When I was little, it seemed to be taking forever for me to grow up. My mom would sigh over how quickly my brother and I were growing, and I would honestly believe she was completely nuts. All of the cool big-kid stuff (then the high-school stuff, then the grown-up stuff... all the hyphenated stuff, really) seemed so far out of reach, and time dragged as I waited.
Oh, how the tables have turned! People tell you before you have a baby, "Enjoy him while he's little! They grow up so quickly..." I can honestly say I have taken this advice, and I have tried to enjoy as much of my time with Baby Simon as I could. I'll admit that there have been moments that I wouldn't exactly want to bronze and stick on a shelf, but I've reminded myself that nothing lasts forever, good times or bad. Still, I didn't understand exactly what people were telling me until he started growing up.
Yes, I know he's not grown up yet; he's not even a year old. We still have a few years before he's off to school, blah, blah, blah. But the tiny lump of newborn I once held in my arms is now a sturdy little guy who won't sit still long enough to get his diaper changed; he's just too busy! And the little critter that looked to me to satisfy every want and need is crawling around exploring the world independently (under careful supervision), and he'd prefer that I not interfere, thank you very much.
Oh, he still needs me. Every bump on the head requires kisses, and he hasn't mastered cooking quite yet. There's no question that he's getting away from me, though; Simon, who was once a part of my own body, hardly needs my breastmilk anymore. His needs are changing from physical to emotional, social, psychological... Where once I could fix almost anything by sticking a boob in his mouth (sorry for that mental image, folks), I now have to try to understand the complex needs of a little boy, and accept that I might not be able to fix everything.
I'm not going to try to hold him back. One of the most important measures of a parent's success is how well a child can live on his own when the time comes. I'm glad that time is still many years away... but when we get there, I know that years will seem like days. I pray that I'll continue to cherish every day-even the boring ones, the teething ones and the upcoming "Mommy-you're-not-my-friend!" ones. They'll be over far too soon.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Yards, Pens, whatever...
When we were shopping for baby stuff oh, so many moons ago, I noticed that stores and catalogues were offering a fine selection of "playards". This, I learned, is a clumsy abbreviation of "play yard", what we used to call a playpen.
I'm assuming that the name change comes from ultra-sensitive people being offended at the use of the word "pen" in relation to the containment of precious babies. "Pen!" they screamed (or so I imagine), "Pigs live in pens! My pwecious widdle snookums will not be contained in a pen, play or otherwise!"
The manufacturers of the much-maligned pens in question scratched their heads and brainstormed for endless... minutes before coming up with a new name. "Yard! Play Yard! Better yet, Playard! Sounds like Juliard! And Har-vard! They'll love that!"
Let's call a spade a spade, folks. We do use these convenient baby-containment systems to, well, contain our babies. It is a pen. It's there so we can let our kids play in a safe place while we pee, cook on a hot stove, or for when need to keep Junior away from marauding toddlers.
In protest of the unnecessary changing of perfectly good (if un-P.C.) names of products, I will now be using my own name for this one.
Now excuse me... I have to go put Simon in his Baby Cage while I make some spaghetti.
I'm assuming that the name change comes from ultra-sensitive people being offended at the use of the word "pen" in relation to the containment of precious babies. "Pen!" they screamed (or so I imagine), "Pigs live in pens! My pwecious widdle snookums will not be contained in a pen, play or otherwise!"
The manufacturers of the much-maligned pens in question scratched their heads and brainstormed for endless... minutes before coming up with a new name. "Yard! Play Yard! Better yet, Playard! Sounds like Juliard! And Har-vard! They'll love that!"
Let's call a spade a spade, folks. We do use these convenient baby-containment systems to, well, contain our babies. It is a pen. It's there so we can let our kids play in a safe place while we pee, cook on a hot stove, or for when need to keep Junior away from marauding toddlers.
In protest of the unnecessary changing of perfectly good (if un-P.C.) names of products, I will now be using my own name for this one.
Now excuse me... I have to go put Simon in his Baby Cage while I make some spaghetti.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
(Gender) Identity Crisis
I was out grocery shopping yesterday, and I had an exceedingly unhappy baby with me. It wasn't nap time, he wasn't hungry; Simon just really hates grocery shopping. The novelty of sitting in the shopping cart has worn off, and now the only time he's happy is when another customer or a store employee is fawning over him. He's such a flirt!So he was happy when a very nice lady came over to us... and told me what a beautiful little girl I had.
To be fair, I should tell you that he was wearing yellow, which is just about the most gender-neutral colour you can dress a baby in. Plus, my baby boy has massive blue eyes and long, dark lashes that make his mommy jealous, so you can see where someone might get confused."Um, he's a boy, actually," I replied, adding that he was 10 months old (in response to her second question).
Now, if I make a mistake like that, my first instinct is to attempt to achieve complete invisibility; the closest I've gotten so far is to turn bright pink. This woman handled the situation perfectly; she said, "Oh! Well, he's just got a pretty face. He's going to grow up to look like Tom Cruise or someone like that!" Well! Tom Cruise isn't girly. Off his rocker, but not girly. Nice save, friendly lady!
I admire people who aren't afraid to talk to other people. I've met a lot of them since having a baby; nothing brings people flocking to you like a baby (except maybe a really cute puppy). I hope that as I work at getting over my shyness I'll become less afraid of people.
In the meantime, I'm dressing my pretty little boy in blue, thanks very much.
To be fair, I should tell you that he was wearing yellow, which is just about the most gender-neutral colour you can dress a baby in. Plus, my baby boy has massive blue eyes and long, dark lashes that make his mommy jealous, so you can see where someone might get confused."Um, he's a boy, actually," I replied, adding that he was 10 months old (in response to her second question).
Now, if I make a mistake like that, my first instinct is to attempt to achieve complete invisibility; the closest I've gotten so far is to turn bright pink. This woman handled the situation perfectly; she said, "Oh! Well, he's just got a pretty face. He's going to grow up to look like Tom Cruise or someone like that!" Well! Tom Cruise isn't girly. Off his rocker, but not girly. Nice save, friendly lady!
I admire people who aren't afraid to talk to other people. I've met a lot of them since having a baby; nothing brings people flocking to you like a baby (except maybe a really cute puppy). I hope that as I work at getting over my shyness I'll become less afraid of people.
In the meantime, I'm dressing my pretty little boy in blue, thanks very much.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Martha Stewart I Ain't...
First of all, let me just say that I LOVE Martha Stewart's magazine. I like the pretty pictures, and I dream of having a home where every sheet set (if and when I own more than one) is neatly folded inside a coordinating pillowcase, where friends gather outdoors for a feast of "marin-aaah-ded" steak and fresh-squeezed lemonade, and where the cat isn't the only one who could, in theory, eat off the kitchen floor.
Yeah, right. No, I really do love that stuff, it's just that IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. My perfectionist days are over, thank you very much; it only took two stints in outpatient therapy to figure out that those tendencies weren't exactly helping my depression. I'm not saying we live in a pig sty; it's just that my home isn't quite ready to be featured in Better Homes and Gardens.
I vacuumed today, which is good. I only found three dead spiders while I was doing that... does anyone out there know the equation for figuring out how many LIVE spiders that means there are in my house? I did dishes, too, and managed not to gag from the smell of the 2-week old bottle of formula I dumped down the sink. Yummy! As for the bathroom, I keep it as clean as I can, scrub the toilet and pray that people take my word for it that those are rust stains in the can and not the result of a combination of severe colon blow and poor housekeeping skills. Really.
It's not all my fault. I have a baby, and he keeps me busy. He also contributes to the mess. OK, maybe I shouldn't give him Cheerios in the living room, but he gets so much joy from dumping them all over the floor. He's learning about GRAVITY, people; who am I to take away that valuable educational experience?! Also, my vacuum sucks. Or rather, it doesn't suck. I almost cried the day I used my mom's itt-bitty "carpet sweeper" and found that it was approximately four-hundred eighty-three times more powerful than my full-size, upright vac. Yeah, I said vac. I'm down with the lingo, yo. So is it really MY fault if you can't walk across the living room carpet without emerging wearing socks coated in cat hair? No. Blame the un-sucking-ness of my vacuum. Thank you.
I do what I can. Yes, there's clutter, but nothing choke-able within reach of the little monkey's paws. Clothes are piled all over my dresser, but I have a pretty good idea of what's clean and what's not. Besides, I'd rather spend my time enjoying my baby's baby-hood than trying to keep his mess off the floor.
Oh... and writing my blog. That, too!
Yeah, right. No, I really do love that stuff, it's just that IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. My perfectionist days are over, thank you very much; it only took two stints in outpatient therapy to figure out that those tendencies weren't exactly helping my depression. I'm not saying we live in a pig sty; it's just that my home isn't quite ready to be featured in Better Homes and Gardens.
I vacuumed today, which is good. I only found three dead spiders while I was doing that... does anyone out there know the equation for figuring out how many LIVE spiders that means there are in my house? I did dishes, too, and managed not to gag from the smell of the 2-week old bottle of formula I dumped down the sink. Yummy! As for the bathroom, I keep it as clean as I can, scrub the toilet and pray that people take my word for it that those are rust stains in the can and not the result of a combination of severe colon blow and poor housekeeping skills. Really.
It's not all my fault. I have a baby, and he keeps me busy. He also contributes to the mess. OK, maybe I shouldn't give him Cheerios in the living room, but he gets so much joy from dumping them all over the floor. He's learning about GRAVITY, people; who am I to take away that valuable educational experience?! Also, my vacuum sucks. Or rather, it doesn't suck. I almost cried the day I used my mom's itt-bitty "carpet sweeper" and found that it was approximately four-hundred eighty-three times more powerful than my full-size, upright vac. Yeah, I said vac. I'm down with the lingo, yo. So is it really MY fault if you can't walk across the living room carpet without emerging wearing socks coated in cat hair? No. Blame the un-sucking-ness of my vacuum. Thank you.
I do what I can. Yes, there's clutter, but nothing choke-able within reach of the little monkey's paws. Clothes are piled all over my dresser, but I have a pretty good idea of what's clean and what's not. Besides, I'd rather spend my time enjoying my baby's baby-hood than trying to keep his mess off the floor.
Oh... and writing my blog. That, too!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Ow, My Boob!
[PLEASE NOTE: I wrote this back near the end of May. My boob is much better now. Thank you for asking. -K. )
Ow. Ow. Owww!
Remember way back when, that time I said I was lucky that I hadn’t experienced some of the complications that go along with breastfeeding, like blocked ducts and mastitis? Well cross the blocked duct thing off the list, friends. This is not a new phenomenon, actually. It has been happening off and on for several months; I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to deal with this. (Did I mention that I feel like whining today? I’m really, REALLY sorry. I won’t even hold it against you if you want to stop reading right now... still with me? OK then).
Commence whining in 5... 4... 3.... 2... 1. IT HUUUUUURTS! It really, really hurts! Just for purposes of reference for anyone who hasn’t had this particular experience: Have you ever had a really nasty toothache, the kind that is just completely distracting, and you can’t accomplish anything because this one teeny, tiny part of your body hurts so bloody much? Imagine that consuming your boob. Not the whole boob. Just, say, half of the boob. That’s what it feels like. A toothache of the boob. Have I said boob enough yet? Boob. Plus, as a value-added bonus, you get this rock-hard ball stuck to your chest, getting in the way for the day or so it takes to clear up.
So yeah, I’m not a happy camper today. All you can really do for a blocked milk duct is apply heat and massage (gently, and it still hurts!) as often as you can, and keep feeding the baby on that side. Because as much as the feeding hurts, letting the pressure build up is even worse. Ooh, and painkillers really help... a bit. This would be fine if caring for the boob (there, I said it again!) was all I had to do today, but it’s just not so. I’ve got my little guy to take care of, a hyperactive dog to deal with, and packing to do- did I mention that we’re moving next week? I’m ashamed to admit it, but I woke the hubby up this morning to ask- just to ask, mind you- if he could take a sick day for my boob. Apparently he can’t. Fine...
Like I said, this first happened months ago, and yet I’m still playing the dairy cow for my baby. Boy, am I dumb! If I had half a brain in my head, Simon would be happily drinking formula. Here’s the thing: it’s not because it’s good for him. It’s not for the bonding, though I still adore the feeling of closeness I get when he’s nursing. It’s not even the money, though goodness knows we still can’t afford formula. The reason I’m still breastfeeding him is this:
In the middle of the night, it’s just so much easier to whip out a boob than it is to prepare a bottle.
How sad is that? I’m willing to put up with pain and inconvenience because I’M TOO LAZY TO MAKE A BOTTLE. OK, so I’d miss it if I stopped- the feeding, I mean, not the blockage. I really would, in spite of everything. Am I crazy? Probably. What's your point?
Ow. Ow. Owww!
Remember way back when, that time I said I was lucky that I hadn’t experienced some of the complications that go along with breastfeeding, like blocked ducts and mastitis? Well cross the blocked duct thing off the list, friends. This is not a new phenomenon, actually. It has been happening off and on for several months; I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to deal with this. (Did I mention that I feel like whining today? I’m really, REALLY sorry. I won’t even hold it against you if you want to stop reading right now... still with me? OK then).
Commence whining in 5... 4... 3.... 2... 1. IT HUUUUUURTS! It really, really hurts! Just for purposes of reference for anyone who hasn’t had this particular experience: Have you ever had a really nasty toothache, the kind that is just completely distracting, and you can’t accomplish anything because this one teeny, tiny part of your body hurts so bloody much? Imagine that consuming your boob. Not the whole boob. Just, say, half of the boob. That’s what it feels like. A toothache of the boob. Have I said boob enough yet? Boob. Plus, as a value-added bonus, you get this rock-hard ball stuck to your chest, getting in the way for the day or so it takes to clear up.
So yeah, I’m not a happy camper today. All you can really do for a blocked milk duct is apply heat and massage (gently, and it still hurts!) as often as you can, and keep feeding the baby on that side. Because as much as the feeding hurts, letting the pressure build up is even worse. Ooh, and painkillers really help... a bit. This would be fine if caring for the boob (there, I said it again!) was all I had to do today, but it’s just not so. I’ve got my little guy to take care of, a hyperactive dog to deal with, and packing to do- did I mention that we’re moving next week? I’m ashamed to admit it, but I woke the hubby up this morning to ask- just to ask, mind you- if he could take a sick day for my boob. Apparently he can’t. Fine...
Like I said, this first happened months ago, and yet I’m still playing the dairy cow for my baby. Boy, am I dumb! If I had half a brain in my head, Simon would be happily drinking formula. Here’s the thing: it’s not because it’s good for him. It’s not for the bonding, though I still adore the feeling of closeness I get when he’s nursing. It’s not even the money, though goodness knows we still can’t afford formula. The reason I’m still breastfeeding him is this:
In the middle of the night, it’s just so much easier to whip out a boob than it is to prepare a bottle.
How sad is that? I’m willing to put up with pain and inconvenience because I’M TOO LAZY TO MAKE A BOTTLE. OK, so I’d miss it if I stopped- the feeding, I mean, not the blockage. I really would, in spite of everything. Am I crazy? Probably. What's your point?
Monday, May 29, 2006
Kodak Moment
I was sitting on the bed a few minutes ago, feeding my boy before a badly needed nap. He was getting drowsy, but when he finished his snack, he fought off sleep for long enough to turn his head, gaze lovingly into my eyes, and say "Da Da."
I love this kid.
I love this kid.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Cheaper Than "Pedigree"
I read an article in Today’s Parent magazine about toilet training a baby while on a visit to India. It said that most people there don’t use diapers on their babies. This 7 month-old boy’s grandmother told his mother to let him crawl around without pants or a diaper on; her comment was (and I think I’m pretty close to the exact wording here, because I read the line about 5 times): "If he pees, we’ll wipe it off the floor. If he poops, the dog will eat it."
I almost started laughing out loud. It’s a good thing I didn’t, because I was in the doctor’s waiting room (where I do most of my reading- this was the same day I got my door prizes), and I get the impression that he already has serious questions about my mental state. I pictured this 7 month-old baby crawling around with his cute little commando-butt, and it was just too much.
Apparently this method of toilet training works really well. There’s more to it than just taking off the diaper, of course, and the article went into that. Sadly, it’s not a method that would work around here. Cold winters plus bare butts don’t equal happy babies, and it’s hard to just wipe the pee up off of wall-to-wall carpeting. It would be so good for the environment (and my wallet!) if we could do it, though. And think of the money you could save on dog food! Here, Otis...
I almost started laughing out loud. It’s a good thing I didn’t, because I was in the doctor’s waiting room (where I do most of my reading- this was the same day I got my door prizes), and I get the impression that he already has serious questions about my mental state. I pictured this 7 month-old baby crawling around with his cute little commando-butt, and it was just too much.
Apparently this method of toilet training works really well. There’s more to it than just taking off the diaper, of course, and the article went into that. Sadly, it’s not a method that would work around here. Cold winters plus bare butts don’t equal happy babies, and it’s hard to just wipe the pee up off of wall-to-wall carpeting. It would be so good for the environment (and my wallet!) if we could do it, though. And think of the money you could save on dog food! Here, Otis...
Monday, May 22, 2006
Contraception
I was at the doctor’s office not too long ago to a) get my prescription for antidepressants refilled- hooray! and b) to ask about post-baby birth control. I went back on the Pill recently, but it seemed to make my boobs think it was no longer necessary to produce milk. This would have been less of a problem if we could afford to buy formula for the boy, but we’re talking about the woman who finds a dime in a parking lot and hollers, "Hot Dang! Simon’s a-goin’ to college!" Have I mentioned how much I love embarrassing my husband?
Apparently the "low dose" pill I had tried was not the low-EST dose pill out there. Since the hormones were probably what was affecting my (or rather, Simon’s) milk supply, lower would seem to be better. That’s how I got a 3-month sample of the lower dose pill. But wait, there’s more! I also got a sample of the NuvaRing AND three trans-dermal patches. Wow... birth control, and I get to look like I’m trying to quit smoking, too!
The drug companies make everything look so pretty, like I’m going to base my decision on which looks nicest. Actually, that might be the best way to do it... Can I just tell you about the packaging? The pill I got the sample of is "Alesse", the commercial for which I have made fun of on several occasions.* The pills are pink and green to match the logo, and they come in a spanky-lookin’ silver cardboard case. Not bad... ooh, but look here! This patch thingy comes in a neat black leather-lookin' case! And it has a mirror inside! Sweet- I’m keeping the case for make-up even if I don’t end up using the patch. I think my favourite is the NuvaRing, though- it comes in a sheer blue fabric bag, tied with a bow at the top. It’s a gift, just for me! You shouldn’t have... It also comes with a free condom. This would seem to show a distinct lack of confidence in the product if not for the warning that the NuvaRing does not protect against STD's. OK then.
So I went in for a prescription and advice, and I came out with three low-dose hormonal contraceptives, a make-up case, a gift bag and a bonus condom to spiff up the hubby's wallet. This is why I love trips to the doctor; sound medical advice, plus I walk out feeling like I’ve won all kinds of door prizes. Yippee!
*You know... it’s the one where all these "Alias" type female spies are like, "I’m on Alesse" into their wrist-communicators in several languages, and then they all run off for their mission or something. I guess last-minute reports to headquarters on birth control methods are standard practice for spies.
Apparently the "low dose" pill I had tried was not the low-EST dose pill out there. Since the hormones were probably what was affecting my (or rather, Simon’s) milk supply, lower would seem to be better. That’s how I got a 3-month sample of the lower dose pill. But wait, there’s more! I also got a sample of the NuvaRing AND three trans-dermal patches. Wow... birth control, and I get to look like I’m trying to quit smoking, too!
The drug companies make everything look so pretty, like I’m going to base my decision on which looks nicest. Actually, that might be the best way to do it... Can I just tell you about the packaging? The pill I got the sample of is "Alesse", the commercial for which I have made fun of on several occasions.* The pills are pink and green to match the logo, and they come in a spanky-lookin’ silver cardboard case. Not bad... ooh, but look here! This patch thingy comes in a neat black leather-lookin' case! And it has a mirror inside! Sweet- I’m keeping the case for make-up even if I don’t end up using the patch. I think my favourite is the NuvaRing, though- it comes in a sheer blue fabric bag, tied with a bow at the top. It’s a gift, just for me! You shouldn’t have... It also comes with a free condom. This would seem to show a distinct lack of confidence in the product if not for the warning that the NuvaRing does not protect against STD's. OK then.
So I went in for a prescription and advice, and I came out with three low-dose hormonal contraceptives, a make-up case, a gift bag and a bonus condom to spiff up the hubby's wallet. This is why I love trips to the doctor; sound medical advice, plus I walk out feeling like I’ve won all kinds of door prizes. Yippee!
*You know... it’s the one where all these "Alias" type female spies are like, "I’m on Alesse" into their wrist-communicators in several languages, and then they all run off for their mission or something. I guess last-minute reports to headquarters on birth control methods are standard practice for spies.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Multitasking
They say that women are born multitaskers. We can juggle more to-do list items, thoughts and important details from the last episode of "Grey's Anatomy" than any man. This is probably due to the fact that we have to be that way- women have always had to juggle house, family, entertaining, cooking, and various other tasks, and these days there's even more to do and think about, especially if you're working outside the home as well as in.
Here are just a few of the things I can do at the same time:
- listen to the radio, read a book, drink my tea and pet the cat.
- prepare supper and entertain a baby with singing and dancing (not the traditional definition of "dinner theatre", but whatever)
- do laundry, cook, watch TV and play "peek-a-boo"
- write a journal entry and carry on a conversation with my husband (though I sometimes end
up writing what I meant to say and saying what I meant to write, which gets confusing)
- have sex and decide what colour to paint the bedroom ceiling. Just kidding!*
- Have a shower and sing "Old McDonald Had a Farm", "The 12 Days of Christmas" and/or one
of several show tunes to keep Simon entertained while I lather, rinse and repeat.
Do I spread myself too thin? Probably. But I'm still kind of proud of the fact that I can talk on the phone and pee at the same time.**
*We rent- we're not allowed to paint...
** I've never done it to you, I swear!
Here are just a few of the things I can do at the same time:
- listen to the radio, read a book, drink my tea and pet the cat.
- prepare supper and entertain a baby with singing and dancing (not the traditional definition of "dinner theatre", but whatever)
- do laundry, cook, watch TV and play "peek-a-boo"
- write a journal entry and carry on a conversation with my husband (though I sometimes end
up writing what I meant to say and saying what I meant to write, which gets confusing)
- have sex and decide what colour to paint the bedroom ceiling. Just kidding!*
- Have a shower and sing "Old McDonald Had a Farm", "The 12 Days of Christmas" and/or one
of several show tunes to keep Simon entertained while I lather, rinse and repeat.
Do I spread myself too thin? Probably. But I'm still kind of proud of the fact that I can talk on the phone and pee at the same time.**
*We rent- we're not allowed to paint...
** I've never done it to you, I swear!
Friday, May 12, 2006
Leaving on a (West)Jet Plane
People who fly on commercial aircraft can be divided into two groups: the ones who fly with children, and those who get really annoyed by those who fly with children. I am now a member of the former, and I sincerely apologize to those in the latter. But hey, he has to come with me.
My little buddy and I flew from St. John's to Hamilton last Tuesday. I'd been dreading the trip for weeks. No, make that months. His first plane trip in November wasn't too bad... Of course, he was also 2 months old then, still in the stage of life where you're pretty much just a portable lump of person; he slept most of the way. On that flight we were seated in the middle of a row of three seats, which meant climbing over a fellow passenger every time we had to go to the tiny little toilet room*. This was a frequent occurrence, as 2 months is not only the "little lump" stage, but also the "pooping every 5 minutes" stage. Too bad the man in the aisle seat was in his "take off my shoes and try to sleep on the plane" stage...
In any case, we survived that trip. Still, I worried that it would be harder to keep an 8 month old occupied on a flight. As if that wasn't enough to worry about, he woke up Monday morning with a cough and runny nose- yes, he did, in fact, catch my cold, and just in time for the trip. Tuesday morning he was no better, but we headed off to the airport right on schedule. Unfortunately, that was the last part of the trip that went smoothly...
Did I mention that on our trip in November I wasn't asked for ID for my boy? Apparently human lumps don't need it, but sick, miserable little 8 month-olds do. We haven't gotten around to ordering a copy of Simon's birth certificate yet. Fortunately, we were allowed to use his health card. Unfortunately, said card was apparently not in my new wallet where it was supposed to be. Oh, Crap. So given that the alternative was not taking the baby, the hubby rushed home to look in my jewelry box for the missing card- I was sure that's where it would be if it wasn't in my wallet. Too bad it wasn't.
Mommy and Baby got through security while Daddy went to find Baby's ID. Daddy called Mommy on her cell phone and told her he was going to have her killed; all he could find was a hospital card that said "Sparkes, Baby Boy (Kathleen)" and Mommy's birth certificate. That was going to have to be good enough. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that at this point "Sparkes, Baby Boy" was wailing the sad tale of his misery to the world, and the rest of the passengers in the waiting area were praying that they would be seated far, far away from Mommy and Baby. Or that we'd be in a padded room in the cargo hold. This is the part where Mommy started to cry.
I now know why passengers with babies are allowed to pre-board, and why we have assigned seats on planes. Otherwise it would be like that scene out of Forrest Gump, with people covering up empty seats, shaking their heads. "Ye cain't sit heah. Seat's tay-ken." Even the other babies in the waiting area were looking at Simon like, "Jeez, what's HIS problem?"
Then, the first bright spot on our journey- no one was seated beside us. The flight wasn't full, and everyone with a baby had three seats all to themselves. Three seats! We had hit the jackpot. And so had all of the other passengers. They all looked relieved when they found their seats, and they were not next to That Baby.
At least he didn't cry the whole flight. Please note that in that last sentence, the emphasis is on whole, as in "there were a few scattered moments, like when he was asleep, when he was not crying." The dose of Gravol I gave him, though it made him groggy, did not knock him out for as much of the trip as I had hoped it would. He was awake for most of the flight; to his credit, he seemed to be trying to be happy, but the crappiness of the cold was overwhelming. Landing was no fun, either, though I got him to suck his thumb, and that seemed to help. He was also awake for our entire stopover in Halifax (NOT the most exciting airport in the world) and for most of the second flight.
I was going to go into detail on the flights, our rough evening, and The Cold That Wouldn't Die, but you get the idea. We didn't have much fun. I did learn, however, that WestJet is (in the words of Bill and Ted) most excellent. Here's why:
1) the staff really ARE nicer than on most airlines, and very helpful.
2) they have little satellite TVs on the backs of the seats. This will keep even a sick and cranky baby occupied for 10 minutes. Also, it keeps other passengers' ears occupied with headsets instead of crying baby.
3) the flight attendants are hilarious. I actually paid attention to the safety demonstration because it was entertaining.
4) they gave us THREE SEATS. Three seats, people!
5) they did not crash the plane.
Oh, and about the health card? Yeah... the thing with new wallets is that sometimes you forget about little pockets in them. And then sometimes you find things in those pockets that would have been good to have three days ago. And then you decide not to tell your loving husband that you found said things in said pockets, because then he really would have you killed. Just sometimes.
* Sorry, I just can't bring myself to call it a "washroom." There's barely enough room to stand in there, let alone wash. Ditto for "bathroom", for obvious reasons.
My little buddy and I flew from St. John's to Hamilton last Tuesday. I'd been dreading the trip for weeks. No, make that months. His first plane trip in November wasn't too bad... Of course, he was also 2 months old then, still in the stage of life where you're pretty much just a portable lump of person; he slept most of the way. On that flight we were seated in the middle of a row of three seats, which meant climbing over a fellow passenger every time we had to go to the tiny little toilet room*. This was a frequent occurrence, as 2 months is not only the "little lump" stage, but also the "pooping every 5 minutes" stage. Too bad the man in the aisle seat was in his "take off my shoes and try to sleep on the plane" stage...
In any case, we survived that trip. Still, I worried that it would be harder to keep an 8 month old occupied on a flight. As if that wasn't enough to worry about, he woke up Monday morning with a cough and runny nose- yes, he did, in fact, catch my cold, and just in time for the trip. Tuesday morning he was no better, but we headed off to the airport right on schedule. Unfortunately, that was the last part of the trip that went smoothly...
Did I mention that on our trip in November I wasn't asked for ID for my boy? Apparently human lumps don't need it, but sick, miserable little 8 month-olds do. We haven't gotten around to ordering a copy of Simon's birth certificate yet. Fortunately, we were allowed to use his health card. Unfortunately, said card was apparently not in my new wallet where it was supposed to be. Oh, Crap. So given that the alternative was not taking the baby, the hubby rushed home to look in my jewelry box for the missing card- I was sure that's where it would be if it wasn't in my wallet. Too bad it wasn't.
Mommy and Baby got through security while Daddy went to find Baby's ID. Daddy called Mommy on her cell phone and told her he was going to have her killed; all he could find was a hospital card that said "Sparkes, Baby Boy (Kathleen)" and Mommy's birth certificate. That was going to have to be good enough. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that at this point "Sparkes, Baby Boy" was wailing the sad tale of his misery to the world, and the rest of the passengers in the waiting area were praying that they would be seated far, far away from Mommy and Baby. Or that we'd be in a padded room in the cargo hold. This is the part where Mommy started to cry.
I now know why passengers with babies are allowed to pre-board, and why we have assigned seats on planes. Otherwise it would be like that scene out of Forrest Gump, with people covering up empty seats, shaking their heads. "Ye cain't sit heah. Seat's tay-ken." Even the other babies in the waiting area were looking at Simon like, "Jeez, what's HIS problem?"
Then, the first bright spot on our journey- no one was seated beside us. The flight wasn't full, and everyone with a baby had three seats all to themselves. Three seats! We had hit the jackpot. And so had all of the other passengers. They all looked relieved when they found their seats, and they were not next to That Baby.
At least he didn't cry the whole flight. Please note that in that last sentence, the emphasis is on whole, as in "there were a few scattered moments, like when he was asleep, when he was not crying." The dose of Gravol I gave him, though it made him groggy, did not knock him out for as much of the trip as I had hoped it would. He was awake for most of the flight; to his credit, he seemed to be trying to be happy, but the crappiness of the cold was overwhelming. Landing was no fun, either, though I got him to suck his thumb, and that seemed to help. He was also awake for our entire stopover in Halifax (NOT the most exciting airport in the world) and for most of the second flight.
I was going to go into detail on the flights, our rough evening, and The Cold That Wouldn't Die, but you get the idea. We didn't have much fun. I did learn, however, that WestJet is (in the words of Bill and Ted) most excellent. Here's why:
1) the staff really ARE nicer than on most airlines, and very helpful.
2) they have little satellite TVs on the backs of the seats. This will keep even a sick and cranky baby occupied for 10 minutes. Also, it keeps other passengers' ears occupied with headsets instead of crying baby.
3) the flight attendants are hilarious. I actually paid attention to the safety demonstration because it was entertaining.
4) they gave us THREE SEATS. Three seats, people!
5) they did not crash the plane.
Oh, and about the health card? Yeah... the thing with new wallets is that sometimes you forget about little pockets in them. And then sometimes you find things in those pockets that would have been good to have three days ago. And then you decide not to tell your loving husband that you found said things in said pockets, because then he really would have you killed. Just sometimes.
* Sorry, I just can't bring myself to call it a "washroom." There's barely enough room to stand in there, let alone wash. Ditto for "bathroom", for obvious reasons.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Sleep
Holy Mary, mother of God, the child is still awake. We've been putting him to bed for over an hour now, and he's still not out. At least I don't have to blame myself; I'd rather blame the strange room (though he's been sleeping there for a week, now), teething, the cold he's still not over, alien death rays or just about anything other than our parenting skills.
Hang on... I don't hear him moaning right at this moment... that's a good sign. He's usually good about going to bed at night (if not always for naps), and I'm really thankful for that. I don't like leaving him to cry. I can do it for a few minutes, but when he really gets going, doing the "mama, mama, save me!" cry, the one that says it's just too much to bear, my heart breaks and I go to him, comfort him, and put him back down.
I know that I'm lucky to be able to do that at night- I don't have to go to a "real" job in the morning, and I can nap when he naps during the day if I need to. I don't know how parents do it who don't have that luxury. Yes, he's still getting up at night, though we've had full weeks when he didn't. I just learned this week that my brother's 5 month-old sleeps 12 hours straight through the night. As tired as I am, I'm not jealous. OK, maybe just a little (I can't remember getting that much interrupted sleep, and I'd probably cry at the memory if I could), but that's all.
I kind of like having our time together at night. Just a few minutes, usually around 4:30 in the morning; a quick feed and he's back to bed. I'm not usually completely awake, but I'm there enough to appreciate the warm little body cuddled into me, the long eyelashes resting on his big, round cheeks, and the soft breath on my neck as I carry him back to his room. Yes, I groan inside when he starts creaking and it wakes me up from a good dream. But soon he'll be a big boy, too big to need me for middle-of-the-night cuddles. For now, I'm trying to enjoy our time together*. I keep telling myself I'll sleep when I'm dead.
*(I hope I never have an opportunity to read this posting during a nighttime wake-a-thon; I'd probably smack myself for ever writing it.)
Hang on... I don't hear him moaning right at this moment... that's a good sign. He's usually good about going to bed at night (if not always for naps), and I'm really thankful for that. I don't like leaving him to cry. I can do it for a few minutes, but when he really gets going, doing the "mama, mama, save me!" cry, the one that says it's just too much to bear, my heart breaks and I go to him, comfort him, and put him back down.
I know that I'm lucky to be able to do that at night- I don't have to go to a "real" job in the morning, and I can nap when he naps during the day if I need to. I don't know how parents do it who don't have that luxury. Yes, he's still getting up at night, though we've had full weeks when he didn't. I just learned this week that my brother's 5 month-old sleeps 12 hours straight through the night. As tired as I am, I'm not jealous. OK, maybe just a little (I can't remember getting that much interrupted sleep, and I'd probably cry at the memory if I could), but that's all.
I kind of like having our time together at night. Just a few minutes, usually around 4:30 in the morning; a quick feed and he's back to bed. I'm not usually completely awake, but I'm there enough to appreciate the warm little body cuddled into me, the long eyelashes resting on his big, round cheeks, and the soft breath on my neck as I carry him back to his room. Yes, I groan inside when he starts creaking and it wakes me up from a good dream. But soon he'll be a big boy, too big to need me for middle-of-the-night cuddles. For now, I'm trying to enjoy our time together*. I keep telling myself I'll sleep when I'm dead.
*(I hope I never have an opportunity to read this posting during a nighttime wake-a-thon; I'd probably smack myself for ever writing it.)
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Misdiagnosis
There's a lot of information out there*. There's information available in books and magazines, from friends, family and raving lunatics on street-corners (who may or may not fall into one of the former categories) and of course, the internet. Want to know the circumference of the world's largest donut? Check the internet. Curious about the origin of the phrase "Stunned as me arse"? It's probably there somewhere. Desperate to know whether that oozing lump on your left butt-cheek is something you should have checked out? Well, you could go to the internet for that one, but I'm going to hazard a guess and say yes, go see your GP.
The doctor's office has a lot of information, too. We were there a few days ago inquiring about a) what to do if our poor baby caught my cold (which seems inevitable, really), and b) whether it is, in fact, appropriate to drug the poor lad for our upcoming flight to Ontario. Apparently it is, but that's not the issue here. The waiting room was FULL of information, most of it useless. One poster inquired, "Are you suffering from shingles? Are you over 50 years old?" I was reasonably sure I could answer "no" to both questions, so I didn't continue to read up on that particular medical study. The information's there if I want it, though.
I did, however, pick up a brochure which included a handy checklist that would tell me if I should speak to my doctor about the possibility that I might be suffering from Alzheimer's. Please bear in mind that I didn't really think I might have Alzheimer's; I'm just one of those people who has to be reading something any time I'm not otherwise completely occupied. I have stooped to reading shampoo bottles while I'm peeing just to have something to read. Once again, however, that's not the issue. Alzheimer's. I was talking about Alzheimer's, and the checklist...
1. Does the individual often repeat himself/herself or ask the same questions over and over?
(yes, but to be fair, it's only because I don't get a response the first time. Particularly if someone is watching the baseball game.)
2. Is the individual more forgetful, that is, having trouble with short-term memory?
(OK, we've been over this- it's mommy brain. Or, if you prefer, CRAFT disease: Can't Remember A Frigging Thing. I- wait, what was the question, again?)
3. Does the individual need reminders to do things like chores, shopping or taking medication?
(unusually only the unpleasant chores. Oh, wait, that's all of them. And I do keep forgetting to give the cat his antibiotics...)
....
6. Has the individual started having trouble doing calculations, managing finances or balancing the chequebook?
[ Started?! Since when did I not have trouble doing calculations? Have you seen my credit card statements this year? And doing what to the chequebook, now?]
....
11. Does the individual have difficulty finding words, finishing sentences or naming people or things?**
(That's it, I'm doomed. Last week I forgot what a "plate" was called, and I called the baby by the dog's name. This is the end.)
So, by the end of the checklist, I had (out of 11 questions) five yeses, four no's and one don't know. Hang on, that's only 10... make that 6 yeses (with an asterisk beside that one about trouble with calculations). Apparently five or more yeses means I should speak to my doctor about this, as an early diagnosis is vital to treatment success.
You know, maybe there is such a thing as too much information. I'm sure that this checklist could be helpful, even life-saving in the right circumstances. I'm also pretty sure that I don't have Alzheimer's at this time. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and say that I'm just tired, hormonal and naturally bad at math. You could go nuts with all this information, seeing pneumonia in the baby's every sniffle and Avian flu in every sneeze. New mommies are particularly susceptible to this, or so I've heard. It's good to be informed, but I think I'm going to leave diagnosis to the experts and try to get on with what's left of my life.
Now where did I put the baby?...
* Yeah, I know: Captain Obvious called, and he wants his shtick back. Thanks.
** If you're looking for the brochure, it's titled "Stay One Step Ahead" and is "Sponsored by one of Canada's leading research based pharmaceutical companies"
The doctor's office has a lot of information, too. We were there a few days ago inquiring about a) what to do if our poor baby caught my cold (which seems inevitable, really), and b) whether it is, in fact, appropriate to drug the poor lad for our upcoming flight to Ontario. Apparently it is, but that's not the issue here. The waiting room was FULL of information, most of it useless. One poster inquired, "Are you suffering from shingles? Are you over 50 years old?" I was reasonably sure I could answer "no" to both questions, so I didn't continue to read up on that particular medical study. The information's there if I want it, though.
I did, however, pick up a brochure which included a handy checklist that would tell me if I should speak to my doctor about the possibility that I might be suffering from Alzheimer's. Please bear in mind that I didn't really think I might have Alzheimer's; I'm just one of those people who has to be reading something any time I'm not otherwise completely occupied. I have stooped to reading shampoo bottles while I'm peeing just to have something to read. Once again, however, that's not the issue. Alzheimer's. I was talking about Alzheimer's, and the checklist...
1. Does the individual often repeat himself/herself or ask the same questions over and over?
(yes, but to be fair, it's only because I don't get a response the first time. Particularly if someone is watching the baseball game.)
2. Is the individual more forgetful, that is, having trouble with short-term memory?
(OK, we've been over this- it's mommy brain. Or, if you prefer, CRAFT disease: Can't Remember A Frigging Thing. I- wait, what was the question, again?)
3. Does the individual need reminders to do things like chores, shopping or taking medication?
(unusually only the unpleasant chores. Oh, wait, that's all of them. And I do keep forgetting to give the cat his antibiotics...)
....
6. Has the individual started having trouble doing calculations, managing finances or balancing the chequebook?
[ Started?! Since when did I not have trouble doing calculations? Have you seen my credit card statements this year? And doing what to the chequebook, now?]
....
11. Does the individual have difficulty finding words, finishing sentences or naming people or things?**
(That's it, I'm doomed. Last week I forgot what a "plate" was called, and I called the baby by the dog's name. This is the end.)
So, by the end of the checklist, I had (out of 11 questions) five yeses, four no's and one don't know. Hang on, that's only 10... make that 6 yeses (with an asterisk beside that one about trouble with calculations). Apparently five or more yeses means I should speak to my doctor about this, as an early diagnosis is vital to treatment success.
You know, maybe there is such a thing as too much information. I'm sure that this checklist could be helpful, even life-saving in the right circumstances. I'm also pretty sure that I don't have Alzheimer's at this time. In fact, I'm going to go ahead and say that I'm just tired, hormonal and naturally bad at math. You could go nuts with all this information, seeing pneumonia in the baby's every sniffle and Avian flu in every sneeze. New mommies are particularly susceptible to this, or so I've heard. It's good to be informed, but I think I'm going to leave diagnosis to the experts and try to get on with what's left of my life.
Now where did I put the baby?...
* Yeah, I know: Captain Obvious called, and he wants his shtick back. Thanks.
** If you're looking for the brochure, it's titled "Stay One Step Ahead" and is "Sponsored by one of Canada's leading research based pharmaceutical companies"
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Poetry
Since I've been home with my boy, I've found that life is a series of moments. I'm not being philosophical here, this is just a fact. I don't have grand, long-term plans or projects anymore; everything important, good or bad, seems to happen in little bits. The focus of my life is small, and so are the highlights of each day.
A few months ago I had a super-duper experience, and my brain turned it into a haiku (probably because I'm not a good enough writer to make any more difficult poetry). I ended up with:
Something smells awful.
Simon's ass has exploded.
Grossest poop ever.
I liked it. It spoke to me. And yes, I am aware that small things amuse small minds, so there's no need to tell me, thanks. Soon after came my next great burst of creativity:
Simon was cranky,
Then he puked all over me.
Now he is happy.
A friend suggested that I should write a book called "Gross Haikus That You Can Use", but I found out later that a mommy has already done a book of haikus about mommying (though I have to say that hers lack the lyrical vulgarity that mine have). Darned if I can think of what it's called, but it's out there. Still, I'm enjoying condensing my life into bite-sized morsels of haiku-y goodness, so I'm going to keep writing them. You can see The Daily Haiku (obviously not so good with the titles, either) at www.myhaikusthatyoucanuse.blogspot.com
Go ahead and look.
If you don't like my haikus,
you can just bite me.
Or just not look at that site again... but that didn't fit into the haiku.
A few months ago I had a super-duper experience, and my brain turned it into a haiku (probably because I'm not a good enough writer to make any more difficult poetry). I ended up with:
Something smells awful.
Simon's ass has exploded.
Grossest poop ever.
I liked it. It spoke to me. And yes, I am aware that small things amuse small minds, so there's no need to tell me, thanks. Soon after came my next great burst of creativity:
Simon was cranky,
Then he puked all over me.
Now he is happy.
A friend suggested that I should write a book called "Gross Haikus That You Can Use", but I found out later that a mommy has already done a book of haikus about mommying (though I have to say that hers lack the lyrical vulgarity that mine have). Darned if I can think of what it's called, but it's out there. Still, I'm enjoying condensing my life into bite-sized morsels of haiku-y goodness, so I'm going to keep writing them. You can see The Daily Haiku (obviously not so good with the titles, either) at www.myhaikusthatyoucanuse.blogspot.com
Go ahead and look.
If you don't like my haikus,
you can just bite me.
Or just not look at that site again... but that didn't fit into the haiku.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Man of Constant Sorrows (My Soggy-Bottom Boy)
Before I had my own baby, I couldn't change a diaper without gagging. I couldn't clean up dog poop from the back yard. I could barely clean out the litter box without wanting to barf. If I've accomplished anything in the last eight months, it's been strengthening my stomach to near super-human levels of non-gaggage. I've seen stuff that could make (and has made) grown men cry, I've been up to my elbows in messes that make the average mudslide look like an oasis of calm and purity, and it has all come out of the sweetest, most innocent looking little creature on earth- my baby boy.
Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.
Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...
We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.
Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!
After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.
Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.
Oh, the wonders I have seen. The books try to prepare you for meconium, the stuff that's not exactly poop, but which comes out of the little darling's bottom soon after birth. Apparently this mess should be greeted with happiness, as it indicates that everything is working well at that end of things. I think "shock and awe" would better describe our reaction. What the books call "greenish, slightly sticky waste" is, in fact, a thick, dark, tar-like substance that could probably be used to cover roofs and fill wall cracks in an emergency. I guess God figured that He'd just throw that at you right at the beginning, and then anything that followed would be relatively easy to deal with... that, or He just gets a good laugh out of our faces when we open that first precious package.
Even if the diaper's not dirty (which, let's face it, it probably is), the parents of a baby boy have other challenges to deal with. If you have a boy, you are officially a target. Actually, I got off easy- Daddy was the preferred target in this household when golden fountains were flowing sans diaper. There were times my little darling actually waited until Daddy was in range, smiled happily, and wheeeeee! No one has got it in the mouth yet, and I think we're almost past that stage. Famous last words...
We thought we were ready. We had bags of newborn-sized diapers all ready to go in the nursery. We had wipes. We had vaseline. We had done the obligatory giggling over how ridiculously tiny the diapers were (only to find later that they looked way too big when they were actually ON the baby). I had even put a diaper on a vaguely baby-shaped stuffed monkey to make sure I remembered how to do it, and to get the dog used to what I'd be spending so many hours doing in the near future. We were wrong. What seemed like a mountain of diapers was actually about a three-day supply, thanks to our new poop factory's charming habit of holding back just a little poo in hopes of soiling a fresh target. We weren't prepared for the rainbow-hued packages our boy would be leaving for us: green, black, even rusty-red. And the leaks- oh, the leaks! The diaper commercials promise Fort Knox security; the reality is wet sleepers, wet crib sheets, and wet Mommy. And it's not just pee leaks. No, when you get the leaks that leave poor baby with poop from neck to knees, pee leaks actually stert to look good. This, folks, is why God made babies so cute.
Just when things were getting predictable, we had to go and start giving him "real" food. Talk about weird colours!
After this much time and this much poop, I've gotten over the gagging thing. I can clean up a head-to-toe mess without cracking a window, though I still hold my breath on the big messes until I turn blue (which, coincidentally, is just about the only colour he hasn't produced yet). Daddy's not quite there; yesterday he got to change his first poop since his little buddy started eating solids, and judging by the "oh, Good Lord!"s and the gagging noises, I'd say he gained a new appreciation for my work.
Oh, but I still don't clean up the dog poop. That's just gross.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Silly Bill
I have this fear that I'm irreversibly messing my kid up. I know that everyone has that fear from time to time- nobody's perfect, therefore we're screwing up at something at any given moment. Parents are particularly prone to having this fear, maybe because there's so much at stake when we make mistakes. I don't think the poor little guy is going to end up in a bell tower with a shotgun or bouncing on Oprah's couch or anything. But given the environment he's growing up in, he's bound to be at least a little weird.
For one thing, the poor guy will have no idea what his name is. They (ooh, the infamous They) say that when your baby is looking in a mirror, you should say "Ooh, look at baby (insert child's name here)." This will presumably promote self-awareness. Too bad we've been calling Simon's reflection "nomiS" (i.e. Simon backwards, for anyone who missed that) since the first time they met. Apparently Simon and nomiS will grow up being the best of friends, but at no time will my baby go, "hey... that's me!". Also, the little guy has more nicknames than anyone I've ever met. It started out when he was a newborn in the hospital- for various reasons we started referring to him as "little monkey" and "turtle". Next came "Fartin' Martin", "Tootin' Newton", and "Gassy Gus" (notice a theme here?). His Daddy referred to him as "anger ball" when he got fussy. Lately he's earned himself the nickname "Silly Bill", and I seem to call him a weirdo at least 3 or 4 times a day. I really do try to use his name when I think of it- I'm pretty sure I say "I love you, Simon" more than "I love you, Bill."
He may or may not also develop some confusion about the correct names for things. Yesterday he was eating some exceptionally un-appetizing cereal with prunes mixed in, the sight of which prompted Daddy to encourage him to "eat your poop!" If this continues, I can see my poor baby either a) thinking that eating poop is not only acceptable, but encouraged in our household, or b) showing up at kindergarten telling his teacher that Daddy makes him eat poop. It's probably karma, actually. I once had a toddler in my mom's daycare convinced that the wallpaper in the kitchen was called "cereal". Or "sleeliuls", as he said it. Oh, come on... it was funny at the time, OK?
Another minor issue is the stuff he hears every day. We don't swear much (aside from the occasional "Bloody Hell!" from Daddy), and we try not to watch movies or TV shows with questionable content when Bill (oops) is around. Still, there's a good chance that his first full sentence is going to be "Otis, stop that or I'll kill you!" Won't that be cute in the grocery store?
There are worse things we could be doing, though. Simon, Nomis or Bill, at least he knows he's loved. The kid already has a great (if odd) sense of humour- he thinks it's hysterically funny when you tell him to go to sleep, and his giggles make me laugh even when I'm exhausted and desperate for him to have his nap. And at least his poop has 14 essential nutrients... I don't think we're really doing all that bad a job. Good old Bill might not grow up normal, but at least he's happy.
For one thing, the poor guy will have no idea what his name is. They (ooh, the infamous They) say that when your baby is looking in a mirror, you should say "Ooh, look at baby (insert child's name here)." This will presumably promote self-awareness. Too bad we've been calling Simon's reflection "nomiS" (i.e. Simon backwards, for anyone who missed that) since the first time they met. Apparently Simon and nomiS will grow up being the best of friends, but at no time will my baby go, "hey... that's me!". Also, the little guy has more nicknames than anyone I've ever met. It started out when he was a newborn in the hospital- for various reasons we started referring to him as "little monkey" and "turtle". Next came "Fartin' Martin", "Tootin' Newton", and "Gassy Gus" (notice a theme here?). His Daddy referred to him as "anger ball" when he got fussy. Lately he's earned himself the nickname "Silly Bill", and I seem to call him a weirdo at least 3 or 4 times a day. I really do try to use his name when I think of it- I'm pretty sure I say "I love you, Simon" more than "I love you, Bill."
He may or may not also develop some confusion about the correct names for things. Yesterday he was eating some exceptionally un-appetizing cereal with prunes mixed in, the sight of which prompted Daddy to encourage him to "eat your poop!" If this continues, I can see my poor baby either a) thinking that eating poop is not only acceptable, but encouraged in our household, or b) showing up at kindergarten telling his teacher that Daddy makes him eat poop. It's probably karma, actually. I once had a toddler in my mom's daycare convinced that the wallpaper in the kitchen was called "cereal". Or "sleeliuls", as he said it. Oh, come on... it was funny at the time, OK?
Another minor issue is the stuff he hears every day. We don't swear much (aside from the occasional "Bloody Hell!" from Daddy), and we try not to watch movies or TV shows with questionable content when Bill (oops) is around. Still, there's a good chance that his first full sentence is going to be "Otis, stop that or I'll kill you!" Won't that be cute in the grocery store?
There are worse things we could be doing, though. Simon, Nomis or Bill, at least he knows he's loved. The kid already has a great (if odd) sense of humour- he thinks it's hysterically funny when you tell him to go to sleep, and his giggles make me laugh even when I'm exhausted and desperate for him to have his nap. And at least his poop has 14 essential nutrients... I don't think we're really doing all that bad a job. Good old Bill might not grow up normal, but at least he's happy.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Sick, Sick, Sick
I need a day off. If I had a real job, seven (almost 8) months without a day off would be unthinkable. I might be getting into a heck of a lawsuit... and quite frankly, I could use the money. I get time off, though. I work odd shifts (7-10, 11:30-2, 4-7, on call 7-6 and all times between shifts), but nap times are nice. I'd like a sick day, though. Today would be a good sick day. Today I have a migraine. Not a regular headache like I get once or twice every week, but a full-blown, raging, pull-down-the-blinds, no-just-leave-the-toilet-open-please, shut-that-cat-up, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-at-the-COMPUTER migraine. My mom had them a lot when I was growing up, and they were always "quiet" days, though I don't remember them ever disrupting our lives. I think I can safely assume that she would have liked a few days off, too. It's 3:00 in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. To some people, pajamas in the afternoon is a luxury. For me, it's just sad.
But my little employer isn't offering to let me have the day off, and he's just a bit too young to appreciate my situation, anyway. Right now he's happily bouncing in his Jolly Jumper and probably wondering why we haven't been playing on the floor much today. The poor kid is quite likely enjoying a serious caffeine buzz; I've been consuming massive amounts of tea in an attempt to make the pain in my head go away, so he's enjoying un-deceive boobie lattes today. At least he's happy.
I won't be difficult to negotiate with on the days off thing, I swear. I don't even need regular days off; I'd probably spend them at home with my family, anyway. I'm even flexible on paid sick days- pay me the same for sick days as for regular work days, pay me nothing- it's all the same to me. No, really, it's the same. Deal? Hello? Well, think about it and get back to me. I'll be brewing a fresh pot of tea if you need me.
But my little employer isn't offering to let me have the day off, and he's just a bit too young to appreciate my situation, anyway. Right now he's happily bouncing in his Jolly Jumper and probably wondering why we haven't been playing on the floor much today. The poor kid is quite likely enjoying a serious caffeine buzz; I've been consuming massive amounts of tea in an attempt to make the pain in my head go away, so he's enjoying un-deceive boobie lattes today. At least he's happy.
I won't be difficult to negotiate with on the days off thing, I swear. I don't even need regular days off; I'd probably spend them at home with my family, anyway. I'm even flexible on paid sick days- pay me the same for sick days as for regular work days, pay me nothing- it's all the same to me. No, really, it's the same. Deal? Hello? Well, think about it and get back to me. I'll be brewing a fresh pot of tea if you need me.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Everybody's Mama
OK, so by now anyone who reads this blog (and most of you know me, anyway) knows that I am mommy to a lovely 7 1/2 month old boy who I love to bits. I realized yesterday, though, that I am actually not only his mommy, but everyone else's mommy as well.
Not everyone in the world, of course. Just in my household. The revelation hit me as I was cleaning the laundry room yesterday. It's not usually a big job, but in this case I was cleaning up after a sick cat had been shut in there for 24 hours. I'll spare you the messy details here; I'll just say that it wasn't pretty. Though I wasn't happy to be doing the job, I felt bad for my poor puss, and I wasn't angry at him for making the mess. I had visions of future nights to be spent sitting up with my own little man when he gets sick, cleaning up his messes and comforting him as best I can. It was later, while holding a sterile baby-food jar under said cat's back end, waiting for a urine sample, that I realized that this goes way beyond having an animal. I have always thought of the cat, Charlie, as sort of a furry roommate, but the truth is, I am a kitty mommy. Is there a support group for that?
And it's not just the cat, folks. I'm dealing with sibling rivalry on a daily basis from a dog who should be almost developmentally mature (please, Lord, let him be almost grown-up!), but who still acts like an 80 lb. baby. He gets attention in any way he can, whether that means lying on the baby's blanket during floor-play time or digging into the garbage while I'm busy feeding the little man. He tries to sit in my lap whenever it's free, which leads to some awkwardness (and occasional bruising).
As for the hubby... well, he doesn't read this blog, but I'm still not going to go into that today. He's not as bad as the rest, but he needs a lot of attention, too, not to mention nutritious lunches and clean clothes. At least he can tell me he appreciates it!
So I guess I'm everybody's mama. And I kind of like it that way. Yes, the dog makes me want to kill him at least four or five times a day, but he does keep the bed warm at night when he cuddles me. And though I'm not particularly fond of inhaling cat-pee fumes, it was pretty rewarding when Charlie climbed up on the sink, put his paws on my shoulders and rubbed his head under my chin- kind of a kitty hug. I'm already getting rewarding smiles from my "real" baby, and I know that while the challenges will get bigger as he grows up, so will the rewards. And the hubby- well, I don't know if he notices everything I do for him, but he tries to return the favour and take care of me when he can, and that's good enough for me... most days!
PS- Charlie has a diary... I know, I'm a big geek. If you want to see him, he's at www.catster.com/?270662
Not everyone in the world, of course. Just in my household. The revelation hit me as I was cleaning the laundry room yesterday. It's not usually a big job, but in this case I was cleaning up after a sick cat had been shut in there for 24 hours. I'll spare you the messy details here; I'll just say that it wasn't pretty. Though I wasn't happy to be doing the job, I felt bad for my poor puss, and I wasn't angry at him for making the mess. I had visions of future nights to be spent sitting up with my own little man when he gets sick, cleaning up his messes and comforting him as best I can. It was later, while holding a sterile baby-food jar under said cat's back end, waiting for a urine sample, that I realized that this goes way beyond having an animal. I have always thought of the cat, Charlie, as sort of a furry roommate, but the truth is, I am a kitty mommy. Is there a support group for that?
And it's not just the cat, folks. I'm dealing with sibling rivalry on a daily basis from a dog who should be almost developmentally mature (please, Lord, let him be almost grown-up!), but who still acts like an 80 lb. baby. He gets attention in any way he can, whether that means lying on the baby's blanket during floor-play time or digging into the garbage while I'm busy feeding the little man. He tries to sit in my lap whenever it's free, which leads to some awkwardness (and occasional bruising).
As for the hubby... well, he doesn't read this blog, but I'm still not going to go into that today. He's not as bad as the rest, but he needs a lot of attention, too, not to mention nutritious lunches and clean clothes. At least he can tell me he appreciates it!
So I guess I'm everybody's mama. And I kind of like it that way. Yes, the dog makes me want to kill him at least four or five times a day, but he does keep the bed warm at night when he cuddles me. And though I'm not particularly fond of inhaling cat-pee fumes, it was pretty rewarding when Charlie climbed up on the sink, put his paws on my shoulders and rubbed his head under my chin- kind of a kitty hug. I'm already getting rewarding smiles from my "real" baby, and I know that while the challenges will get bigger as he grows up, so will the rewards. And the hubby- well, I don't know if he notices everything I do for him, but he tries to return the favour and take care of me when he can, and that's good enough for me... most days!
PS- Charlie has a diary... I know, I'm a big geek. If you want to see him, he's at www.catster.com/?270662
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Conspiracy Theory
Listen carefully. The truth has been revealed to me in a dream. There is a conspiracy, and it concerns every woman of "child-bearing age" (ugh- I hate that term. Like you get your period and suddenly THAT's how you're defined?) and those who shop for them. What you are about to learn will shock and anger you. You have been warned.
Here's how the dream went, as far as I can remember: I'm sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe with my mom and her twin sister, Kathy. Kathy has been complaining about the back pain she has been suffering for years...
Kathy: My doctor told me there's really nothing they can do for me. They can't do surgery or anything... I guess I'll have to get my painkiller prescription refilled on the way home. I don't know what I'm going to do... [rubs her lower back]
Mom: [slamming her fist down on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware] That's it! This has been going on way too long! I went through the same thing, Kathy, and you need to know that there is a solution to your problem, but it's not one that They are going to tell you about...
At this point in the dream, mom tells us about The Tampon Industry and their Conspiracy. The details are a little fuzzy, but what it boils down to is this: My aunt's back pain, and that of millions of other women, is caused not by a back problem, but by a uterus problem. That's why back surgery will never help the pain, you see. The obvious solution (at least according to dream-logic) is to perform a hysterectomy on women suffering from this ailment, and all will be well. But someone is standing in the way of this solution. That's right: The Tampon Industry.
See, if women are all out getting hysterectomies to cure their back pain, where will that leave the Tampon Industry (or Big Tampon, as it will now be called)? They're making billions off of their over-priced product.
You may have wondered, as I have in waking life, "why do tampons cost so much, anyway?" Two answers: 1) What the hell are we going to do, boycott the product? I think not. 2) The Tampon Tax. In the dream, my mom whips out a pie chart. It looks a lot like the ones you see on gas pumps, the ones that break down a dollar spent on gas- materials, refining costs, profit... and TAX. The big piece of the pie. Yes, the government is in on the conspiracy, people! If women aren't buying tampons, the government isn't getting its tampon tax, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
"Oh, they're all in on it," Mom tells us in a whisper, stashing the pie chart. "Big Tampon, the government, even the doctors. You don't think they're getting paid off to keep the back pain thing a secret? Please. They're making millions off of this little secret they're keeping..."
That's all that I learned in my dream, and no more details came out in the nights that followed. Weird, right? And yet strangely plausible... listen, if I suddenly disappear, you know they came to shut me up.
PS- I'm not crazy. I am fully aware that this was just a dream, and unfortunately, it was a fairly typical one for me. Some day I'll have to tell you the "A Part of our Heritage" dream, with the Chinese immigrants in the hotel room... never mind.
PPS- I am also aware that this has nothing to do with mommyhood. Except for the part about "child bearing age". But really, wasn't this more fun than me whining about teething? I thought so.
Here's how the dream went, as far as I can remember: I'm sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe with my mom and her twin sister, Kathy. Kathy has been complaining about the back pain she has been suffering for years...
Kathy: My doctor told me there's really nothing they can do for me. They can't do surgery or anything... I guess I'll have to get my painkiller prescription refilled on the way home. I don't know what I'm going to do... [rubs her lower back]
Mom: [slamming her fist down on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware] That's it! This has been going on way too long! I went through the same thing, Kathy, and you need to know that there is a solution to your problem, but it's not one that They are going to tell you about...
At this point in the dream, mom tells us about The Tampon Industry and their Conspiracy. The details are a little fuzzy, but what it boils down to is this: My aunt's back pain, and that of millions of other women, is caused not by a back problem, but by a uterus problem. That's why back surgery will never help the pain, you see. The obvious solution (at least according to dream-logic) is to perform a hysterectomy on women suffering from this ailment, and all will be well. But someone is standing in the way of this solution. That's right: The Tampon Industry.
See, if women are all out getting hysterectomies to cure their back pain, where will that leave the Tampon Industry (or Big Tampon, as it will now be called)? They're making billions off of their over-priced product.
You may have wondered, as I have in waking life, "why do tampons cost so much, anyway?" Two answers: 1) What the hell are we going to do, boycott the product? I think not. 2) The Tampon Tax. In the dream, my mom whips out a pie chart. It looks a lot like the ones you see on gas pumps, the ones that break down a dollar spent on gas- materials, refining costs, profit... and TAX. The big piece of the pie. Yes, the government is in on the conspiracy, people! If women aren't buying tampons, the government isn't getting its tampon tax, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
"Oh, they're all in on it," Mom tells us in a whisper, stashing the pie chart. "Big Tampon, the government, even the doctors. You don't think they're getting paid off to keep the back pain thing a secret? Please. They're making millions off of this little secret they're keeping..."
That's all that I learned in my dream, and no more details came out in the nights that followed. Weird, right? And yet strangely plausible... listen, if I suddenly disappear, you know they came to shut me up.
PS- I'm not crazy. I am fully aware that this was just a dream, and unfortunately, it was a fairly typical one for me. Some day I'll have to tell you the "A Part of our Heritage" dream, with the Chinese immigrants in the hotel room... never mind.
PPS- I am also aware that this has nothing to do with mommyhood. Except for the part about "child bearing age". But really, wasn't this more fun than me whining about teething? I thought so.
Friday, March 10, 2006
How To Put a Baby to Bed (in Under 3 Hours)
According to parenting experts, all you need for happy bedtimes is a good evening routine. Here’s what that looks like in real life (at least some of the time):
6:30- Dinner time. Prepare various mushy foods and serve to baby. Shoo dog away from under the table, where he’s patiently waiting for flying food.
6:45- Remove food globs from baby’s high chair, hair, face, clothing, ears and nostrils. Wipe down all floors and furniture in a nine-foot radius of said high chair. Attempt to remove sticky streaks from own hair; quickly give up. Wish dog was around to help clean up.
6:50- Wonder whether any food actually got into baby.
7:00- Bathe baby in a warm tub of lavender-scented bubbles (to promote relaxation). Change into handy bathrobe after getting soaked by splashing, squirming baby, who is happy but obviously not relaxed.
7:10- put sweet-smelling baby in cute little footie pyjamas.
7:12- smell foul odour; notice stain spreading across back of baby’s pyjamas.
7:13- change slightly less sweet-smelling baby into clean jammies; start a load of laundry.
7:20- return to scheduled events. Story time: read Guess How Much I Love You and Goodnight Moon, gently removing books from baby’s mouth every few minutes. Marvel at baby’s obvious appreciation for literature.
7:30- Chase dog out of room after he starts growling at the ceiling for no apparent reason. Ignore the fact that he has stolen a sock and is carrying it away. Return to bed for last feed of the evening.
7:35- Yell in pain after being bitten by over-zealous teething baby; baby cries from fright. Cry from guilt (and fear of having scarred the poor child for life)
7:36- Husband runs in and comforts everyone. Back to scheduled events, once again...
7:35- Lullabye time. Try "rock-a-bye baby"; find self unable to finish due to realisation of how beastly the words are. Try "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star". Sudden attack of "mommy brain" causes memory loss- can’t finish song. Hum for a minute, then take it home with a stunning rendition of the theme song from "Friends".
7:45- first attempt at bed. Put baby down while he’s still awake (as per instructions in baby books). Head out to living room for quality time with husband.
7:50- hear strange noises- baby seems to be singing.
7:51- ... and now he’s crying. Pat him on the back- still crying. Pick him up- nope, still crying. Take another crack at "Twinkle, Twinkle"- baby starts laughing hysterically. Realise that he’s about a quarter-past overtired already. Put him back to bed.
8:00- Baby crying again. Have short "discussion" with the Hubby about whose turn it is to go in, as he did nap time this afternoon.
8:01- Hubby goes and walks baby to sleep. So much for putting him down awake, but at least he’s asleep.
8:30- Haul wailing baby to rocking chair in the living room; wish Hubby was watching a movie that did not involve gunfights and swearing. Return to baby’s bedroom to cuddle and sing. Give up on pacifier after he spits it out for the seventh time.
8:40- Resign self to life imprisonment in the baby’s room, singing self hoarse.
8:45- Baby’s eyes start to close. Hold breath...
8:46- Nope, they’re open again. Release breath and return to singing. Oh, there they go again...
8:50- Success! He’s finally asleep. Find self unable to put him down, after all- enjoy time to cuddle without any squirming, screaming or biting.
9:05- Put Baby down in crib. His eyes flutter open; offer hasty prayer that they’ll close again.
9:08- Offer prayer of thanks while backing out of the room and closing the door.
9:10- Collapse into living room chair, ready for quality time with patient and understanding husband.
9:15- Zzzzzzzz...........
See? Nothing to it.
......12:30 a.m. - Remember that load of laundry. Get out of bed to move laundry over to dryer, motivated entirely by guilt at the thought of mold growing all over poor baby's pyjamas. Peek in at sleeping baby- goodness, he does look sweet. It's good to be me.
6:30- Dinner time. Prepare various mushy foods and serve to baby. Shoo dog away from under the table, where he’s patiently waiting for flying food.
6:45- Remove food globs from baby’s high chair, hair, face, clothing, ears and nostrils. Wipe down all floors and furniture in a nine-foot radius of said high chair. Attempt to remove sticky streaks from own hair; quickly give up. Wish dog was around to help clean up.
6:50- Wonder whether any food actually got into baby.
7:00- Bathe baby in a warm tub of lavender-scented bubbles (to promote relaxation). Change into handy bathrobe after getting soaked by splashing, squirming baby, who is happy but obviously not relaxed.
7:10- put sweet-smelling baby in cute little footie pyjamas.
7:12- smell foul odour; notice stain spreading across back of baby’s pyjamas.
7:13- change slightly less sweet-smelling baby into clean jammies; start a load of laundry.
7:20- return to scheduled events. Story time: read Guess How Much I Love You and Goodnight Moon, gently removing books from baby’s mouth every few minutes. Marvel at baby’s obvious appreciation for literature.
7:30- Chase dog out of room after he starts growling at the ceiling for no apparent reason. Ignore the fact that he has stolen a sock and is carrying it away. Return to bed for last feed of the evening.
7:35- Yell in pain after being bitten by over-zealous teething baby; baby cries from fright. Cry from guilt (and fear of having scarred the poor child for life)
7:36- Husband runs in and comforts everyone. Back to scheduled events, once again...
7:35- Lullabye time. Try "rock-a-bye baby"; find self unable to finish due to realisation of how beastly the words are. Try "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star". Sudden attack of "mommy brain" causes memory loss- can’t finish song. Hum for a minute, then take it home with a stunning rendition of the theme song from "Friends".
7:45- first attempt at bed. Put baby down while he’s still awake (as per instructions in baby books). Head out to living room for quality time with husband.
7:50- hear strange noises- baby seems to be singing.
7:51- ... and now he’s crying. Pat him on the back- still crying. Pick him up- nope, still crying. Take another crack at "Twinkle, Twinkle"- baby starts laughing hysterically. Realise that he’s about a quarter-past overtired already. Put him back to bed.
8:00- Baby crying again. Have short "discussion" with the Hubby about whose turn it is to go in, as he did nap time this afternoon.
8:01- Hubby goes and walks baby to sleep. So much for putting him down awake, but at least he’s asleep.
8:30- Haul wailing baby to rocking chair in the living room; wish Hubby was watching a movie that did not involve gunfights and swearing. Return to baby’s bedroom to cuddle and sing. Give up on pacifier after he spits it out for the seventh time.
8:40- Resign self to life imprisonment in the baby’s room, singing self hoarse.
8:45- Baby’s eyes start to close. Hold breath...
8:46- Nope, they’re open again. Release breath and return to singing. Oh, there they go again...
8:50- Success! He’s finally asleep. Find self unable to put him down, after all- enjoy time to cuddle without any squirming, screaming or biting.
9:05- Put Baby down in crib. His eyes flutter open; offer hasty prayer that they’ll close again.
9:08- Offer prayer of thanks while backing out of the room and closing the door.
9:10- Collapse into living room chair, ready for quality time with patient and understanding husband.
9:15- Zzzzzzzz...........
See? Nothing to it.
......12:30 a.m. - Remember that load of laundry. Get out of bed to move laundry over to dryer, motivated entirely by guilt at the thought of mold growing all over poor baby's pyjamas. Peek in at sleeping baby- goodness, he does look sweet. It's good to be me.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Friends
If you read parenting magazines, you've probably noticed several common themes: potty training, bed sharing and whether it's still appropriate when the child in question is fifteen, and discipline (or lack thereof). And there's always a page or two devoted to the trials and tribulations of being a parent, including the lack of privacy, lack of sex life, lack of... well, you get the idea. The one that always worries me is the lack of friends issue. OK, not lack of friends, exactly, but the changes that friendships go through when one friend has a baby.
I've never had a lot of friends. I had a good group in high school that I hung out with, and my dorm-mates at university were an amazing group... but I've managed to lose touch with all but a special few of those people as our lives changed and went in different directions. I might as well be honest- I had lost touch with every one of my high school friends before we went back for our graduation ceremony in the fall. It's not that I don't care about my friends- I really do. I just don't notice how much time passes between letters or phone calls, and then I'm too embarassed to call and say, "hey, remember me?" I'm also not much good at meeting people. I'm shy, I'm generally a lousy conversationalist, at least until I get to know you. Then you can't shut me up.
That's why the idea of losing the friends I DO have is so worrisome. The magazines tell me that we're living in different worlds, now. I'll annoy my friends by talking incessantly about my baby, and they won't understand why I don't have time for partying... hang on. I never had time for partying. Well THAT'S a relief, anyway! Actually, I don't think it's a problem I need to worry about right now. Here's why:
I have great friends.
I'm not trying to suck up to anyone, this is just what's on my mind today. Mr. Cranky Pants and I went to the mall yesterday with a friend who (insert dramatic music here) doesn't have kids. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Little Mister makes shopping trips difficult, but my friend (heck, lets call her "Jenn") just goes with it. Have to go back to the little room at Sears to breastfeed? Sure, meet you back here in twenty minutes. Want a cup of tea, but the line at Tim Horton's stretches down the escalator and out the door? No problem, I'll stay here with the little guy. You get the idea. So yesterday I got adult conversation AND I got out of the house. It was great! Last week "Jenn" and her husband (hmm, what to call him?... "Chris" sounds good) invited me over for dinner while Mr. Me was at work. The food was amazing. The company was better. The baby was... crying. Not exactly an ideal accompaniment to a nice meal. But they've never made us feel bad about having to leave the table during a meal- heck, they offer to do it for us. Like I said, I have great friends. They love our boy, even when he's being a Cranky Pants. They go out of their way to get me out of the house and into adult company. That just doesn't sound to me like those friends the magazines talk about!
I've been blessed with friends here in town and half a country away who, even though they've got totally different things going on in their lives (and would probably be justified in dumping a friend who does, in fact, talk about the baby all the time), do their best to keep our friendship alive. Whether it's a trip to the mall or a conversation online with my roommate from school, they all keep me going however they can. I can't think of any way to repay their kindness, except to say that if you ever need me to get YOU out of the house, I'm there. And thanks for everything.
I'm the luckiest mommy in the world!
I've never had a lot of friends. I had a good group in high school that I hung out with, and my dorm-mates at university were an amazing group... but I've managed to lose touch with all but a special few of those people as our lives changed and went in different directions. I might as well be honest- I had lost touch with every one of my high school friends before we went back for our graduation ceremony in the fall. It's not that I don't care about my friends- I really do. I just don't notice how much time passes between letters or phone calls, and then I'm too embarassed to call and say, "hey, remember me?" I'm also not much good at meeting people. I'm shy, I'm generally a lousy conversationalist, at least until I get to know you. Then you can't shut me up.
That's why the idea of losing the friends I DO have is so worrisome. The magazines tell me that we're living in different worlds, now. I'll annoy my friends by talking incessantly about my baby, and they won't understand why I don't have time for partying... hang on. I never had time for partying. Well THAT'S a relief, anyway! Actually, I don't think it's a problem I need to worry about right now. Here's why:
I have great friends.
I'm not trying to suck up to anyone, this is just what's on my mind today. Mr. Cranky Pants and I went to the mall yesterday with a friend who (insert dramatic music here) doesn't have kids. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Little Mister makes shopping trips difficult, but my friend (heck, lets call her "Jenn") just goes with it. Have to go back to the little room at Sears to breastfeed? Sure, meet you back here in twenty minutes. Want a cup of tea, but the line at Tim Horton's stretches down the escalator and out the door? No problem, I'll stay here with the little guy. You get the idea. So yesterday I got adult conversation AND I got out of the house. It was great! Last week "Jenn" and her husband (hmm, what to call him?... "Chris" sounds good) invited me over for dinner while Mr. Me was at work. The food was amazing. The company was better. The baby was... crying. Not exactly an ideal accompaniment to a nice meal. But they've never made us feel bad about having to leave the table during a meal- heck, they offer to do it for us. Like I said, I have great friends. They love our boy, even when he's being a Cranky Pants. They go out of their way to get me out of the house and into adult company. That just doesn't sound to me like those friends the magazines talk about!
I've been blessed with friends here in town and half a country away who, even though they've got totally different things going on in their lives (and would probably be justified in dumping a friend who does, in fact, talk about the baby all the time), do their best to keep our friendship alive. Whether it's a trip to the mall or a conversation online with my roommate from school, they all keep me going however they can. I can't think of any way to repay their kindness, except to say that if you ever need me to get YOU out of the house, I'm there. And thanks for everything.
I'm the luckiest mommy in the world!
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