow donor.
OMG...I have to do that.
Okay, really my first instinct was more along the lines of "I want to do that but it's a little bit scary." But being a sucker for sick kids and being a mother myself, it quickly turned into "I have to do that." Because if I am ever contacted it will be for a damn good reason.
I called J and asked if he had any objections, since if I did ever match he would have to deal with me. And take care of the Cracker. Of course it helps that he's totally used to these random kinds of phone calls at work.
So I did it. Already signed up, just waiting for my cheek swab kit which should arrive in 2-3 weeks.
Starting in 2007 (yes, New Year's Resolution, ugh, along with never ever again taking a bag at any store, which another post I'll probably never write) I promised myself that when a good opportunity arose I would stop hesitating and start acting. This is way cooler than donating 11 inches of hair to Locks of Love which was what I finally did two months ago after years of thinking someday. (Yuppers, chopped it short, from elbow length to above the neck, and no, I'm not sharing pics at the moment because the dude made my bangs too heavy when I wasn't even supposed to have bangs and I'm already trying to grow it out again.)
So anyway, it's something to think about. During the Thanks Mom Marrow Donor Drive they are waiving the $52 registration fee.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Presenting my Niece
Due 5.4.07
My SIL M and I think she totally looks like a girl already. I'm off to shop! I've been waiting until the official word which arrived just a few hours ago. M feels very strongly about NO YELLOW! and NO GREEN! just pink or blue. Seeing as M and I both have boys we need to get cracking on wardrobe. Fun!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Gay Penguin Dreams and Stranger Things
A few weeks back I was racking my brain trying to come up with a small, inexpensive, nonplastic yet meaningful gift for the Cracker. The last thing he needs is anything more in his toy room, yet he is my baby and dammit I want to get him *something* for Christmas. Finally inspiration struck: a friend for Not-Bob!
(The only thing we planned on getting him was his very own copy of the controversial and banned And Tango Makes Three which I'm pretty sure won't be at our local library. And before you warn us of it's hidden political agenda that's the reason we're buying it.)
For those of you who haven't met him, Not-Bob is a stuffed horse I casually picked when we were visiting Colorado back when the Cracker was a mere 3 months old that has become the Cracker's constant companion. Specifically he's his fav-o-wit "bed fwend" which is what the Cracker has named all the stuffed animals he likes to sleep with. (Seriously, his idea, not ours, but it gives us a good chuckle.)
As far as the origin of the name Not-Bob, after dozens of nope-try-again-Moms I suggested Bob. Shaking his head in you-are-such-an-idiot disgust he informed me "No Mom! Bahb is not a horse! Bahb is a BUILDER!" But Not-Bob? Now that was a hilarious and perfect name in his humble opinion.
Insanely pleased with myself for coming up with the perfect gift, I took off the next day while the Cracker was in school to find a friend in town. (Must have instant gratification. And I don't want to pay shipping.) But to be just right, it couldn't be just any old stuffed horse, it had to be the same company, the same model. We need soft, and we need washable.
Ahh...the thrill of the chase! Just as I was getting started my mom called. When I told her about my quest she reminded me that they sell them at Barnes & Noble. Jackpot! Before I picked him up from school I had found a full-size friend at B&N and a mini-sized friend at our only locally owned toy store. Woo hoo! A family, and for just $14!
But, of course, it was bound to get out of hand. Nothing is ever simple when it comes to my mom and I, but luckily for me my intown shopping resources are very limited. My mom, however, just outside of San Francisco, could simply not help herself and bought two full-sized friends the same day. (No, she doesn't need a life...she has one: buying toys for the Cracker.) But before she could tell me, I was at home on the net where I was searching for more mini horses. Babies! Gotsta have at least one more baby! (And besides, they are only $5.99 = pretty harmless.) And of course I immediately fell in love with this little guy from Not-Bob's former home who we will eventually have to have. The but is that my itchy credit card finger refuses to pay $6.95 shipping (at least for now) for a $5.99 horse that weighs just ounces. And to justify it I start to think that maybe I should just buy two. This guy is awfully cute too, and the Cracker will delight in telling us over and over how he's a horse that looks like a cow, just like our neighbor's black and white spotted cat.
(Small inexpensive token is becoming collector status. But I've been good, so far.)
So I'm resisting and I'm resisting and I am actually able to keep a Christmas surprise a secret for once. (Other secrets = no problem. But if I have a Christmas gift that I am excited to give you? Really bad track record.) (And that would be my mom's fault. My paternal grandmother would send me my gift and my mother would encourage me to carefully slice the tape and open it the second I got home from school. Then she'd retape and remind me to act surprised in front of my Dad, who is no dummy but knew there was no stopping her.)
And then last night, right before bed, a sick little Cracker barfed. And because he was sick and sad and pathetic he had was clutching his best bud ever so tightly when it happened...
Not-Bob was sporting really stinky vomit.
Now really, what was I to do? It was late! And he was sick! And just as much as he needed to go to bed, Not-Bob need a bath or two or three. So I reached into the stash.
"I want Not-Bob!"
"I know you do honey, but he is sick too and he really needs a bath. But before he went into the washing machine he asked if you could do him a favor."
That stopped the crying. "Huh?"
"Not-Bob asked for your help."
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Not-Bob is not a weal horse. He's PRETEND. Oh, and horses don't talk. Horses NEIGH."
Stop being so damn smart and logical and go with me here. "He has a new friend who is very lonely and scared of the dark. Do you think you could let him sleep with you tonight?"
"Not-Bob has a fwend!"
"Of course he does! Would you like to meet him?"
And just as I'd hoped, the Cracker was instantly attached.
I rock.
"He needs a name you know. Can you think of a good name for him?"
"Hmmmm...hmmm.........let's see........ummmm......ummmmmm......ummmmm............NO."
"Okay, well, ummm...how about Charlie?"
"Chaw-wie? Chaw-wie! Yes! I love it!"
So without further ado I present you with Charlie
(And his still-a-secret posse)
The Cracker has now decided he wants more friends for Not-Bob and Charlie.
(Score.)
"Honey, we don't have anymore. Only one friend came to visit." (Hehehe!)
"Dats okay Mommy. I tell San O Cause, and San O Cause will come down! down! down! the fi-place and bwing Not-Bob and Chaw-wie more horse fwends. And San O Cause will eat cookies I make for him and Not-Bob and his lots of fwends will eat hay and apples. Oh, and cawwots too."
Damn I'm having fun.
(The only thing we planned on getting him was his very own copy of the controversial and banned And Tango Makes Three which I'm pretty sure won't be at our local library. And before you warn us of it's hidden political agenda that's the reason we're buying it.)
For those of you who haven't met him, Not-Bob is a stuffed horse I casually picked when we were visiting Colorado back when the Cracker was a mere 3 months old that has become the Cracker's constant companion. Specifically he's his fav-o-wit "bed fwend" which is what the Cracker has named all the stuffed animals he likes to sleep with. (Seriously, his idea, not ours, but it gives us a good chuckle.)
As far as the origin of the name Not-Bob, after dozens of nope-try-again-Moms I suggested Bob. Shaking his head in you-are-such-an-idiot disgust he informed me "No Mom! Bahb is not a horse! Bahb is a BUILDER!" But Not-Bob? Now that was a hilarious and perfect name in his humble opinion.
Insanely pleased with myself for coming up with the perfect gift, I took off the next day while the Cracker was in school to find a friend in town. (Must have instant gratification. And I don't want to pay shipping.) But to be just right, it couldn't be just any old stuffed horse, it had to be the same company, the same model. We need soft, and we need washable.
Ahh...the thrill of the chase! Just as I was getting started my mom called. When I told her about my quest she reminded me that they sell them at Barnes & Noble. Jackpot! Before I picked him up from school I had found a full-size friend at B&N and a mini-sized friend at our only locally owned toy store. Woo hoo! A family, and for just $14!
But, of course, it was bound to get out of hand. Nothing is ever simple when it comes to my mom and I, but luckily for me my intown shopping resources are very limited. My mom, however, just outside of San Francisco, could simply not help herself and bought two full-sized friends the same day. (No, she doesn't need a life...she has one: buying toys for the Cracker.) But before she could tell me, I was at home on the net where I was searching for more mini horses. Babies! Gotsta have at least one more baby! (And besides, they are only $5.99 = pretty harmless.) And of course I immediately fell in love with this little guy from Not-Bob's former home who we will eventually have to have. The but is that my itchy credit card finger refuses to pay $6.95 shipping (at least for now) for a $5.99 horse that weighs just ounces. And to justify it I start to think that maybe I should just buy two. This guy is awfully cute too, and the Cracker will delight in telling us over and over how he's a horse that looks like a cow, just like our neighbor's black and white spotted cat.
(Small inexpensive token is becoming collector status. But I've been good, so far.)
So I'm resisting and I'm resisting and I am actually able to keep a Christmas surprise a secret for once. (Other secrets = no problem. But if I have a Christmas gift that I am excited to give you? Really bad track record.) (And that would be my mom's fault. My paternal grandmother would send me my gift and my mother would encourage me to carefully slice the tape and open it the second I got home from school. Then she'd retape and remind me to act surprised in front of my Dad, who is no dummy but knew there was no stopping her.)
And then last night, right before bed, a sick little Cracker barfed. And because he was sick and sad and pathetic he had was clutching his best bud ever so tightly when it happened...
Not-Bob was sporting really stinky vomit.
Now really, what was I to do? It was late! And he was sick! And just as much as he needed to go to bed, Not-Bob need a bath or two or three. So I reached into the stash.
"I want Not-Bob!"
"I know you do honey, but he is sick too and he really needs a bath. But before he went into the washing machine he asked if you could do him a favor."
That stopped the crying. "Huh?"
"Not-Bob asked for your help."
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Not-Bob is not a weal horse. He's PRETEND. Oh, and horses don't talk. Horses NEIGH."
Stop being so damn smart and logical and go with me here. "He has a new friend who is very lonely and scared of the dark. Do you think you could let him sleep with you tonight?"
"Not-Bob has a fwend!"
"Of course he does! Would you like to meet him?"
And just as I'd hoped, the Cracker was instantly attached.
I rock.
"He needs a name you know. Can you think of a good name for him?"
"Hmmmm...hmmm.........let's see........ummmm......ummmmmm......ummmmm............NO."
"Okay, well, ummm...how about Charlie?"
"Chaw-wie? Chaw-wie! Yes! I love it!"
So without further ado I present you with Charlie
(And his still-a-secret posse)
The Cracker has now decided he wants more friends for Not-Bob and Charlie.
(Score.)
"Honey, we don't have anymore. Only one friend came to visit." (Hehehe!)
"Dats okay Mommy. I tell San O Cause, and San O Cause will come down! down! down! the fi-place and bwing Not-Bob and Chaw-wie more horse fwends. And San O Cause will eat cookies I make for him and Not-Bob and his lots of fwends will eat hay and apples. Oh, and cawwots too."
Damn I'm having fun.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Where Has the Time Gone?
Once in a blue moon when I'm tired and lazy but can't get myself into bed and feel like doing something yet nothing on the computer I go back and search for old pictures taken around this time a previous year. Now that the Cracker has been around a few years it's always quite the trip. It one of the few things that makes me feel old.
11.22.2003
11.22.2003
Monday, September 04, 2006
F.D.O.S.
First Day of School.
Tomorrow.
Yikes.
I'll admit it...I'm bummed. Preschool, even at two days a week, marks the end of an era.
School.
It's the beginning of an end, and if it weren't in his best interests, I wouldn't send him at all.
Yup, call me selfish. I couldn't care less. I'd rather have him with me.
I know I want more "me" time, but not like this.
(Crazy woman.)
No more waking up late, lazily eating breakfast, doing what ever the heck we feel like doing when ever the heck we feel like doing it.
God I hate schedules.
And what the heck will I do with myself? (Besides go to Starbucks.)
My baby is going to have an outside life, a life at school
That's really weird.
The biggest blow? In less than two short years it will be Kindergarten, full day Kindergarten. With uniforms (public school...we think it's weird and that it sux) and backpacks and lunchboxes. And eventually homework.
Yuck.
Where have the last 3 years and 5 months gone?
Tomorrow.
Yikes.
I'll admit it...I'm bummed. Preschool, even at two days a week, marks the end of an era.
School.
It's the beginning of an end, and if it weren't in his best interests, I wouldn't send him at all.
Yup, call me selfish. I couldn't care less. I'd rather have him with me.
I know I want more "me" time, but not like this.
(Crazy woman.)
No more waking up late, lazily eating breakfast, doing what ever the heck we feel like doing when ever the heck we feel like doing it.
God I hate schedules.
And what the heck will I do with myself? (Besides go to Starbucks.)
My baby is going to have an outside life, a life at school
That's really weird.
The biggest blow? In less than two short years it will be Kindergarten, full day Kindergarten. With uniforms (public school...we think it's weird and that it sux) and backpacks and lunchboxes. And eventually homework.
Yuck.
Where have the last 3 years and 5 months gone?
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
What else?
Cracker's First Halloween, 2003
7 months old
Of course he was a pumpkin!
(Costume Old Navy, but instead of the loose fitting black fleece body suit underneath I did white wiggle pants and long sleeve shirt from Baby Gap. That was just lame of them.)
Two things I remember:
1) He was obsessed with his shoe laces and wouldn't look at me (or the camera) and this is one of the few pictures where you could see his face. I also attempted to take pictures outside of Whole Foods with their pumpkins but after I took away his shoes he decided that hay was even more fascinating.*
2) I was really hoping that he wouldn't fall off the bench. I made more than one quick save that day.
Shoe laces and hay? Where has the time gone? Every time I turned around today he had his face planted in his food coming up only to say: "Mommymommymommy! Look me! I is a dog!" I dare you to try convincing him otherwise.
* Here's another which I call "Pissed Off Pumpkin" (He was a little ticked that Mommy had taken him into her arms away from the hay.)
7 months old
Of course he was a pumpkin!
(Costume Old Navy, but instead of the loose fitting black fleece body suit underneath I did white wiggle pants and long sleeve shirt from Baby Gap. That was just lame of them.)
Two things I remember:
1) He was obsessed with his shoe laces and wouldn't look at me (or the camera) and this is one of the few pictures where you could see his face. I also attempted to take pictures outside of Whole Foods with their pumpkins but after I took away his shoes he decided that hay was even more fascinating.*
2) I was really hoping that he wouldn't fall off the bench. I made more than one quick save that day.
Shoe laces and hay? Where has the time gone? Every time I turned around today he had his face planted in his food coming up only to say: "Mommymommymommy! Look me! I is a dog!" I dare you to try convincing him otherwise.
* Here's another which I call "Pissed Off Pumpkin" (He was a little ticked that Mommy had taken him into her arms away from the hay.)
Friday, July 14, 2006
The Whole Story, Part 2
I AM OKAY
(PNOers: mc ment)
One hot afternoon, June 8th to be exact, I was finishing up a post which included some details about my pregnancy with the Cracker. I suddenly felt a gush down there and lazily got up to go to the bathroom. Okay, my period, whatever. I took care of business and headed back to the computer.
But something wasn't right, and although I knew it immediatly, I couldn't be bothered. I wanted to finish the post before J got home.
Sparing you most of the gory details, of which believe you me there are many, here are the highlights:
I was miscarrying.
I had been pregnant.
I didn't know it.
But having BTDT before a few times, the pieces started to fall into place.
The sudden rebirth of the other Heidi? The fun, blogging version? Hormones.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
J was home now, and I'd already told him that I had just started to have the freakiest period ever.
Bit clots, none of the usual warning cramps which I always get, and zero bloating. In fact I’d been bloated for a month or two, and now it was suddenly gone. (A check of the scale later showed that the 10lbs I’d put on in the last two months and blamed on Costco’s Spinach Artichoke Parmesan dip had disappeared.) And a million more now ah ha signs that made sense now. (Trust me, there really is a lot I'm not sharing.) Period? Somewhere between 6 and 9 weeks late. Even if I hadn't been so busy being angry, I don't keep track: I've taken a million negative pregnancy tests in my life and I choose not to do that to myself anymore.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I started to wonder, could I have been pregnant? I asked J.
"Well, you've been acting like it for a while now."
He's always known before me; he's never been wrong.
As I finished up that post, I noticed that my shirt was soaked. Yeah, it was hot, but not that hot.
And then, in utter disbelief, I realized that my chest was gushing, spraying across the room gushing. Not colostrum, but milk.
I ran to J.
"Yeah, you've been leaking for weeks."
"What?!"
And it was at that point I knew, really knew. The milk thing? While that hadn't happened when I miscarried before, this was the first pregnancy since the Cracker, after breastfeeding for 18 months. And though he weaned himself cold turkey one day, I had never leaked. Not a drop. Ever. And J confirmed it.
I became hysterical. J tried to comfort me the best he could, but I needed a girlfriend, one who'd understand.
The Cracker was waking up from his nap. "I can't be a mom tonight, I just can't. I'm going to lock myself in the bedroom and call Nisa (my vibrator loving friend)."
I decided I needed my baby anyway. I let J do the dirty work, getting him to the potty, changing his wet Pull-up, but I had to see him.
Big fat tears.
"Mommy no sad. Happy Mommy!"
"That reminds me! Show Mommy your new trick, the happy sad one."
Runs off; comes back with a straw.
"He came up with it all on his own."
"See Mommy see?"
Bends the straw into a U. "HAPPY!"
Upside down now. "Sad. Happy! Sad. Happy! Sad. Happy!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'd always wondered how I'd react to another miscarriage now that I had a wonderful, perfect child in my arms. The depression I mentioned in my past? 100% due to the fact that we'd spent the first 3 years and 4.5 months of our marriage trying to get pregnant, finally suceeded, and then suffered a miscarriage.
Because everyone is always wondering, no, we didn't seek out help. We were dirt poor, couldn't afford to eat Ramen poor; we were young, 19 when we started trying. We had crappy mall jobs and were trying to make our way through college, with super crappy medical insurance. Even though we wanted a baby, we were foolishly following our hearts and we knew it. So we hid the fact from everyone, friends, family, while I did insane amounts of research. Herbs, positions, temperature tracking and ovulation kits... I know I'm forgetting something.
After that first miscarriage with J, I was so depressed that I dropped out of college, quit my job and just said screw it. J was about to graduate, had a great job waiting for him in Hell, which promised us a new life and a brighter financial future.
For the next 16 months I gave up on ttc. As much as I still longed to be a mom more than ever, I wasn't ready to face that kind of grief again. But, as we don't get pregnant just by looking at each other, we continued to go without birth control cause, heck, why bother?
I spent the first year in Hell goofing off, not working, just doing God-knows-what with my days. Three months in I finally decided I wanted a job, and my first interview was 9/11. (Yes, that 9/11.) All the interviews I had were cancelled immediately. No one was hiring. The first few weeks I watched CNN pretty much every waking hour, (just like the parents on South Park,) and then went back to who knows what. (Honestly, I couldn't tell you.) The following May I went back out there, found a job, and rejoined the world.
Job? Loved it. I was finally finding some happy.
Then, the Cracker, a total surprise. You know how people tell you when you can't get pregnant to stop stressing over it?
I hate those people.
And though I worried constantly, you know the happy ending.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So back to the recent past...I realized a few things:
1) This pregnancy was never meant to be.
Since the Cracker I've always said that if someone could have told me "Hey, you'll be a mom one day, it's just not time yet, so enjoy the moment and just be patient...it will happen when the time is right" that my life would have been very different. This was that sign. My hormones were way too out of whak, regardless of being pregnant. I couldn't sleep, at all. (Averaging one hour a night.) I couldn't eat. (Not nautious, not hungry, just zero interest in food.) My state of mind? Insane. (The divorce talk above.) Even with my other pregnancies, the ones that didn't bring home a Cracker, I had never been like this: I ate even though it made me sick, I slept every waking moment, and I never wanted to leave my husband.
1a) The sign: it can still happen. Enjoy the great life you have, it's fabulous! It’s just not time yet.
We resumed relations when he was 2, yes, 2 weeks old, and this was the first prenancy. And while I wasn't yet ready to start finding out the why and getting help (we think we know at least some of the reasons, but it has not been confirmed) I was starting to seriously wonder why it had not happened yet when we really weren't stressed. Another factor: the women in my family, gynologically speaking, mature early: menopause starts in the early 30s. My eggs...presumed old beyond my 28.5 years. At 12 I knew I wouldn’t be having kids at 40.
2) The reappearance of fun Heidi? Crazy, silly blogging Heidi? That was the whacky hormones.
This is why your recent wonderful comments have meant so much. She's there, and slowly I'm finding her again even though nature isn't helping anymore. Pathetic, but getting on to post again the first time after June 8th was hard. In just a short time I had readers, and now I was terrified of disappointing them. But now that I've found her I'm not letting go. Dammit...she's fun, and I like her! So that's who I'm learning to be all over again, because she is me. Shopping for vibrators with my SIL? That was after.
3) J is not an asshole. Marriage = still great.
Sure, he drives me crazy sometimes, and I of course return the favor, but it's nothing new. He's still the man I feel in love with. I didn't realize until a few days later when I felt my sanity return just how not myself I'd been. That's the whole "I changed" thing, the not being able to cope with life in part one.
4) Miscarriage, post Cracker? Still hard. Still sucks.
But flame me now, a whole heckofa lot easier than before. Even though that first night as I was looking into his eyes all I could see was the potential amazingness of another baby I would never get to know, and that was more devestating than I could have ever imagined, I had to move on. Don't get me wrong: I stayed up the whole night, crying, talking to Nisa (thank you), and then having lovely contractions when I thought I was finally too exhausted to cry anymore, but the next day I had to pull myself together for the Cracker's sake.
And I must say, one big thing for me, I never got a chance to get excited. It was already too late. This was key.
5) Officially (opposed to passively) trying to have another child will be hard for me.
Sure, we have more money now and decent medical insurance, but the reason we haven't gone down Why Road officially is because I'm not ready for the journey. It's not that I don't believe in medical intervention...I DO. I don't care how I have another child, IVF, adoption, whatever, I'm down with that. I just want to be a mom. But it will not be an easy, and right now I feel my energy is better focused on my baby.
6) I am not jealous of those who do get pregnant more easily.
Astonished? Yes. Riddled with anxiety for them when they announce it to the world the day before they miss their period? Yes. Jealous? I really don't think so... anymore.
I used to be.
One good example: when SIL, who also got married young, announced that they found themselves unexpectedly expecting my perfect nephew for their first wedding anniversary, oh I was green. But her charming husband was really an abuser, and while her doctor didn't want to scare her then, it turned out that her previously unexplained torture was endo. As soon as the placenta was out they were telling her "we didn't want to tell you while you were pregnant, but you need surgery. Now. The fact you got pregnant? Medically impossible." And now with the abuser gone, a really good guy and 7 year old I'm watching her struggle against the odds. More surgery, months trying to get her hormones under control, followed by 5 rounds of Clomid...my heart breaks for her. She is 27, and they've told her it's now or never. (See? Don't I feel like an ass now? She really did need that vibrator.)
One of my best friends, L, just shared with me her great news. Now that's a whole nother can of worms. In the future there may be a Part 3, but for now, I'm done.
I am okay. Really, I am.
(PNOers: mc ment)
One hot afternoon, June 8th to be exact, I was finishing up a post which included some details about my pregnancy with the Cracker. I suddenly felt a gush down there and lazily got up to go to the bathroom. Okay, my period, whatever. I took care of business and headed back to the computer.
But something wasn't right, and although I knew it immediatly, I couldn't be bothered. I wanted to finish the post before J got home.
Sparing you most of the gory details, of which believe you me there are many, here are the highlights:
I was miscarrying.
I had been pregnant.
I didn't know it.
But having BTDT before a few times, the pieces started to fall into place.
The sudden rebirth of the other Heidi? The fun, blogging version? Hormones.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
J was home now, and I'd already told him that I had just started to have the freakiest period ever.
Bit clots, none of the usual warning cramps which I always get, and zero bloating. In fact I’d been bloated for a month or two, and now it was suddenly gone. (A check of the scale later showed that the 10lbs I’d put on in the last two months and blamed on Costco’s Spinach Artichoke Parmesan dip had disappeared.) And a million more now ah ha signs that made sense now. (Trust me, there really is a lot I'm not sharing.) Period? Somewhere between 6 and 9 weeks late. Even if I hadn't been so busy being angry, I don't keep track: I've taken a million negative pregnancy tests in my life and I choose not to do that to myself anymore.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I started to wonder, could I have been pregnant? I asked J.
"Well, you've been acting like it for a while now."
He's always known before me; he's never been wrong.
As I finished up that post, I noticed that my shirt was soaked. Yeah, it was hot, but not that hot.
And then, in utter disbelief, I realized that my chest was gushing, spraying across the room gushing. Not colostrum, but milk.
I ran to J.
"Yeah, you've been leaking for weeks."
"What?!"
And it was at that point I knew, really knew. The milk thing? While that hadn't happened when I miscarried before, this was the first pregnancy since the Cracker, after breastfeeding for 18 months. And though he weaned himself cold turkey one day, I had never leaked. Not a drop. Ever. And J confirmed it.
I became hysterical. J tried to comfort me the best he could, but I needed a girlfriend, one who'd understand.
The Cracker was waking up from his nap. "I can't be a mom tonight, I just can't. I'm going to lock myself in the bedroom and call Nisa (my vibrator loving friend)."
I decided I needed my baby anyway. I let J do the dirty work, getting him to the potty, changing his wet Pull-up, but I had to see him.
Big fat tears.
"Mommy no sad. Happy Mommy!"
"That reminds me! Show Mommy your new trick, the happy sad one."
Runs off; comes back with a straw.
"He came up with it all on his own."
"See Mommy see?"
Bends the straw into a U. "HAPPY!"
Upside down now. "Sad. Happy! Sad. Happy! Sad. Happy!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'd always wondered how I'd react to another miscarriage now that I had a wonderful, perfect child in my arms. The depression I mentioned in my past? 100% due to the fact that we'd spent the first 3 years and 4.5 months of our marriage trying to get pregnant, finally suceeded, and then suffered a miscarriage.
Because everyone is always wondering, no, we didn't seek out help. We were dirt poor, couldn't afford to eat Ramen poor; we were young, 19 when we started trying. We had crappy mall jobs and were trying to make our way through college, with super crappy medical insurance. Even though we wanted a baby, we were foolishly following our hearts and we knew it. So we hid the fact from everyone, friends, family, while I did insane amounts of research. Herbs, positions, temperature tracking and ovulation kits... I know I'm forgetting something.
After that first miscarriage with J, I was so depressed that I dropped out of college, quit my job and just said screw it. J was about to graduate, had a great job waiting for him in Hell, which promised us a new life and a brighter financial future.
For the next 16 months I gave up on ttc. As much as I still longed to be a mom more than ever, I wasn't ready to face that kind of grief again. But, as we don't get pregnant just by looking at each other, we continued to go without birth control cause, heck, why bother?
I spent the first year in Hell goofing off, not working, just doing God-knows-what with my days. Three months in I finally decided I wanted a job, and my first interview was 9/11. (Yes, that 9/11.) All the interviews I had were cancelled immediately. No one was hiring. The first few weeks I watched CNN pretty much every waking hour, (just like the parents on South Park,) and then went back to who knows what. (Honestly, I couldn't tell you.) The following May I went back out there, found a job, and rejoined the world.
Job? Loved it. I was finally finding some happy.
Then, the Cracker, a total surprise. You know how people tell you when you can't get pregnant to stop stressing over it?
I hate those people.
And though I worried constantly, you know the happy ending.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So back to the recent past...I realized a few things:
1) This pregnancy was never meant to be.
Since the Cracker I've always said that if someone could have told me "Hey, you'll be a mom one day, it's just not time yet, so enjoy the moment and just be patient...it will happen when the time is right" that my life would have been very different. This was that sign. My hormones were way too out of whak, regardless of being pregnant. I couldn't sleep, at all. (Averaging one hour a night.) I couldn't eat. (Not nautious, not hungry, just zero interest in food.) My state of mind? Insane. (The divorce talk above.) Even with my other pregnancies, the ones that didn't bring home a Cracker, I had never been like this: I ate even though it made me sick, I slept every waking moment, and I never wanted to leave my husband.
1a) The sign: it can still happen. Enjoy the great life you have, it's fabulous! It’s just not time yet.
We resumed relations when he was 2, yes, 2 weeks old, and this was the first prenancy. And while I wasn't yet ready to start finding out the why and getting help (we think we know at least some of the reasons, but it has not been confirmed) I was starting to seriously wonder why it had not happened yet when we really weren't stressed. Another factor: the women in my family, gynologically speaking, mature early: menopause starts in the early 30s. My eggs...presumed old beyond my 28.5 years. At 12 I knew I wouldn’t be having kids at 40.
2) The reappearance of fun Heidi? Crazy, silly blogging Heidi? That was the whacky hormones.
This is why your recent wonderful comments have meant so much. She's there, and slowly I'm finding her again even though nature isn't helping anymore. Pathetic, but getting on to post again the first time after June 8th was hard. In just a short time I had readers, and now I was terrified of disappointing them. But now that I've found her I'm not letting go. Dammit...she's fun, and I like her! So that's who I'm learning to be all over again, because she is me. Shopping for vibrators with my SIL? That was after.
3) J is not an asshole. Marriage = still great.
Sure, he drives me crazy sometimes, and I of course return the favor, but it's nothing new. He's still the man I feel in love with. I didn't realize until a few days later when I felt my sanity return just how not myself I'd been. That's the whole "I changed" thing, the not being able to cope with life in part one.
4) Miscarriage, post Cracker? Still hard. Still sucks.
But flame me now, a whole heckofa lot easier than before. Even though that first night as I was looking into his eyes all I could see was the potential amazingness of another baby I would never get to know, and that was more devestating than I could have ever imagined, I had to move on. Don't get me wrong: I stayed up the whole night, crying, talking to Nisa (thank you), and then having lovely contractions when I thought I was finally too exhausted to cry anymore, but the next day I had to pull myself together for the Cracker's sake.
And I must say, one big thing for me, I never got a chance to get excited. It was already too late. This was key.
5) Officially (opposed to passively) trying to have another child will be hard for me.
Sure, we have more money now and decent medical insurance, but the reason we haven't gone down Why Road officially is because I'm not ready for the journey. It's not that I don't believe in medical intervention...I DO. I don't care how I have another child, IVF, adoption, whatever, I'm down with that. I just want to be a mom. But it will not be an easy, and right now I feel my energy is better focused on my baby.
6) I am not jealous of those who do get pregnant more easily.
Astonished? Yes. Riddled with anxiety for them when they announce it to the world the day before they miss their period? Yes. Jealous? I really don't think so... anymore.
I used to be.
One good example: when SIL, who also got married young, announced that they found themselves unexpectedly expecting my perfect nephew for their first wedding anniversary, oh I was green. But her charming husband was really an abuser, and while her doctor didn't want to scare her then, it turned out that her previously unexplained torture was endo. As soon as the placenta was out they were telling her "we didn't want to tell you while you were pregnant, but you need surgery. Now. The fact you got pregnant? Medically impossible." And now with the abuser gone, a really good guy and 7 year old I'm watching her struggle against the odds. More surgery, months trying to get her hormones under control, followed by 5 rounds of Clomid...my heart breaks for her. She is 27, and they've told her it's now or never. (See? Don't I feel like an ass now? She really did need that vibrator.)
One of my best friends, L, just shared with me her great news. Now that's a whole nother can of worms. In the future there may be a Part 3, but for now, I'm done.
I am okay. Really, I am.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I Want Credit
After reading SJ's lastest post, I decided to play the look how my baby's grown game. I have all pictures sorted rather anally by date, yes, the actual date taken, and then folderized by month and year.
There isn't much that I like about my body. Even back when I was a waif (but, of course, thought I was fat) at 5 foot 6, 115lbs and toned, I always had hips...big hips, and THIGHS. (No one ever looked at me and wondered "if she'll be able to get the baby out!" like they did with my SIL.) Throw in a freakishly big head (bigger even than my 285lb 6 foot 6 star football player exboyfriend), tiny ears (which are now the same size as Cracker's and he's 3), a tiny chest (32A pre-Cracker = shopping in the children's department to get any sort of selection), tiny wrists and fingers. The size of my first wedding ring? Four and a half.
I'm sorry...did you say curvy? Well, I wish I could too, but that would imply that I have more than one set of curves.
How disproportionate can one gal be? (Credit and shout out here to Karen who posted just the other day about her own body image issues.)
On the plus side, now that I weigh A LOT more, I have boobs. Which brings me to a tiny vent: Victoria's Secret sucks. (No link for them!) They never really carried 32A, so when my chest exploded after childbirth VS was my first stop for new bras. But, no, instead of being too small, now I was too big. They don't carry many D's, and certainly not 38DD's. And, of course, no nursing bras at all. Assholes.
And so, in RL, I am always hearing that the Cracker has J's eyes. Even when J is not around, perfect strangers compliment my child with "Wow, he has beautiful eyes! They must be his dad's because they certainly aren't yours! And those eyelashes! So wasted on a boy!" Okay, they both have these deep brown bedroom eyes compared to my freaky blue ones, but J gets credit for the whole darn area. And dammit, my best feature is my eyelashes. They are L-O-N-G. Sunglass shopping is impossible because I have the darndest time finding ones that my eyelashes don't hit every time I blink. Seriously, I shit you not. Mascara? Even if I wore makeup, my eyelashes are too thick.
SO HIS EYELASHES...THOSE SUCKERS ARE MINE. I GAVE THEM TO HIM. WHY? BECAUSE I LOVE HIM.*
Which finally brings me back to the look how my baby's grown game. Here are his eyelashes from July 4th last year. Believe you me, they are much more impressive in person, but so darn blond that only the darkest ones come out in the picture.
Trust me...they are fabulous, they are mine, and they just keep growing along with the rest of him.
*My mom says that I got my eyelashes from her love affair with chocolate. My dad would take her to HoJo's (as they tell it, nightly) and watch her eat chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and chocolate ice cream. Even though my natural hair color is *assumed* to be medium brown, my eyelashes are dark, black even. Now the Cracker's are blond... No obsessive amounts of chocolate here, but I did ingest insane amounts of cow, citrus, Jamoca milkshakes from Baskin Robbins and key lime cheesecake.
Which reminds me: you know how if the baby isn't moving you are supposed to eat an orange because the natural sugar (or whatever) will get them going? Yeah, I was eating 10+ a day and had to go in because he wouldn't STOP moving. Poor little guy was on a crazy orange induced buzz for more than a week before my midwife figured me out. Nobody was sleeping at our house: not me, not him, and not J, because I had to wake him up and complain. Why eat just one when you can eat an entire bag?
(The top two pictures are from October 2004, and yes, they were taken at Starbucks. Where else?)
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Parenting, Part 2
GIVE YOUR BABY A HUG
My parents are here, and last night they took the Cracker back with them to their hotel room for his first sleepover. Yes, his first night away from us...ever.
That morning, I had gotten on the 2am-know-it-all-Mommy forum and followed a link to a heartbreaking Caringbridge site. It seems that one family had lost two babies in less than a year to a horrific, incurable genetic disease. Shortly after the death of their son, who if I remember correctly didn't reach his second birthday, they learned that their infant daughter would suffer the same fate. Late last week she too passed away, at just 15 months old.
I read their entire journal, and then the journal of another little boy they referenced, who was just a few months younger than my own Cracker. He died in late June from brain cancer.
The fact that I read these kinds of things that keep me near tears all day long astonishes J. "Why do that to yourself?" I can't explain it. I wish I could just turn my back and forget that such heartbreak exists. But I can't.
While there are many people I love deeply, people I fear losing, there is only one person without whom I'm pretty sure I could not go on: my little Cracker.
This parenting thing is just so hard sometimes. Maybe it's because I'm not religious but take on more of a hippy "the universe" sort of attitude, but the loss of a child, anyone's child, is something that my heart will never understand.
And so all day long I dreaded handing over the Cracker to my parents for the night. There is no one I trust with his life more than them, but it just didn't feel like the best day to not have him close. KWIM?
Really, the motivation behind the whole sleepover was not to get a big break from parenting, just to sleep in. Yes, to awake to absolute silence.
Sad, huh?
J and I often joke about the fact that we can't remember anymore what is must have been like, to wake up late on weekends without any responsibility. This morning, as the Cracker started the day in the capable hands of my own parents, I realized why: we never did.
THE FRIGGIN CATS WOKE US UP. It's all coming back to me now.
Of course, the Cracker had a fabulous time. My mom, who is constantly on the search for cool new toys, pulled the impossible. She gave him a new big rig, a (Union 76) gas guck, which he LOVED. And then after examining the packaging that pictured more from the same series, he told her, "Nana, me need dis (Shell) wellow gas guck too." And she'd already bought it, so out it too came from her magic stash. Amazing how she does that. I just wonder what went through his little head when that one worked.
And because she is much more refreshed than I am, she and my dad came up with the perfect solution to the Cracker's constant desire to bathe his trucks in waber wif bubbles and soap. They took a styrofoam cup, tore off the end, and called it a drive thru truck wash. They even had sound effects. Delightfully simple!
What is wrong with me? I used to have ideas like that too.
So here's my deal, what I'm trying to say, but too tired to say without all the preceding mumbo jumbo: I have mommy guilt. I can't spoil him without spoiling him. We can't have cold pizza for breakfast every morning, even if I am craving it too. You love them so much and want to make them happy every moment of the day, but it's impossible. A lot of the time the answer is no, period. They don't understand why. Then they're aggravated, and eventually you are too, but in the long run it's just what has to be done. But in the back of your mind, you can't help but think that life is sometimes too short, and that you need to enjoy the journey more. If you knew that this was your last day, you'd have pizza dammit. And you'd go to the toy store and wipe out your bank account, skip the nap and party all night long powered by the sugar of chocolate donuts.
Finding the balance is what's hard.
So instead I try to live vicariously through my own parents. They buy the toys; I buy most of the clothes. They take him on the carousel at the mall, while we pass it by. They let him stay up until 1am, while we adhere to a 9pm bedtime.
Even though I hate myself for it, I do get annoyed over the stupidest little things he does. I know his intent is never to upset me in any way, it's just that his way is more fun. And then I see the sadness in his little eyes because he knows what I'm feeling, and then I feel lower than low for making him think that he is anything less than perfect. He is perfect. I am the one who is flawed.
And even though I am so much less fun and I am often disgusted with myself, he still loves me for who I am.
I admire him so much. I hope that someday he knows that.
My parents are here, and last night they took the Cracker back with them to their hotel room for his first sleepover. Yes, his first night away from us...ever.
That morning, I had gotten on the 2am-know-it-all-Mommy forum and followed a link to a heartbreaking Caringbridge site. It seems that one family had lost two babies in less than a year to a horrific, incurable genetic disease. Shortly after the death of their son, who if I remember correctly didn't reach his second birthday, they learned that their infant daughter would suffer the same fate. Late last week she too passed away, at just 15 months old.
I read their entire journal, and then the journal of another little boy they referenced, who was just a few months younger than my own Cracker. He died in late June from brain cancer.
The fact that I read these kinds of things that keep me near tears all day long astonishes J. "Why do that to yourself?" I can't explain it. I wish I could just turn my back and forget that such heartbreak exists. But I can't.
While there are many people I love deeply, people I fear losing, there is only one person without whom I'm pretty sure I could not go on: my little Cracker.
This parenting thing is just so hard sometimes. Maybe it's because I'm not religious but take on more of a hippy "the universe" sort of attitude, but the loss of a child, anyone's child, is something that my heart will never understand.
And so all day long I dreaded handing over the Cracker to my parents for the night. There is no one I trust with his life more than them, but it just didn't feel like the best day to not have him close. KWIM?
Really, the motivation behind the whole sleepover was not to get a big break from parenting, just to sleep in. Yes, to awake to absolute silence.
Sad, huh?
J and I often joke about the fact that we can't remember anymore what is must have been like, to wake up late on weekends without any responsibility. This morning, as the Cracker started the day in the capable hands of my own parents, I realized why: we never did.
THE FRIGGIN CATS WOKE US UP. It's all coming back to me now.
Of course, the Cracker had a fabulous time. My mom, who is constantly on the search for cool new toys, pulled the impossible. She gave him a new big rig, a (Union 76) gas guck, which he LOVED. And then after examining the packaging that pictured more from the same series, he told her, "Nana, me need dis (Shell) wellow gas guck too." And she'd already bought it, so out it too came from her magic stash. Amazing how she does that. I just wonder what went through his little head when that one worked.
And because she is much more refreshed than I am, she and my dad came up with the perfect solution to the Cracker's constant desire to bathe his trucks in waber wif bubbles and soap. They took a styrofoam cup, tore off the end, and called it a drive thru truck wash. They even had sound effects. Delightfully simple!
What is wrong with me? I used to have ideas like that too.
So here's my deal, what I'm trying to say, but too tired to say without all the preceding mumbo jumbo: I have mommy guilt. I can't spoil him without spoiling him. We can't have cold pizza for breakfast every morning, even if I am craving it too. You love them so much and want to make them happy every moment of the day, but it's impossible. A lot of the time the answer is no, period. They don't understand why. Then they're aggravated, and eventually you are too, but in the long run it's just what has to be done. But in the back of your mind, you can't help but think that life is sometimes too short, and that you need to enjoy the journey more. If you knew that this was your last day, you'd have pizza dammit. And you'd go to the toy store and wipe out your bank account, skip the nap and party all night long powered by the sugar of chocolate donuts.
Finding the balance is what's hard.
So instead I try to live vicariously through my own parents. They buy the toys; I buy most of the clothes. They take him on the carousel at the mall, while we pass it by. They let him stay up until 1am, while we adhere to a 9pm bedtime.
Even though I hate myself for it, I do get annoyed over the stupidest little things he does. I know his intent is never to upset me in any way, it's just that his way is more fun. And then I see the sadness in his little eyes because he knows what I'm feeling, and then I feel lower than low for making him think that he is anything less than perfect. He is perfect. I am the one who is flawed.
And even though I am so much less fun and I am often disgusted with myself, he still loves me for who I am.
I admire him so much. I hope that someday he knows that.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
I am Hippie Chic
(Turns out that the technical problems Blogger has been experiencing the last few days are ongoing, so I can’t get in to finish my almost done posts…again. So instead let me start another!)
As I mentioned earlier, LLL is Western state #4 during our pilgrimage though out the Western US. We moved here from Hell, also located in the Southwest, when I was 7 months pregnant with the Cracker.
Back in Hell, I had a regular OB/GYN. A young, professional, petite woman who I loved because she always let me stay late to ask really stupid questions. A fifteen minute check up was actually closer to an hour, every time. She never rushed me, and treated each concern as a legitimate one. What a gal! Guess that’s why my 4 o’clock appointment never actually started before 5:30. But she was totally worth the wait, and her lobby had some kick ass mags too.
Our first meeting, around 8 weeks, was by far the most fun. We were going to do an ultrasound! Woo hoo!
I lift up my shirt to expose my rock hard abs. “Oh no,” she said. “This is going to be a vaginal scan.”
WTF?
She takes out a friggin dildo and starts to lube it up. My jaw is on the ground. The panties are coming down.
What? Why? Wait…
“The baby is still too small for an abdominal ultrasound. This will provide us with the best view.”
J is dying. Dy-ing. He can’t resist. “That thing doesn’t vibrate or light up does it? You aren’t going to make me jealous?”
Either she’d heard that one too many times before or was totally lacking any stirrup side humor, but the chick didn’t even flinch.
“Are you ready?”
“Ummm...”
And there went the dildo, up my nether regions.
The next ultrasound didn’t go much better. In fact, it was a lot worse. She started out as usual by asking me “how are you feeling?” which, of course, is what any OB/GYN would do. But this was THE appointment, the much anticipated was a penis or a vagina growing inside of me? appointment, and I was there WITHOUT J. I lost it.
What did this amazing woman do? The woman who couldn’t even crack a wry smile at J’s solution to lightening up an uncomfortable situation? She held me…for AN HOUR. She nodded and handed me tissues as I blubbered uncontrollably between sobs.
Between the vaginal ultrasound and now this…I was in love.
J had just moved to LLL, without me. Everyone knew layoffs were coming, but details were, as always, unavailable. But because he was such a good guy, a stellar employee and expecting his first child, someone high up told him that while he didn’t know for sure, he guessed that because J was still fairly new, this time his name was going to be on the list. This wonderful soul also told him that there was an opening in LLL, a better position even, and that J might be able to qualify even though he was still just a babe in his career. J received this information Tuesday, went in and officially applied Wednesday after we’d had the chance to talk, interviewed Thursday, and moved to LLL Saturday. Because everything happened so quickly, I had to stay behind in Hell to get our affairs in order, coordinate the out-of-state move with J’s company, and quit my own job.
I had to go to my ultrasound alone.
Two months later I joined J. Other than one other incident*, I was just fine by myself. J’s company flew him home every Friday night, and he’d go back Sunday afternoon. I had a bunch of wannabe grannies at work who took care of me 5 days a week, J’s mom** in town, and a few friends. I enjoyed the excuse to eat out, and spent the rest of my time dreaming.
When I got pregnant with the Cracker I was in the best shape of my life. My job was basically an excuse to work out 40 hours/week and get paid for it, or at least that’s what it became when they saw I was willing to help out with the heavy lifting. It was the only time in my life that I had a flat stomach, abs to kill, and girly muscles in all the right places. After the first month of it kicking my ass, I became Wonder Woman.
Being unfamiliar with the inside of a gym, the transformation my body made was as much a surprise to me as what happened during pregnancy.
One day, before we learned that J’s boys could swim, I was sitting on the side of our apartment’s pool, swishing my legs around in the water. Suddenly I noticed that there were these weird hard swollen spots on my legs, especially when I tensed a muscle.
“J, look at me! Eew…what the hell is that? Do you see my leg?”
“What?”
“Look, just look!” I tensed my leg.
“Honey, those are muscles.”
“No! No? Really? They’re gross.”
But then I got pregnant with the Cracker. The guys at work who I was lifting with started freaking out if I even dared to reach for a friggin paperclip. These were the same guys that when I’d ask for help with a 200lb marble table top would yell back “don’t be a pussy!” and continue on with their “So I was pounding her in the ass…” story until I went over there and threatened to pound their ass in an entirely different kind of way. I loved the attention they lavished upon me, but it was sometimes annoying.
The wannabe grannies? They quickly figured out that the Cracker really really liked key lime cheesecake. (Honestly, what I wanted was a nap, but I was along for the ride.) And as luck would have it, the employee entrance to my place of employment in Hell was 10 feet from the front entrance of a Cheesecake Factory. Five days a week, before I could even haul my sorry ass over there, these women would coordinate their lunches so that they could get there first and bring it back to me. All I had to do was sit down in the lunchroom, napkin tucked into my collar, and remind them to bring a fork.
Rock hard abs…gone. Ass…growing faster than the baby.
When I arrived in LLL, my hippie chic self was ready to find a new OB/GYN, one who would be hopefully in the same state when the Cracker decided to make his entrance. But in LLL it’s all about the midwives. “That just won’t do!” I told every practice over the phone. Click. I was used to an OB dammit, and only that would do.
Midwife it was.
As I finished my pregnancy, I grew to see that midwives are not the cheap alternative. For me they were actually much better! Women who know women and have BTDT. And so for my next pregnancy I will happily call my midwife and catch up on old times while she brings does what my dear husband can only dream of.
I know what you’re thinking. WTF? What about the DMV? Everyone loves a good DMV story!
Yeah, that’s still not solved. I threw Cracker in front of the TV this morning because DMV business can only be conducted Monday through Friday 10-5. There was no other alternative, like waiting until his nap, because these mo fo’s never pick up after 3. I made a million calls TO THE CAPITAL which meant entering the longest calling card pin that money can buy a gazillion times because I had already learned my lesson last month. Calling out of state? Reasonable. Calling long distance in-state? To the CAPITAL which is only 45 minutes away? A one minute call at 15 cents/minute turned out to be $4.26 with tax. No shit. Fucking Qwest.
Anyway, I check my email while I’m on hold.
Another funny from my dad! Sweet.
One of his best friends has unintentionally raised the hippiest daughter ever. How hippie? She doesn’t believe in diapers, AT ALL. Not just the kind that I use that are killing the planet; even the cloth ones.
“Oh” you’re thinking, “she’s potty training.”
No.
A few months ago she and her 1 year old son came to live with my dad’s friend for some reason I don’t recall at the moment. My dad’s friend and his wife, her mother, were horrified. Their beloved grandchild was running around the house 24/7 peeing and dumping everywhere. And she was pregnant, and didn’t really feel all that inclined to clean up after him. So these wonderful grandparents, who wanted to make sure she felt welcome, went out and bought diapers.
“Yeah, we don’t really like diapers. They seem uncomfortable. He’s fine!”
What the heck do they say to her? She’s pregnant. They love her. And they want to remain in contact with her and her soon to be 2 children.
Anyway, she just had number two, and grandpa has a sense of humor. Names and locations have been replaced to protect their identity.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Email title: “Don’t Try This at Home, Folks”
Well folks…a bit of news.
Last night my #2 daughter XX and her husband XY gave birth to their 2nd child, a baby girl.
Previously they had decided on a "modern" birth-- midwife (who lives in another town) to deliver at the birthing center in another city. (As opposed to a nice safe hospital name nearby.)
Evidently, they decided to go for an "ultra-modern" process and had the baby AT HOME with XY delivering (showing up Brad Pitt who was scared "shitless" sitting in medical facility sipping oxygen during his baby's birth).
Anyhow, they avoided having to arrange for baby sitting for their firstborn who slept through the event, they also avoided the high cost of gasoline not to mention the bridge toll.
Just 5 days ago their very wise mid-wives had given XY and XX an emergency delivery kit in case they could not make it across the bridge in time.
XX called us last night around 2:00 am while awaiting the arrival of the mid-wife and passed the news to her sister's name omitted. According to sister’s name, her parting words were:
"I've got to go, now the placenta is coming………….. XY!!!!"
Any wonder that what little hair I have left is all gray??
Weight = a good weight
Length = seems normal
Time of birth= last night
Gender = female
Name = who knows
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote back right away. “Dad, don’t worry. I may like midwives, but you won't be getting a call like that from me.” He was probably at least a little relieved.
You see, in LLL, J and I are everyone’s "hippie" friends, just because there aren’t any real honest to goodness hippies here.
A very good friend, my vibrator loving friend in fact, is the one who came up with the term hippie chic, just for moi. I have some of the politics, the ugly comfy shoe fetish, but I still buy my clothes at Target, the Gap and Old Navy. NO REAL HIPPIE WOULD EVER SHOP THERE.
*That a whole ‘nother story, that believe it or not, I am not going to share right now.
**I do like my MIL, but we are not close. She and J = even less close. It got to the point that I was terrified to even do my errands in Hell because SHE LIVED A MILE AWAY FROM US and she still didn't know I was pregnant. We just never saw her, and I had told J he was going to be the one to break the news. So here I am, running around 6 months pregnant, shopping at the same Costco, the same Target as her, and she didn't know. We joked that he'd tell her when we decided to move. Hell was never meant to be permanent, and we knew that even before moving there. But that was really what happened in the end. We suck. "Hi, I'm seven months pregnant. It's a boy BTW, and we're moving to LLL. J is already there. How've you been doing?" I wish it weren't true.
As I mentioned earlier, LLL is Western state #4 during our pilgrimage though out the Western US. We moved here from Hell, also located in the Southwest, when I was 7 months pregnant with the Cracker.
Back in Hell, I had a regular OB/GYN. A young, professional, petite woman who I loved because she always let me stay late to ask really stupid questions. A fifteen minute check up was actually closer to an hour, every time. She never rushed me, and treated each concern as a legitimate one. What a gal! Guess that’s why my 4 o’clock appointment never actually started before 5:30. But she was totally worth the wait, and her lobby had some kick ass mags too.
Our first meeting, around 8 weeks, was by far the most fun. We were going to do an ultrasound! Woo hoo!
I lift up my shirt to expose my rock hard abs. “Oh no,” she said. “This is going to be a vaginal scan.”
WTF?
She takes out a friggin dildo and starts to lube it up. My jaw is on the ground. The panties are coming down.
What? Why? Wait…
“The baby is still too small for an abdominal ultrasound. This will provide us with the best view.”
J is dying. Dy-ing. He can’t resist. “That thing doesn’t vibrate or light up does it? You aren’t going to make me jealous?”
Either she’d heard that one too many times before or was totally lacking any stirrup side humor, but the chick didn’t even flinch.
“Are you ready?”
“Ummm...”
And there went the dildo, up my nether regions.
The next ultrasound didn’t go much better. In fact, it was a lot worse. She started out as usual by asking me “how are you feeling?” which, of course, is what any OB/GYN would do. But this was THE appointment, the much anticipated was a penis or a vagina growing inside of me? appointment, and I was there WITHOUT J. I lost it.
What did this amazing woman do? The woman who couldn’t even crack a wry smile at J’s solution to lightening up an uncomfortable situation? She held me…for AN HOUR. She nodded and handed me tissues as I blubbered uncontrollably between sobs.
Between the vaginal ultrasound and now this…I was in love.
J had just moved to LLL, without me. Everyone knew layoffs were coming, but details were, as always, unavailable. But because he was such a good guy, a stellar employee and expecting his first child, someone high up told him that while he didn’t know for sure, he guessed that because J was still fairly new, this time his name was going to be on the list. This wonderful soul also told him that there was an opening in LLL, a better position even, and that J might be able to qualify even though he was still just a babe in his career. J received this information Tuesday, went in and officially applied Wednesday after we’d had the chance to talk, interviewed Thursday, and moved to LLL Saturday. Because everything happened so quickly, I had to stay behind in Hell to get our affairs in order, coordinate the out-of-state move with J’s company, and quit my own job.
I had to go to my ultrasound alone.
Two months later I joined J. Other than one other incident*, I was just fine by myself. J’s company flew him home every Friday night, and he’d go back Sunday afternoon. I had a bunch of wannabe grannies at work who took care of me 5 days a week, J’s mom** in town, and a few friends. I enjoyed the excuse to eat out, and spent the rest of my time dreaming.
When I got pregnant with the Cracker I was in the best shape of my life. My job was basically an excuse to work out 40 hours/week and get paid for it, or at least that’s what it became when they saw I was willing to help out with the heavy lifting. It was the only time in my life that I had a flat stomach, abs to kill, and girly muscles in all the right places. After the first month of it kicking my ass, I became Wonder Woman.
Being unfamiliar with the inside of a gym, the transformation my body made was as much a surprise to me as what happened during pregnancy.
One day, before we learned that J’s boys could swim, I was sitting on the side of our apartment’s pool, swishing my legs around in the water. Suddenly I noticed that there were these weird hard swollen spots on my legs, especially when I tensed a muscle.
“J, look at me! Eew…what the hell is that? Do you see my leg?”
“What?”
“Look, just look!” I tensed my leg.
“Honey, those are muscles.”
“No! No? Really? They’re gross.”
But then I got pregnant with the Cracker. The guys at work who I was lifting with started freaking out if I even dared to reach for a friggin paperclip. These were the same guys that when I’d ask for help with a 200lb marble table top would yell back “don’t be a pussy!” and continue on with their “So I was pounding her in the ass…” story until I went over there and threatened to pound their ass in an entirely different kind of way. I loved the attention they lavished upon me, but it was sometimes annoying.
The wannabe grannies? They quickly figured out that the Cracker really really liked key lime cheesecake. (Honestly, what I wanted was a nap, but I was along for the ride.) And as luck would have it, the employee entrance to my place of employment in Hell was 10 feet from the front entrance of a Cheesecake Factory. Five days a week, before I could even haul my sorry ass over there, these women would coordinate their lunches so that they could get there first and bring it back to me. All I had to do was sit down in the lunchroom, napkin tucked into my collar, and remind them to bring a fork.
Rock hard abs…gone. Ass…growing faster than the baby.
When I arrived in LLL, my hippie chic self was ready to find a new OB/GYN, one who would be hopefully in the same state when the Cracker decided to make his entrance. But in LLL it’s all about the midwives. “That just won’t do!” I told every practice over the phone. Click. I was used to an OB dammit, and only that would do.
Midwife it was.
As I finished my pregnancy, I grew to see that midwives are not the cheap alternative. For me they were actually much better! Women who know women and have BTDT. And so for my next pregnancy I will happily call my midwife and catch up on old times while she brings does what my dear husband can only dream of.
I know what you’re thinking. WTF? What about the DMV? Everyone loves a good DMV story!
Yeah, that’s still not solved. I threw Cracker in front of the TV this morning because DMV business can only be conducted Monday through Friday 10-5. There was no other alternative, like waiting until his nap, because these mo fo’s never pick up after 3. I made a million calls TO THE CAPITAL which meant entering the longest calling card pin that money can buy a gazillion times because I had already learned my lesson last month. Calling out of state? Reasonable. Calling long distance in-state? To the CAPITAL which is only 45 minutes away? A one minute call at 15 cents/minute turned out to be $4.26 with tax. No shit. Fucking Qwest.
Anyway, I check my email while I’m on hold.
Another funny from my dad! Sweet.
One of his best friends has unintentionally raised the hippiest daughter ever. How hippie? She doesn’t believe in diapers, AT ALL. Not just the kind that I use that are killing the planet; even the cloth ones.
“Oh” you’re thinking, “she’s potty training.”
No.
A few months ago she and her 1 year old son came to live with my dad’s friend for some reason I don’t recall at the moment. My dad’s friend and his wife, her mother, were horrified. Their beloved grandchild was running around the house 24/7 peeing and dumping everywhere. And she was pregnant, and didn’t really feel all that inclined to clean up after him. So these wonderful grandparents, who wanted to make sure she felt welcome, went out and bought diapers.
“Yeah, we don’t really like diapers. They seem uncomfortable. He’s fine!”
What the heck do they say to her? She’s pregnant. They love her. And they want to remain in contact with her and her soon to be 2 children.
Anyway, she just had number two, and grandpa has a sense of humor. Names and locations have been replaced to protect their identity.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Email title: “Don’t Try This at Home, Folks”
Well folks…a bit of news.
Last night my #2 daughter XX and her husband XY gave birth to their 2nd child, a baby girl.
Previously they had decided on a "modern" birth-- midwife (who lives in another town) to deliver at the birthing center in another city. (As opposed to a nice safe hospital name nearby.)
Evidently, they decided to go for an "ultra-modern" process and had the baby AT HOME with XY delivering (showing up Brad Pitt who was scared "shitless" sitting in medical facility sipping oxygen during his baby's birth).
Anyhow, they avoided having to arrange for baby sitting for their firstborn who slept through the event, they also avoided the high cost of gasoline not to mention the bridge toll.
Just 5 days ago their very wise mid-wives had given XY and XX an emergency delivery kit in case they could not make it across the bridge in time.
XX called us last night around 2:00 am while awaiting the arrival of the mid-wife and passed the news to her sister's name omitted. According to sister’s name, her parting words were:
"I've got to go, now the placenta is coming………….. XY!!!!"
Any wonder that what little hair I have left is all gray??
Weight = a good weight
Length = seems normal
Time of birth= last night
Gender = female
Name = who knows
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote back right away. “Dad, don’t worry. I may like midwives, but you won't be getting a call like that from me.” He was probably at least a little relieved.
You see, in LLL, J and I are everyone’s "hippie" friends, just because there aren’t any real honest to goodness hippies here.
A very good friend, my vibrator loving friend in fact, is the one who came up with the term hippie chic, just for moi. I have some of the politics, the ugly comfy shoe fetish, but I still buy my clothes at Target, the Gap and Old Navy. NO REAL HIPPIE WOULD EVER SHOP THERE.
*That a whole ‘nother story, that believe it or not, I am not going to share right now.
**I do like my MIL, but we are not close. She and J = even less close. It got to the point that I was terrified to even do my errands in Hell because SHE LIVED A MILE AWAY FROM US and she still didn't know I was pregnant. We just never saw her, and I had told J he was going to be the one to break the news. So here I am, running around 6 months pregnant, shopping at the same Costco, the same Target as her, and she didn't know. We joked that he'd tell her when we decided to move. Hell was never meant to be permanent, and we knew that even before moving there. But that was really what happened in the end. We suck. "Hi, I'm seven months pregnant. It's a boy BTW, and we're moving to LLL. J is already there. How've you been doing?" I wish it weren't true.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Why me? Part One
This morning Cracker woke up on the wrong side of the crib. Nothing usual these days, right? No, today was different. Today he was my little boy again, 2 instead of 3. He wasn't pissed at me or even the world. This is the kind of day where I know what to expect. This is the kind of day that I know how to handle. It's going to be lots of hugs, kisses, gentle words, cuddling with his favorite blankie while I hold him like a baby and gently stroke his hair. Today, you see, the universe has been plotting against him, and nothing is going to go his way. Today everything is TRAGIC.
When tragedy strikes, the scene plays out in slow motion: first his face falls, then it falls some more. A little pout emerges; his lower lip begins to quiver. A sad little hiccup of a cry escapes and big, fat tears start silently rolling down his cheeks. The sadness in his eyes deepens and his face scrunches up until his lids are completely shut. A series of tiny sobs follows, bringing with them the commencement of audible crying. The rest of his body follows, shoulders hunch inwards, back folds over and he melts into this little ball of a guy. Why me?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up perfectly happy. We go pee, flush, wash hands and he's off to the playroom to make sure we haven't sold his toys on Ebay. Nope, everything is just as it should be. He grabs a truck and continues to the kitchen to grab a cup of water I always leave for him on his high chair. Except this morning I forgot to fill it. Oh, the pain! The world has run out of water.
Tragedy has struck.
As soon as he calms down, he finds the courage for breakfast. He wants a welwoh spoon for his yogurt because welwoh is one of his newest words. They are both dirty. (Because I'm nuts I don't trust hand washing. Everything must go in the dishwasher, case closed.) Green, red and two separate hues of blue just won’t do.
Tragic.
We sit through 35 minutes of Sesame Street for Elmo’s World to come on, but it’s a repeat from one of his videos.
Tragic.
It actually rains (very uncommon here) but it’s way too windy to go out and dance like hippies in the driveway for all the neighborhood to see. (And there's lightening too, so hell no.)
Tragic.
We have an accident.
Tragic.
He wants to wear his favorite Matchbox fire truck underwear (that have been discontinued so I can’t get another pair though lord knows I’ve tried) but I didn’t have a chance to wash them after a poo explosion last night.
Will it ever end? My poor baby, he's only been up two hours.
But like I said, dealing with tragedy is something I'm good at. It doesn't drive me nuts like a tantrum or plain ol' defiance. You just can't get angry when tragedy strikes. It's just too darn sad. So you stay at home, have a quiet, low profile day and try to make the best of it. No trips to the park...he'll fall within 5 minutes and then want to leave. You don't go anywhere where you might be tempted to buy him some big new toy or a dozen ice cream cones just to see one little smile, because honestly, that will just go South too. The toy will break. The ice cream will be dropped, yes, all 12 times. There's just nothing you can do.
But today we can't stay home. WE HAVE TO GO TO THE DMV TODAY. Grrrrrreat.
(Part 2, dealing with the DMV, I'll write tomorrow. I'm drained. I'm going to go soak in my big tub with an assload of bubbles and hit the sack early. Good night.)
When tragedy strikes, the scene plays out in slow motion: first his face falls, then it falls some more. A little pout emerges; his lower lip begins to quiver. A sad little hiccup of a cry escapes and big, fat tears start silently rolling down his cheeks. The sadness in his eyes deepens and his face scrunches up until his lids are completely shut. A series of tiny sobs follows, bringing with them the commencement of audible crying. The rest of his body follows, shoulders hunch inwards, back folds over and he melts into this little ball of a guy. Why me?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He wakes up perfectly happy. We go pee, flush, wash hands and he's off to the playroom to make sure we haven't sold his toys on Ebay. Nope, everything is just as it should be. He grabs a truck and continues to the kitchen to grab a cup of water I always leave for him on his high chair. Except this morning I forgot to fill it. Oh, the pain! The world has run out of water.
Tragedy has struck.
As soon as he calms down, he finds the courage for breakfast. He wants a welwoh spoon for his yogurt because welwoh is one of his newest words. They are both dirty. (Because I'm nuts I don't trust hand washing. Everything must go in the dishwasher, case closed.) Green, red and two separate hues of blue just won’t do.
Tragic.
We sit through 35 minutes of Sesame Street for Elmo’s World to come on, but it’s a repeat from one of his videos.
Tragic.
It actually rains (very uncommon here) but it’s way too windy to go out and dance like hippies in the driveway for all the neighborhood to see. (And there's lightening too, so hell no.)
Tragic.
We have an accident.
Tragic.
He wants to wear his favorite Matchbox fire truck underwear (that have been discontinued so I can’t get another pair though lord knows I’ve tried) but I didn’t have a chance to wash them after a poo explosion last night.
Will it ever end? My poor baby, he's only been up two hours.
But like I said, dealing with tragedy is something I'm good at. It doesn't drive me nuts like a tantrum or plain ol' defiance. You just can't get angry when tragedy strikes. It's just too darn sad. So you stay at home, have a quiet, low profile day and try to make the best of it. No trips to the park...he'll fall within 5 minutes and then want to leave. You don't go anywhere where you might be tempted to buy him some big new toy or a dozen ice cream cones just to see one little smile, because honestly, that will just go South too. The toy will break. The ice cream will be dropped, yes, all 12 times. There's just nothing you can do.
But today we can't stay home. WE HAVE TO GO TO THE DMV TODAY. Grrrrrreat.
(Part 2, dealing with the DMV, I'll write tomorrow. I'm drained. I'm going to go soak in my big tub with an assload of bubbles and hit the sack early. Good night.)
Friday, June 02, 2006
Parenting
PART ONE IN WHAT IS BOUND TO BECOME A SERIES
(The real post is down below, I just had to blabber a little first.)
In case you can't tell, I've been a little whacko lately. J is stressed at work, and I am stressed at home = not the best combination. No, we're not fighting, just emotionally and physically exhausted.
A really BIG BOSS came to town, and this was only the second time they'd met. Their first meeting had been during a massive reorganization, complete with job reassignments for everyone and even a few layoffs. J is brutally honest, which is both one of his best and worst qualities. He'd been afraid ever since that first meeting that what he'd said could have been taken the wrong way. (It wasn't.) Then, a bunch of disgruntled customers came into town to bitch. They didn't want solutions or answers, just to give everyone they could a really hard time. J is not on the project, but he's been sort of a mentor to the person who is. And this person just graduated from college last December and is not comfortable with public speaking, especially with an angry mob. So one of the bosses asked J to drop in and lend a helping hand. And he tried. But they were determined not to leave happy, so it was a lost cause, and the solutions they need are on their end, not J's company. Frustrating all around.
Me? Keeping the Cracker happy lately has been a challenge. It's too hot to play outside for any length of time, which is where he longs to be, and my bag of indoor tricks is getting old. Our living conditions? I know that no one expects me to have a perfectly clean house with a toddler home all day, but it doesn't mean I don't want one. While I'm usually pretty proud of how well I manage (using naps and nighttime so that my son doesn't think I'm a maid who just also happends to be his mother) it just isn't enough lately. My house es un disastre total, the laundry is piling up to record levels, and I need to go shopping. Me time? Yeah, I need more of that, but I also long for more Cracker time, as if that were even possible. I put him in bed and then have to fight the urge to go back in and just spend a few more minutes.
Oh, did I mention that I'm PMSing? Big surprise there!
Which brings me to this post, which I've been meaning to write for a while now. I was semi-emotional before, but along with the pounds a few extra hormones stuck around after becoming a mother. J constantly teases me for finding the only heartwrenching story involving children on cable and upsetting myself. Yes, I am now one of those chicks who occasionally needs a good cry. Well, there was nothing on cable the other night so my mysterious mind stepped up to the plate. I share with you now in hopes that once it's out there in the world I can let go a little.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were visiting preschool a few weeks ago, having a grand old time. The Cracker and I were building a corral of blocks for "orses." We'd gone over to the play kitchen too to bring them back some snacks, and I was amazed that out of all the fake food to pick from, he'd decided on apples. Had I told him that horses liked apples? I really don't think so, but his choice didn't seem arbritrary. He told me that horses eat hay and apples...period. "Do cows eat apples?" I asked. No, just horses. And in that moment I was just so proud of him, because his whole life is about learning, whether the information comes from us or not, and he's so excited to get up each day so that he can learn more. Totally natural, I know, but still truly inspiring.
I couldn't help myself. I leaned over, grabbed him, gave him a big fat kiss on the cheek and told him "YOU are the COOLEST kid I know! I love you!" His whole body melted into one big smile. You could tell he knew I was proud of him, and he was oh so proud of himself too.
Just then, another little boy came over. For some reason, I've always had a bad feeling about this kid, which makes me feel like the most rotten adult ever for making snap judgements about a four year old. He looks right at the Cracker, locks eyes with him, and says "He's not cool. He's stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You can't be my friend. I don't like you."
My sweet baby's face dropped. Did he really understand it, the weight of those words? God I hope not. But I know that to some extent he did; he understands everything. In an instant our moment was stolen. You could see it in his face, even his eyes. Bewilderment. Sadness. Shame.
What I really wanted to say was "You're the one that's not cool. Nobody likes you. You're ugly and you're mother dresses you funny. Fuck off." Instead I said, "That's not true! He's very cool. Besides, you haven't gotten a chance to know him. He's just a lot younger than you" BUT HE SURE COULD TEACH YOU A LOT ABOUT MANNERS. This kid is not the cutest kid ever IMHO, and I really do think his mother dresses him funny, but now I'm just being mean.
The school is a Co-op, a very hippy dippy one. Parents take turns working in the classroom assisting the teachers. And his mother was there. And she heard the whole thing.
She was mortified. She came running over and after apologizing to us, gave him a stern lecture, and sent him to go sit off by himself. I hadn't made the mother/child connection until then, and I never would have guessed that this sweet, delightful woman was taking that monster home with her.
That's the thing about parenting. Every time you think you know what's coming, you get caught off guard.
Stick him in a group of little girls he knows and my Cracker is the life of the party. He has lots of little friends and many seem to naturally look to him to set the tone. He's not the biggest and he's not the oldest. Gosh darnit, he's just fun to be around! But get him into a group of kids he doesn't know, especially if there are more than 4, and he's brutally shy. He stands back and won't play until invited, and even then reserved would be a dramatic understatement. So with school, J and I had anticapated that the challenge would be making him feel comfortable not only with a bunch of kids he didn't already know, but a bunch of kids who already knew each other. (It's an all ages class, where the older ones help the little ones, and the Cracker is one of only two new students next year in a class of 12.)
When the kids went out to play, one of the teachers pulled me aside.
"Is Cracker okay?"
"He seems okay now."
"Just so you know, normally we would have stepped in, but since his mother was here..."
"Oh, I know." No doubts here.
"He's having some issues right now. We're having a bit of a struggle steering him back to a glass half full state of mind." And I got the feeling from the way she said it that the poor kid is going through something at home.
No matter how hard you try, there are things that you just can't protect them from. And while it's a terrible feeling, that's the real world. I just want to postpone it for him as long as I possibly can. Imagine going through life with the confidence of a toddler: never being embarassed or ashamed or worried about what other people are thinking. How liberating it must be. They do what they do and like what they like because they have no idea that others may not agree with them.
Once that innocence is gone, it's gone forever.
(The real post is down below, I just had to blabber a little first.)
In case you can't tell, I've been a little whacko lately. J is stressed at work, and I am stressed at home = not the best combination. No, we're not fighting, just emotionally and physically exhausted.
A really BIG BOSS came to town, and this was only the second time they'd met. Their first meeting had been during a massive reorganization, complete with job reassignments for everyone and even a few layoffs. J is brutally honest, which is both one of his best and worst qualities. He'd been afraid ever since that first meeting that what he'd said could have been taken the wrong way. (It wasn't.) Then, a bunch of disgruntled customers came into town to bitch. They didn't want solutions or answers, just to give everyone they could a really hard time. J is not on the project, but he's been sort of a mentor to the person who is. And this person just graduated from college last December and is not comfortable with public speaking, especially with an angry mob. So one of the bosses asked J to drop in and lend a helping hand. And he tried. But they were determined not to leave happy, so it was a lost cause, and the solutions they need are on their end, not J's company. Frustrating all around.
Me? Keeping the Cracker happy lately has been a challenge. It's too hot to play outside for any length of time, which is where he longs to be, and my bag of indoor tricks is getting old. Our living conditions? I know that no one expects me to have a perfectly clean house with a toddler home all day, but it doesn't mean I don't want one. While I'm usually pretty proud of how well I manage (using naps and nighttime so that my son doesn't think I'm a maid who just also happends to be his mother) it just isn't enough lately. My house es un disastre total, the laundry is piling up to record levels, and I need to go shopping. Me time? Yeah, I need more of that, but I also long for more Cracker time, as if that were even possible. I put him in bed and then have to fight the urge to go back in and just spend a few more minutes.
Oh, did I mention that I'm PMSing? Big surprise there!
Which brings me to this post, which I've been meaning to write for a while now. I was semi-emotional before, but along with the pounds a few extra hormones stuck around after becoming a mother. J constantly teases me for finding the only heartwrenching story involving children on cable and upsetting myself. Yes, I am now one of those chicks who occasionally needs a good cry. Well, there was nothing on cable the other night so my mysterious mind stepped up to the plate. I share with you now in hopes that once it's out there in the world I can let go a little.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We were visiting preschool a few weeks ago, having a grand old time. The Cracker and I were building a corral of blocks for "orses." We'd gone over to the play kitchen too to bring them back some snacks, and I was amazed that out of all the fake food to pick from, he'd decided on apples. Had I told him that horses liked apples? I really don't think so, but his choice didn't seem arbritrary. He told me that horses eat hay and apples...period. "Do cows eat apples?" I asked. No, just horses. And in that moment I was just so proud of him, because his whole life is about learning, whether the information comes from us or not, and he's so excited to get up each day so that he can learn more. Totally natural, I know, but still truly inspiring.
I couldn't help myself. I leaned over, grabbed him, gave him a big fat kiss on the cheek and told him "YOU are the COOLEST kid I know! I love you!" His whole body melted into one big smile. You could tell he knew I was proud of him, and he was oh so proud of himself too.
Just then, another little boy came over. For some reason, I've always had a bad feeling about this kid, which makes me feel like the most rotten adult ever for making snap judgements about a four year old. He looks right at the Cracker, locks eyes with him, and says "He's not cool. He's stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You can't be my friend. I don't like you."
My sweet baby's face dropped. Did he really understand it, the weight of those words? God I hope not. But I know that to some extent he did; he understands everything. In an instant our moment was stolen. You could see it in his face, even his eyes. Bewilderment. Sadness. Shame.
What I really wanted to say was "You're the one that's not cool. Nobody likes you. You're ugly and you're mother dresses you funny. Fuck off." Instead I said, "That's not true! He's very cool. Besides, you haven't gotten a chance to know him. He's just a lot younger than you" BUT HE SURE COULD TEACH YOU A LOT ABOUT MANNERS. This kid is not the cutest kid ever IMHO, and I really do think his mother dresses him funny, but now I'm just being mean.
The school is a Co-op, a very hippy dippy one. Parents take turns working in the classroom assisting the teachers. And his mother was there. And she heard the whole thing.
She was mortified. She came running over and after apologizing to us, gave him a stern lecture, and sent him to go sit off by himself. I hadn't made the mother/child connection until then, and I never would have guessed that this sweet, delightful woman was taking that monster home with her.
That's the thing about parenting. Every time you think you know what's coming, you get caught off guard.
Stick him in a group of little girls he knows and my Cracker is the life of the party. He has lots of little friends and many seem to naturally look to him to set the tone. He's not the biggest and he's not the oldest. Gosh darnit, he's just fun to be around! But get him into a group of kids he doesn't know, especially if there are more than 4, and he's brutally shy. He stands back and won't play until invited, and even then reserved would be a dramatic understatement. So with school, J and I had anticapated that the challenge would be making him feel comfortable not only with a bunch of kids he didn't already know, but a bunch of kids who already knew each other. (It's an all ages class, where the older ones help the little ones, and the Cracker is one of only two new students next year in a class of 12.)
When the kids went out to play, one of the teachers pulled me aside.
"Is Cracker okay?"
"He seems okay now."
"Just so you know, normally we would have stepped in, but since his mother was here..."
"Oh, I know." No doubts here.
"He's having some issues right now. We're having a bit of a struggle steering him back to a glass half full state of mind." And I got the feeling from the way she said it that the poor kid is going through something at home.
No matter how hard you try, there are things that you just can't protect them from. And while it's a terrible feeling, that's the real world. I just want to postpone it for him as long as I possibly can. Imagine going through life with the confidence of a toddler: never being embarassed or ashamed or worried about what other people are thinking. How liberating it must be. They do what they do and like what they like because they have no idea that others may not agree with them.
Once that innocence is gone, it's gone forever.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
3
WARNING: Sentimental Mommy Post
Before the Cracker was born the number 3 never had any significance in my life - it was just another number. If you had pushed me about the number 3 I would have told you about how my aunt gave me an "I'm Three" necklace for my third birthday (Carrie Bradshaw style) which instantly became one of my most prized possessions until I accidentally swallowed it. My poor mom actually had to watch for it to pass, dig it out, disinfect it with only God-knows-what and give it right back to me. (And of course it was still one of my most prized possessions because what 3 year old would care that it had been part of a number 2.)
But all that changed when after 42 weeks and 1 day of gestation, the Cracker entered the big wide world on 3.30.2003.
And tonight it hit me, really hit me...my little boy, gulp, is about to turn 3.
I feel like crying.
Adult birthdays are supposed to be hard. The grand majority of the population either ignores them or gets depressed. But I never realized how hard this birthday was going to be.
Subconsciously, I realize I've been preparing for it since mid October. Two weeks after he officially turned 2 1/2 I changed from "he's almost 2 1/2" to "he's going to be 3." Nice strangers would kindly inquire "oh, when's his birthday?" Me: "Umm...March." Crazy lady! Doesn't she know that's 5 months from now?
I am a stay-at-home mom. Not right for everyone, but right for us. 99% of his awake time has been spent with me. The Cracker is unrequitedly attached to only four people in the world...me, J, and his grandparents Nana and Pappy. The end result is that those four people are his world, and he and I are best friends.
We don't hire babysitters. Money spent on childcare thus far...$0, no kidding. (Admittedly, not the healthiest thing we've ever done for our marriage, but we've still got the love.) We have no family in town. Including dragging J on an all day trip through Ikea, we've probably had 5 dates since he was born, most of which have lasted less than 4 hours. Locally, when I've needed help, my mommy friends will have him over for a play date. Those adults though, in his mind, are his friend's moms, not his friends.
You get the idea, right?
Suddenly he's almost 3, and man, that's depressing. It's not that I want to wish him all the way back to infancy permanently. Those times were precious, so sweet and dreamy, and I'd never trade those memories for anything. But honestly, toddlerhood kicks their ass. Watching a little person search so hard to find out who they want to be, all the while having an unbreakable sense of self, knowing exactly who they are in that moment. (Hmmm...we're going to story time at the library? I think I'll wear my $2.99 red plastic fireman's hat, a Thomas the Tank t-shirt under my chicken costume from last Halloween, and my bear slippers. Yup, that works!)
So as he runs full steam through toddlerhood, constantly chasing after independence, he always comes back to me looking for grounding when the world gets too big and scary. I'm not just his mother; I'm his tour guide, his constant companion, and occasionally the big cheese that gives him time-outs. Hell, in the eyes of an almost 3 year old I actually know it all, or can at least fudge a damn good answer. But still, more than anything, we are best friends. Flame me for saying it, but it's the strongest bond you'll ever experience and if you haven't been there for yourself there just isn't any way to explain it to you. And I know how lucky I've been. At the adventurous age of almost 3, it's rare to find a little guy who still *needs* insane numbers of hugs, kisses and at least an hour of pure unadulterated cuddle time each day. No matter what gets him down a hug from me always solves it.
So what makes me sad about 3 is that I know this time is coming to an end. As much as I want to deny it with my whole heart, I know that in another 3 years, when he's 6, I will no longer be his best friend. My little boy will no longer try to stall my leaving for 45 minutes of alone time at the grocery store with a thousand "bye-bye mommas" and an even greater number of hugs and kisses. Instead of my cutting it off with "I love you with all my heart...you're making me laugh! But I'm really leaving now...Seriously! I am! Just as soon as I stop laughing and get one last hug" I'll be the one trying to squeeze out another moment.
And that breaks my heart.
Before the Cracker was born the number 3 never had any significance in my life - it was just another number. If you had pushed me about the number 3 I would have told you about how my aunt gave me an "I'm Three" necklace for my third birthday (Carrie Bradshaw style) which instantly became one of my most prized possessions until I accidentally swallowed it. My poor mom actually had to watch for it to pass, dig it out, disinfect it with only God-knows-what and give it right back to me. (And of course it was still one of my most prized possessions because what 3 year old would care that it had been part of a number 2.)
But all that changed when after 42 weeks and 1 day of gestation, the Cracker entered the big wide world on 3.30.2003.
And tonight it hit me, really hit me...my little boy, gulp, is about to turn 3.
I feel like crying.
Adult birthdays are supposed to be hard. The grand majority of the population either ignores them or gets depressed. But I never realized how hard this birthday was going to be.
Subconsciously, I realize I've been preparing for it since mid October. Two weeks after he officially turned 2 1/2 I changed from "he's almost 2 1/2" to "he's going to be 3." Nice strangers would kindly inquire "oh, when's his birthday?" Me: "Umm...March." Crazy lady! Doesn't she know that's 5 months from now?
I am a stay-at-home mom. Not right for everyone, but right for us. 99% of his awake time has been spent with me. The Cracker is unrequitedly attached to only four people in the world...me, J, and his grandparents Nana and Pappy. The end result is that those four people are his world, and he and I are best friends.
We don't hire babysitters. Money spent on childcare thus far...$0, no kidding. (Admittedly, not the healthiest thing we've ever done for our marriage, but we've still got the love.) We have no family in town. Including dragging J on an all day trip through Ikea, we've probably had 5 dates since he was born, most of which have lasted less than 4 hours. Locally, when I've needed help, my mommy friends will have him over for a play date. Those adults though, in his mind, are his friend's moms, not his friends.
You get the idea, right?
Suddenly he's almost 3, and man, that's depressing. It's not that I want to wish him all the way back to infancy permanently. Those times were precious, so sweet and dreamy, and I'd never trade those memories for anything. But honestly, toddlerhood kicks their ass. Watching a little person search so hard to find out who they want to be, all the while having an unbreakable sense of self, knowing exactly who they are in that moment. (Hmmm...we're going to story time at the library? I think I'll wear my $2.99 red plastic fireman's hat, a Thomas the Tank t-shirt under my chicken costume from last Halloween, and my bear slippers. Yup, that works!)
So as he runs full steam through toddlerhood, constantly chasing after independence, he always comes back to me looking for grounding when the world gets too big and scary. I'm not just his mother; I'm his tour guide, his constant companion, and occasionally the big cheese that gives him time-outs. Hell, in the eyes of an almost 3 year old I actually know it all, or can at least fudge a damn good answer. But still, more than anything, we are best friends. Flame me for saying it, but it's the strongest bond you'll ever experience and if you haven't been there for yourself there just isn't any way to explain it to you. And I know how lucky I've been. At the adventurous age of almost 3, it's rare to find a little guy who still *needs* insane numbers of hugs, kisses and at least an hour of pure unadulterated cuddle time each day. No matter what gets him down a hug from me always solves it.
So what makes me sad about 3 is that I know this time is coming to an end. As much as I want to deny it with my whole heart, I know that in another 3 years, when he's 6, I will no longer be his best friend. My little boy will no longer try to stall my leaving for 45 minutes of alone time at the grocery store with a thousand "bye-bye mommas" and an even greater number of hugs and kisses. Instead of my cutting it off with "I love you with all my heart...you're making me laugh! But I'm really leaving now...Seriously! I am! Just as soon as I stop laughing and get one last hug" I'll be the one trying to squeeze out another moment.
And that breaks my heart.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
A Perfect Afternoon
Those of you with little people know that there are good days and not-so-good days. I am happy to report that today was an splendiferous day! I'm still beaming from ear to ear.
Cracker and I ventured out into the evil wind to Home Depot to pick up a specialty lightbulb. Now, HD is the closest retail store to our house, and for some reason I'll never understand, I always point it out to him as we drive by. Boy does my boy love the orange box giant! And so with great pride I must share that the newest addition to his vocabulary is Home Depot. Unlike his other recent and very clear new words, this one needs context since it's a little off. At first I thought he was saying elbow, but no, "Ho Bobo" is indeed HD. He can say home and he can say house clearly, but putting that together with depot is hard, ya know? Currently, the only other business he verbally acknowledges is Starbucks, which is "Momma tea! Momma tea! TEA!" (Venti black iced tea, no shaking, no sweetener. I'm an old school tea drinker.)
In Cracker's mind, Ho Bobo far outranks traditional toddler favorites like the zoo. I mean they've got forklifts, men with tool belts, garden hoses and nozzles (waber!) not to mention an amazingly large selection of faucets and potties on display. Awesome! While we were checking out the hoses Ho Bobo started playing General Public's I'll Take You There. (You may remember it from the movie Threesome, LOL.) IMHO, a very odd choice for their play list. Cracker immediately dropped the light bulbs (they're doing fine, thank you) and started busting a move. This doesn't happen often...the song has to really speak to him, and apparently fake Jamaican rap does. He was shaking his tushie, doing his funny baby strut dance with violent head bobbing...the whole enchilada. I couldn't help but join in, and of course I know most of the words. Probably shouldn't admit that, should I? We were just so in the moment that I didn't notice until the song was over that there were two bewildered male Ho Bobo employees watching us. At least they'll have something to talk about on break now.
When we got home we were tired and cold, so Cracker and I curled up together in my bed and feed each other Parmesan Goldfish crackers. I was laying down, the comforter pulled up to my chin, and Cracker was sitting on top of J's pillow covered to his waist. I had this perfect view of his angelic toddler face from below, and it was such a beautiful moment. He fed me, I fed him, and we giggled when we both reached into the bag at the same time. J came home and was like "You're letting him eat crackers in our bed, and on my side?" Not mad, just wondering what ever possessed his crazy wife to do this. (Even if you excuse the crumbs we have all white bedding, so everything shows.) I made him lay down with us and immediately even his nonoverlyemotional self saw the magic too.
Absolutely splendiferous.
Cracker and I ventured out into the evil wind to Home Depot to pick up a specialty lightbulb. Now, HD is the closest retail store to our house, and for some reason I'll never understand, I always point it out to him as we drive by. Boy does my boy love the orange box giant! And so with great pride I must share that the newest addition to his vocabulary is Home Depot. Unlike his other recent and very clear new words, this one needs context since it's a little off. At first I thought he was saying elbow, but no, "Ho Bobo" is indeed HD. He can say home and he can say house clearly, but putting that together with depot is hard, ya know? Currently, the only other business he verbally acknowledges is Starbucks, which is "Momma tea! Momma tea! TEA!" (Venti black iced tea, no shaking, no sweetener. I'm an old school tea drinker.)
In Cracker's mind, Ho Bobo far outranks traditional toddler favorites like the zoo. I mean they've got forklifts, men with tool belts, garden hoses and nozzles (waber!) not to mention an amazingly large selection of faucets and potties on display. Awesome! While we were checking out the hoses Ho Bobo started playing General Public's I'll Take You There. (You may remember it from the movie Threesome, LOL.) IMHO, a very odd choice for their play list. Cracker immediately dropped the light bulbs (they're doing fine, thank you) and started busting a move. This doesn't happen often...the song has to really speak to him, and apparently fake Jamaican rap does. He was shaking his tushie, doing his funny baby strut dance with violent head bobbing...the whole enchilada. I couldn't help but join in, and of course I know most of the words. Probably shouldn't admit that, should I? We were just so in the moment that I didn't notice until the song was over that there were two bewildered male Ho Bobo employees watching us. At least they'll have something to talk about on break now.
When we got home we were tired and cold, so Cracker and I curled up together in my bed and feed each other Parmesan Goldfish crackers. I was laying down, the comforter pulled up to my chin, and Cracker was sitting on top of J's pillow covered to his waist. I had this perfect view of his angelic toddler face from below, and it was such a beautiful moment. He fed me, I fed him, and we giggled when we both reached into the bag at the same time. J came home and was like "You're letting him eat crackers in our bed, and on my side?" Not mad, just wondering what ever possessed his crazy wife to do this. (Even if you excuse the crumbs we have all white bedding, so everything shows.) I made him lay down with us and immediately even his nonoverlyemotional self saw the magic too.
Absolutely splendiferous.
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