Sometimes I wonder how people get the jobs they do. I wonder what they said or did in the interview that gave the employer the confidence that this person could indeed do they job they claim they can do. Once, at the private school at which I taught, an English teacher was fired because she claimed on her resume to have been published in Time Magazine and to have held some professorship somewhere. One would think the decision-makers would have checked these "facts" prior to hiring her, but somehow in Education, that doesn't always happen. It wasn't until a student's parent who actually did teach at the college the teacher claimed to have been on staff at, outted her as a liar, that she was escorted from the building and out of our lives. Why don't employers check more carefully before handing over a job to a moron?
Yesterday I was out to lunch with my friend Amy. I fed Ethan, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Ethan behaved like a pro. The waiter, however, seemed to be under the influence of something that made him very, very stupid. Whether he was sneaking out back to smoke up or he was naturally just that vacuous, we'll never know. But believe me when I say that he rivalled the dumbest of the dumb.
I am no one to complain about bad restaurant service; being a waitress would have to be one of my biggest nightmares. I doubt I would last through one night, what with the keeping track of who ordered what, remembering to smile, carrying giant plates of food without dropping stuff and let's not forget the math involved in settling checks. BUT...
He seemed utterly confused that we wanted food at all in the first place. "Can't you people just sit here quietly for awhile, then get up and leave?" Taking our orders seemed to confuse and pain him, even though it was as simple as "I'll have spaghetti and meatballs." Amy ordered spaghetti and meatballs. He asked if she wanted Alfredo sauce on it. Alfredo on meatballs?? i.c.k. He returned to our table no fewer than three times to reassure himself that he had our orders correct. Seriously...spaghetti and meatballs, people. And he wrote it down...this was not a fancy, "I'm so skilled I can recall your 5 course order off the top of my head. Go ahead make substitutions, I can handle it" sort of place. It was Bertucci's.
We were at a "bottomless salad bowl" place--he brought us two separate salads that had definite bottoms to them. Huh??? We longingly watched the table-sized bowls go by on other waiters' trays and cursed the lucky patrons who got that waiter. When Amy asked for more salad, our waiter seemed offended that we didn't appreciate what he clearly saw as the "individualized attention" he was giving us by deciding for us how much salad we were allowed to have. Finally, he caved (seriously, we had to put our collective foot down about the more salad thing), and brought us the "to be shared" bowl of salad.
When our entrees arrived, he stood at the table, holding each bowl up, hesitating, clearly unable to remember which one of us got what. Even after the whole "do you want alfredo sauce on your spaghetti and meatballs?" query to Amy, he didn't remember it was her who got the spaghetti and meatballs---with tomato sauce. We had to remind him. Please keep in mind, he had only taken the order moments earlier. It was lunchtime; you know there was no chef out back preparing each meal individually and taking 30 minutes to do so. All he had to do was reach into the big vat of spaghetti, put it in the bowl and bring it to the table.
By the time we had finished eating, Little E decided he was no longer content to nap quietly in his stroller and needed to hang out in mom's arms. That's fine, right? No problem to have a 3 month old lounging in mom's arms at a restaurant after a meal, right?
Well...unless your waiter decides to come over to the table and clears it by attempting to balance every plate, glass and utensil in one hand, creating a potential scenario in which plates, glasses and knives fly everywhere within inches of said 3 month old. Amy and I sat there, unable to see eachother through the "leaning tower of tablewear", but when the waiter walked away, our expressions said the same thing..."I cannot even believe this guy is for real!"
I left the restaurant irritated at the lousy service, but on the other hand, relieved to find that there really is something out there more incompetent than my cervix...
Friday, August 25, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Sleep Blogging...
Two quick notes before I begin:
1. CONGRATS to blogger KMW, of www.mycerclage.com, and her husband. After months of anticipation and cerclage-y fun, they welcomed their baby boy into the world this week. Welcome, baby boy KMW!!
2. On a far less significant note, the slab of beef I threw into the crockpot yesterday turned out to be edible, and depending on the morsel of meat on your fork at any given minute, pretty tasty indeed. Some bites were like a mouthful of sand and I'm definitely not getting my own Food Network cooking show anytime soon, but at least it kept the pizza delivery guy from darkening our doorstep.
Now, onto my intended rant for the day...
Last night after getting up for the 4am feeding, I lay back down, my brain all abuzz with something that I apparently thought would be an excellent blog topic. I distinctly recall writing and revising said post in my head, in expansive detail, cracking myself up all the while. I remember thinking, "I should really get up, go downstairs and write this up now, so I don't forget it all." Then I thought, "How would I ever forget this gem? It's the best blog entry I've ever written!!" and drifted contentedly to sleep.
This is called "sleep blogging", because, internet, you know damn well I woke up this morning with absolutely NO idea what my greatest blog entry ever was actually about. I have only the vaguest memory that there was an idea, it was fantastic, and nearly completely written inside my head and now, alas, it is gone...lost somewhere in the recesses of the unused 90% of my human brain, never to be heard from again.
so instead, here--have a picture of the little man practicing his tummy time....
1. CONGRATS to blogger KMW, of www.mycerclage.com, and her husband. After months of anticipation and cerclage-y fun, they welcomed their baby boy into the world this week. Welcome, baby boy KMW!!
2. On a far less significant note, the slab of beef I threw into the crockpot yesterday turned out to be edible, and depending on the morsel of meat on your fork at any given minute, pretty tasty indeed. Some bites were like a mouthful of sand and I'm definitely not getting my own Food Network cooking show anytime soon, but at least it kept the pizza delivery guy from darkening our doorstep.
Now, onto my intended rant for the day...
Last night after getting up for the 4am feeding, I lay back down, my brain all abuzz with something that I apparently thought would be an excellent blog topic. I distinctly recall writing and revising said post in my head, in expansive detail, cracking myself up all the while. I remember thinking, "I should really get up, go downstairs and write this up now, so I don't forget it all." Then I thought, "How would I ever forget this gem? It's the best blog entry I've ever written!!" and drifted contentedly to sleep.
This is called "sleep blogging", because, internet, you know damn well I woke up this morning with absolutely NO idea what my greatest blog entry ever was actually about. I have only the vaguest memory that there was an idea, it was fantastic, and nearly completely written inside my head and now, alas, it is gone...lost somewhere in the recesses of the unused 90% of my human brain, never to be heard from again.
so instead, here--have a picture of the little man practicing his tummy time....
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
What a Crock
So when Husband and I got engaged, we partook in the time-honored tradition of gift-grubbing, I mean, registering for a variety of house-hold goods, the vast majority of which, we neither needed nor had the space for. (By the way, could I have more hyphenated words in that sentence?)
Something came over me when as we walked through the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond. Maybe it was the heady power of toting the sku-gun (another hyphen!) or the shiney, shiney small appliances, but something akin to a really out of control sugar rush, or a dose of terbutaline (remember those??!) came over me and I suddenly needed one of everything, and it all needed to be stainless steel. Mini-food processor, cooking utensils and holder, measuring cups. I became a simple, simple girl who just wanted shiney stuff. And shiney stuff I got.
One of the shiney gifts Husband and I received was a crock pot. Neither of us knew a thing about cooking in a crock pot--is it called 'crock pottery'? I don't know. I'd never used one. I have no idea why I registered for one. The combination of the glinting stainless steel finish and the desire to channel a "short cut" version of June Cleaver in my new identity as wife? Who knows. There was something intriguing about throwing a bunch of ingredients into a pot, pressing a button and then coming back 12 hours later to...a meal. Isn't that just one step away from putting a little pill on a plate, wetting it with three drops of water and having an entire meal just sprout up before your eyes? That only happens in cartoons, but a crock pot! That's real life!
So after countless trips to the "pre-prepared meal" and sushi sections of our local Whole Foods, I decided enough was enough. I was never going to channel June Cleaver with these yuppy urban habits of mine. Something had to change.
Out comes the crock pot...and in goes a big chunk of meat. Meat and potatoes and carrots and mushrooms and celery and onion. There was some confusion about the whole "coat the meat in flour and brown it" segment of the directions...a giant pot roast looks pretty stupid in a frying pan; and then there's the issue of how do you turn a big old slab of meat like that without spattering fat all over the place? Spatulas seem inadequate.
And how do you coat a big old hunk of meat with flour? I think I might have channelled Lucille Ball more than June Cleaver. I realize now that perhaps I should have taken the roast out of the frying pan and rolled it around in the flour, but instead I sort of tossed flour on the roast as it sat in the pan, then rolled it over a little with the aforementioned inadequate spatula and tossed more flour on it. There was a lot of flour flying in my kitchen this morning at 8:30. And I noticed that flour and beef juice makes a glue that is really hard to dig out from under your fingernails. Good times...
And so we wait. For pot roast or the pizza delivery guy...
Something came over me when as we walked through the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond. Maybe it was the heady power of toting the sku-gun (another hyphen!) or the shiney, shiney small appliances, but something akin to a really out of control sugar rush, or a dose of terbutaline (remember those??!) came over me and I suddenly needed one of everything, and it all needed to be stainless steel. Mini-food processor, cooking utensils and holder, measuring cups. I became a simple, simple girl who just wanted shiney stuff. And shiney stuff I got.
One of the shiney gifts Husband and I received was a crock pot. Neither of us knew a thing about cooking in a crock pot--is it called 'crock pottery'? I don't know. I'd never used one. I have no idea why I registered for one. The combination of the glinting stainless steel finish and the desire to channel a "short cut" version of June Cleaver in my new identity as wife? Who knows. There was something intriguing about throwing a bunch of ingredients into a pot, pressing a button and then coming back 12 hours later to...a meal. Isn't that just one step away from putting a little pill on a plate, wetting it with three drops of water and having an entire meal just sprout up before your eyes? That only happens in cartoons, but a crock pot! That's real life!
So after countless trips to the "pre-prepared meal" and sushi sections of our local Whole Foods, I decided enough was enough. I was never going to channel June Cleaver with these yuppy urban habits of mine. Something had to change.
Out comes the crock pot...and in goes a big chunk of meat. Meat and potatoes and carrots and mushrooms and celery and onion. There was some confusion about the whole "coat the meat in flour and brown it" segment of the directions...a giant pot roast looks pretty stupid in a frying pan; and then there's the issue of how do you turn a big old slab of meat like that without spattering fat all over the place? Spatulas seem inadequate.
And how do you coat a big old hunk of meat with flour? I think I might have channelled Lucille Ball more than June Cleaver. I realize now that perhaps I should have taken the roast out of the frying pan and rolled it around in the flour, but instead I sort of tossed flour on the roast as it sat in the pan, then rolled it over a little with the aforementioned inadequate spatula and tossed more flour on it. There was a lot of flour flying in my kitchen this morning at 8:30. And I noticed that flour and beef juice makes a glue that is really hard to dig out from under your fingernails. Good times...
And so we wait. For pot roast or the pizza delivery guy...
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Eat here, Get gas....
Aside from the fact that people are still trying to blow up planes, and this time with such materials as will necessitate my tasting my own breastmilk going through security to prove it's not an incendiary device, I have found yet more reasons to avoid contact with the outside world.
1. Bug bites. Before Ethan was a little peapod in my belly, I had some sort of anti-bug force field surrounding me which prevented me from being bitten by mosquitos or bugs of any kind. I swear, I had citronella coursing through my veins or something. It was fabulous--while those around me were swatting unsuccessfully at the hungry little buzzers and welting up under the onslaught, I sat undisturbed in the summer twilights, sipping my beer, not a blood-sucker in sight.
Fast-forward to this past weekend, where I spent both Saturday and Sunday evenings outside with friends. Apparently pregnancy does something to one's body chemistry (go figure--as if the horrifyingly expanding butt isn't enough of a slap in the face); if my body were a mosquito restaurant, it would have been sporting a neon sign, flasing the words, "Under New Management". Whatever went on in my body during pregnancy turned me into an irresistible culinary temptation for those disgusting little pests. I am awash in little red itchy welts.
I cannot adequately explain what a shock to the system bug bites are to a person unaccustomed to being an all-you-can-eat buffet to mosquitos. There isn't enough hydrocortizone cream or calomine lotion to take away the urge to scratch. There are about four bites on my left foot and at least ten times a day I am tempted to chew off my own foot at the ankle to get some relief.
And on top of my own agony, yesterday as I was admiring my napping little E, I noticed a tell-tale red bump on his otherwise perfectly soft and kissable forehead. A BUGBITE ON MY BABY???!! OH NO, THEY DIDN'T!! My poor little man, accosted by those heartless blood-sucking fiends!!! He, of course, shows no sign of even being aware of its existence and he certainly isn't Itchy McScratcherson like me, but STILL! A BUGBITE ON MY BABY, PEOPLE!!
When I'm done over-reacting, I'm sure I'll notice the vampire-like speed with which his skin bounces back and is once again bite-free. I am amazed by how quickly babies heal from scratches, acne and bug bites. Ethan can wake up with a patch of acne that on a teenager would require two weeks and an entire bottle of pro-activ to combat it; by lunchtime that patch of skin is again as smooth as....well, as smooth as his butt.
Speaking of his butt....I come to reason #2 why I should just stay home....
2. It wasn't me; it was the kid! My son has quite the talent. He passes gas like it was his job. He could enter a fraternity sponsered farting contest and put the beer-guzzling meat-heads to shame. He is good. In both volume and duration, it is a marvel; I had no idea babies were capable of such adult sounding bodily functions. It reminds me of that adorable one-toothed, diapered baby in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", who looks so cute and cuddly when the camera is rolling and the second they shout, "Cut!", he is swearing like a sailor and smoking a cigar. That's my boy.
It's funny, but not so funny when you are, oh, I don't know, say, in Target, pushing the baby through the photo album aisle when he decides to let one rip. Especially when that aisle is full of people. People who couldn't possibly believe that the raging fart just ripped could come from that adorable little baby boy in the cart. People who believe it came from that vile. disgusting. shameless woman pushing the cart. Even when you smile at baby and say, "Goodness, little man! Excuse you!", they look at you like they aren't quite sure they believe you; like you might be the type of person who would pass loud, rambling gas in public and then blame it on an innocent, sweet infant. For shame....
So, to avoid the swarming mosquitos and the giant Scarlet "F", I think it's probably best if I stay inside until bug season is over and the bulk of winter clothing muffles my son's butt music...
1. Bug bites. Before Ethan was a little peapod in my belly, I had some sort of anti-bug force field surrounding me which prevented me from being bitten by mosquitos or bugs of any kind. I swear, I had citronella coursing through my veins or something. It was fabulous--while those around me were swatting unsuccessfully at the hungry little buzzers and welting up under the onslaught, I sat undisturbed in the summer twilights, sipping my beer, not a blood-sucker in sight.
Fast-forward to this past weekend, where I spent both Saturday and Sunday evenings outside with friends. Apparently pregnancy does something to one's body chemistry (go figure--as if the horrifyingly expanding butt isn't enough of a slap in the face); if my body were a mosquito restaurant, it would have been sporting a neon sign, flasing the words, "Under New Management". Whatever went on in my body during pregnancy turned me into an irresistible culinary temptation for those disgusting little pests. I am awash in little red itchy welts.
I cannot adequately explain what a shock to the system bug bites are to a person unaccustomed to being an all-you-can-eat buffet to mosquitos. There isn't enough hydrocortizone cream or calomine lotion to take away the urge to scratch. There are about four bites on my left foot and at least ten times a day I am tempted to chew off my own foot at the ankle to get some relief.
And on top of my own agony, yesterday as I was admiring my napping little E, I noticed a tell-tale red bump on his otherwise perfectly soft and kissable forehead. A BUGBITE ON MY BABY???!! OH NO, THEY DIDN'T!! My poor little man, accosted by those heartless blood-sucking fiends!!! He, of course, shows no sign of even being aware of its existence and he certainly isn't Itchy McScratcherson like me, but STILL! A BUGBITE ON MY BABY, PEOPLE!!
When I'm done over-reacting, I'm sure I'll notice the vampire-like speed with which his skin bounces back and is once again bite-free. I am amazed by how quickly babies heal from scratches, acne and bug bites. Ethan can wake up with a patch of acne that on a teenager would require two weeks and an entire bottle of pro-activ to combat it; by lunchtime that patch of skin is again as smooth as....well, as smooth as his butt.
Speaking of his butt....I come to reason #2 why I should just stay home....
2. It wasn't me; it was the kid! My son has quite the talent. He passes gas like it was his job. He could enter a fraternity sponsered farting contest and put the beer-guzzling meat-heads to shame. He is good. In both volume and duration, it is a marvel; I had no idea babies were capable of such adult sounding bodily functions. It reminds me of that adorable one-toothed, diapered baby in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", who looks so cute and cuddly when the camera is rolling and the second they shout, "Cut!", he is swearing like a sailor and smoking a cigar. That's my boy.
It's funny, but not so funny when you are, oh, I don't know, say, in Target, pushing the baby through the photo album aisle when he decides to let one rip. Especially when that aisle is full of people. People who couldn't possibly believe that the raging fart just ripped could come from that adorable little baby boy in the cart. People who believe it came from that vile. disgusting. shameless woman pushing the cart. Even when you smile at baby and say, "Goodness, little man! Excuse you!", they look at you like they aren't quite sure they believe you; like you might be the type of person who would pass loud, rambling gas in public and then blame it on an innocent, sweet infant. For shame....
So, to avoid the swarming mosquitos and the giant Scarlet "F", I think it's probably best if I stay inside until bug season is over and the bulk of winter clothing muffles my son's butt music...
Sunday, August 13, 2006
You'll Be Hungry Again in an Hour...
Scene: I am changing Squirmy E at the wrong time. One can never tell when the surprise poop attack will sneak up on you. As I reach for the wipes, I hear the explosion. Then I see the results of it on the changing table. The following dialogue takes place...
Me: "Husband, you have to come see this! It looks like...like hot & sour soup!"
Husband walks casually into the room. Surveys the hot & sour soup like poo.
Husband: "We haven't had Chinese for a long time. We should order in Chinese tonight"
Husband casually walks out of nursery and back up to his office.
Clearly we need to get out more...
Me: "Husband, you have to come see this! It looks like...like hot & sour soup!"
Husband walks casually into the room. Surveys the hot & sour soup like poo.
Husband: "We haven't had Chinese for a long time. We should order in Chinese tonight"
Husband casually walks out of nursery and back up to his office.
Clearly we need to get out more...
Friday, August 11, 2006
Three Months & Some Change...
Dear Ethan,
So I couldn't do my little monthly musing on the actual day you turned 3 months; forgive Mommy, she's been a little under the weather & on that day, a nap, rather than blogging, seemed essential to her very survival. But I am here now...
This month, as the other two, has flown by at an unbelievable pace. Partly I think it's because I was sick for almost half of the month, but also because I am realizing that when you fall madly in love with someone and want to squeeze the most out of every second together, the time/space continuum plays a dirty trick on you and speeds things up, so everything seems to whisk by before you've even noticed it.
Your Daddy and I are amazed at how much you are changing every day these days. Yesterday I decided to start packing up some of your preemie clothing, which stopped fitting you about 5 lbs ago. Being the big old sap that I am, I held up my favorite preemie outfit against you as you lay in your crib--it's neck came up to the middle of your chest--it was just so tiny. I can hardly believe you were ever that itty bitty, now that you are tipping the scales at about 10 lbs and turning into a pudgy little baby.
Your hair, which when you were born reminded us of a middle-aged comb over, continues to grow and fill in, leaving us wondering just what color it is going to be when it decides to settle down. It is dark, seemingly brown, but in certain lights it has mahogany red highlights in it that leave us wondering if a couple days in the sun might not turn you into the elusive redhead that hides within our families' genepools. It also has quite the mind of its own in terms of its daily style. Your pediatrician likes to take the hair on the top of your head and spike it up while he examines you (we LOVE him). Yesterday you had a bit of a "flock of seagulls" thing going on--a baby pompadour, if you will....you are stylin', my little man.
Your eyes are doing their slow change from deep blue to whatever color they are going to be. In some lights, they are already a honey brown. In others they are grey, greenish or still clinging to the blue they have no hope of retaining. Regardless of their color, they have been so attentive the past several weeks, watching Mommy and Daddy (particularly Daddy) so carefully. You make eye contact like never before and you watch our mouths as we talk to you. You have also developed a love of the TV; I hope it is the bright lights and primary colors that attract your infant eyes as opposed to the initial signs of a couch potato in the making. Please rebel against mommy and daddy in the future by watching way less TV than we do; if it weren't for TiVo, we might leave the house more often. Or maybe not. We try not to let you watch it, but sometimes when we are holding you, you manage to sneak a peak. I see years of "Don't sit so close to the TV; you'll hurt your eyes!!" in my future.
A couple weeks ago you did something amazing. You insisted on nursing basically every hour during the day for almost two days straight. Then you slept almost an entire day. When you woke up the next day, you were a new little boy, with smiles and half-giggles and an entirely new awareness of and interest in your toys. Rather than crying yourself awake in the morning, I got a real smile as you woke for the day and saw me coming to get you. Instead of 3-4 minutes on your play mat before melting down and needing to be rocked for hours on end, you now enjoy 10-15 minutes of kicking and exploring on the mat, bouncy seat or swing before needing to be rocked for hours on end (that hasn't changed so much). It's so much fun to watch you explore and imagine what is going on in that little baby brain of yours.
Then Mommy got sick and went to the hospital; those were the hardest days of parenthood so far for me. Mainly because I practically stopped being a parent. The day we went to the ER, my fever was 104 and I thought I MIGHT stay overnight one night. If I had known that I was going to be dragged into a blackhole of medicinal incompetence that would take me from you for six days and render my boobs virtually useless, I would have just packed myself in ice and taken the antibiotics I'd been given by my OB.
Since being home, we've had to readjust to eachother. Daddy did such a good job taking care of you while I was away that we really had to find our rhythm again and it took a little time. Of course, that's mainly because the milk-machine was on the fritz. Pumping and nursing weren't very compatible with a raging fever and short daily visits, so the boobs just about completely forgot that they have a job to do. We're working on getting the factory going again, ramping up production and working overtime. We have good days where everything is going to be fine and bad days that remind me of the very first times we tried to nurse. We are only at three months; I hope we get to the six month exclusive mark; the last week or so has really challenged that goal, but we're sticking with it.
Speaking of sticking with it, this is sort of a 3 month and 3 day thing, but your tummy time paid off earlier this week and you ROLLED OVER!!! Of course, I screamed at your daddy to come see, but not only was it all over by the time he got there, but your daddy nearly killed himself running down the stairs because he didn't know what I was carrying on about. Ooops. It was so exciting, though, to see you set your mind to something and accomplish it! Once you got over, you just sort of laid there, relieved it was over and happy to stare at your lamby mobile going round and round---you love that thing!
No pictures this time around, just because I want to get this published already and blogger's been a bitch about pictures lately. You know there are already albums filled with pictures of you! Next month I promise I'll be more on the ball and get your monthly update done before you head off to college...
Mommy and Daddy love you more and more everyday. I can't wait to see what the next month has in store for us!
So I couldn't do my little monthly musing on the actual day you turned 3 months; forgive Mommy, she's been a little under the weather & on that day, a nap, rather than blogging, seemed essential to her very survival. But I am here now...
This month, as the other two, has flown by at an unbelievable pace. Partly I think it's because I was sick for almost half of the month, but also because I am realizing that when you fall madly in love with someone and want to squeeze the most out of every second together, the time/space continuum plays a dirty trick on you and speeds things up, so everything seems to whisk by before you've even noticed it.
Your Daddy and I are amazed at how much you are changing every day these days. Yesterday I decided to start packing up some of your preemie clothing, which stopped fitting you about 5 lbs ago. Being the big old sap that I am, I held up my favorite preemie outfit against you as you lay in your crib--it's neck came up to the middle of your chest--it was just so tiny. I can hardly believe you were ever that itty bitty, now that you are tipping the scales at about 10 lbs and turning into a pudgy little baby.
Your hair, which when you were born reminded us of a middle-aged comb over, continues to grow and fill in, leaving us wondering just what color it is going to be when it decides to settle down. It is dark, seemingly brown, but in certain lights it has mahogany red highlights in it that leave us wondering if a couple days in the sun might not turn you into the elusive redhead that hides within our families' genepools. It also has quite the mind of its own in terms of its daily style. Your pediatrician likes to take the hair on the top of your head and spike it up while he examines you (we LOVE him). Yesterday you had a bit of a "flock of seagulls" thing going on--a baby pompadour, if you will....you are stylin', my little man.
Your eyes are doing their slow change from deep blue to whatever color they are going to be. In some lights, they are already a honey brown. In others they are grey, greenish or still clinging to the blue they have no hope of retaining. Regardless of their color, they have been so attentive the past several weeks, watching Mommy and Daddy (particularly Daddy) so carefully. You make eye contact like never before and you watch our mouths as we talk to you. You have also developed a love of the TV; I hope it is the bright lights and primary colors that attract your infant eyes as opposed to the initial signs of a couch potato in the making. Please rebel against mommy and daddy in the future by watching way less TV than we do; if it weren't for TiVo, we might leave the house more often. Or maybe not. We try not to let you watch it, but sometimes when we are holding you, you manage to sneak a peak. I see years of "Don't sit so close to the TV; you'll hurt your eyes!!" in my future.
A couple weeks ago you did something amazing. You insisted on nursing basically every hour during the day for almost two days straight. Then you slept almost an entire day. When you woke up the next day, you were a new little boy, with smiles and half-giggles and an entirely new awareness of and interest in your toys. Rather than crying yourself awake in the morning, I got a real smile as you woke for the day and saw me coming to get you. Instead of 3-4 minutes on your play mat before melting down and needing to be rocked for hours on end, you now enjoy 10-15 minutes of kicking and exploring on the mat, bouncy seat or swing before needing to be rocked for hours on end (that hasn't changed so much). It's so much fun to watch you explore and imagine what is going on in that little baby brain of yours.
Then Mommy got sick and went to the hospital; those were the hardest days of parenthood so far for me. Mainly because I practically stopped being a parent. The day we went to the ER, my fever was 104 and I thought I MIGHT stay overnight one night. If I had known that I was going to be dragged into a blackhole of medicinal incompetence that would take me from you for six days and render my boobs virtually useless, I would have just packed myself in ice and taken the antibiotics I'd been given by my OB.
Since being home, we've had to readjust to eachother. Daddy did such a good job taking care of you while I was away that we really had to find our rhythm again and it took a little time. Of course, that's mainly because the milk-machine was on the fritz. Pumping and nursing weren't very compatible with a raging fever and short daily visits, so the boobs just about completely forgot that they have a job to do. We're working on getting the factory going again, ramping up production and working overtime. We have good days where everything is going to be fine and bad days that remind me of the very first times we tried to nurse. We are only at three months; I hope we get to the six month exclusive mark; the last week or so has really challenged that goal, but we're sticking with it.
Speaking of sticking with it, this is sort of a 3 month and 3 day thing, but your tummy time paid off earlier this week and you ROLLED OVER!!! Of course, I screamed at your daddy to come see, but not only was it all over by the time he got there, but your daddy nearly killed himself running down the stairs because he didn't know what I was carrying on about. Ooops. It was so exciting, though, to see you set your mind to something and accomplish it! Once you got over, you just sort of laid there, relieved it was over and happy to stare at your lamby mobile going round and round---you love that thing!
No pictures this time around, just because I want to get this published already and blogger's been a bitch about pictures lately. You know there are already albums filled with pictures of you! Next month I promise I'll be more on the ball and get your monthly update done before you head off to college...
Mommy and Daddy love you more and more everyday. I can't wait to see what the next month has in store for us!
Friday, August 04, 2006
i'm home...
Have been since tuesday when I basiclly begged and insulted the doctor "caring" for me. I'm not sure I adequately described these quacks to you, internet. My main doctor was a ditsy soft-spoken woman who told me she wasn't used to dealing with patients under 60. This put me about 25 years outside her comfort zone. She seemed truly disconcerted by my c-section scar and she was totally antsy everytime she came in when Ethan was there with Husband.
The other main doctor I saw, I couldn't pick out of a line-up. You see, he did his rounds after midnight. Yes, that's right. 12:30 am & my overhead flourescent lights burst on and there he is. I know he has a big head and is exceedingly pale (what with the vampiric hours he keeps), but that's really it. I haven't a clue what he did for me in the 5-6 days I was there. I just know he is the infectious disease guy.
So on Tuesday, when I started truly panicking that my son was forgetting he has a mother, I basically told the doctor of 60 year olds that she wasn't doing anytghing for me in the hospital that I couldn't do for myself at home. Truly, how hard is it to give myself tylenol every six hours and an antibiotic twice a day??? Granted, we are lacking MRI anf ultrasound machines at our house (space issues, you know...), but how many of those little amusemrnt park rides can you go through in one hospital visit? With an ultasound, MRI and chest xray, I really felt like that was enough superfluous medical gadgetry for one stay.
And here I am; at home. With my baby and Husband, away from the creepy vampire doctors and the med students who don't wash their hands or wipe down their stethescopes (did I mention that I got a cold while in the protective care of these professionals?)
I still feel like all kinds of crap, it's good to be home.
The other main doctor I saw, I couldn't pick out of a line-up. You see, he did his rounds after midnight. Yes, that's right. 12:30 am & my overhead flourescent lights burst on and there he is. I know he has a big head and is exceedingly pale (what with the vampiric hours he keeps), but that's really it. I haven't a clue what he did for me in the 5-6 days I was there. I just know he is the infectious disease guy.
So on Tuesday, when I started truly panicking that my son was forgetting he has a mother, I basically told the doctor of 60 year olds that she wasn't doing anytghing for me in the hospital that I couldn't do for myself at home. Truly, how hard is it to give myself tylenol every six hours and an antibiotic twice a day??? Granted, we are lacking MRI anf ultrasound machines at our house (space issues, you know...), but how many of those little amusemrnt park rides can you go through in one hospital visit? With an ultasound, MRI and chest xray, I really felt like that was enough superfluous medical gadgetry for one stay.
And here I am; at home. With my baby and Husband, away from the creepy vampire doctors and the med students who don't wash their hands or wipe down their stethescopes (did I mention that I got a cold while in the protective care of these professionals?)
I still feel like all kinds of crap, it's good to be home.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
The Magic Tube of Doom
So I had an MRI today. Yes, one of those long skinny tubes they slide you into in order to see your insides a little more clearly. See, the neurologist came to visit me yesterday as my fever edged closer and closer to 105 and I was literally packed on ice; bags of ice on my head and under each arm, the high-tech method of fever reduction. My headache, a localized piercing pain on the left side of my head that I really thought was eating me alive prompted me to ask him through sobs (yes, internet--I was damn near delerious and I was crying to this man), if I was going to die. It did not seem like a ridiculous question at the time. I asked if I was having a stroke, an aneurism, a blood clot, and on and on and on. I almost asked about little brain gremlins that feast on the grey matter but I didn't want him to think I was crazy...okay, crazier than I was.
Fast forward to this morning when my fever is gone and it seems though magically, my headache is, too. Mind you, its still there, but it's so faint and mild it is almost a joy by comparison. I try to order breakfast and the nurse informs me that they'll "be coming for you soon." This sounds like "dead man walking" to me, as I have slept so soundly and fever-free that I've almost blocked the embarrassing girly cry I had in front of the neurologist about how I didn't want to die. I may have even said at one point, "I have a 3 month old at home. He needs me!" I also recall informing my husband that I hadn't changed my benefits at work to make him my beneficiary. Yeah, I felt that bad. And I was that delerious. OH, and I might be a bit of a drama queen, but this time, that was truly, truly the least of the three ingredients playing into my hysteria. Even the doctors looked at each other with concern each time my fever shot back up. That is not reassuring.
Anyway, "they" were the transports to the MRI. I told the nurse that maybe I didn't need it since I was feeling so much better and that sort of got a chuckle, like I was a little kid trying to get out of taking a bath or something. She may have thought that next I was going to start bargaining with her--"I'll share my french toast with you if you make that MRI disappear"...but I did not.I do have some dignity. And I don't share my french toast, people. Have you learned nothing?
So, the MRI, that little tiny tube that they slide you into that everyone says is a total claustrophobic nightmare? Loved it. Seriously. They secured my head nice and comfy, put a cool cloth over my eyes, gave me a button to press if I started to freak out, and then sliiiiiiiiiid me into the tube. The noises were weird and loud--almost like what I imagine the noises in a bad acid trip would be like or a truly awful techno dance club. They key, though, is that they were consistent and repetitive. So I fell asleep. Yup, I had a nice little nap in the MRI tube and before I knew it, the whole thing was over.
It was back upstairs to my french toast.
Oh, and by the time the frenchtoast was gone, I knew that my brain is time-bomb free and not at all threatening my life in anyway. Phewwwwww. I have been almost completely feverless for the past 24 hours and my pain is more under control. My blood work isn't the mess it was a couple days ago, so mayyyyyyybe they'll be letting me go home tomorrow. Think good thoughts. Think good thoughts. Think good thoughts....
Fast forward to this morning when my fever is gone and it seems though magically, my headache is, too. Mind you, its still there, but it's so faint and mild it is almost a joy by comparison. I try to order breakfast and the nurse informs me that they'll "be coming for you soon." This sounds like "dead man walking" to me, as I have slept so soundly and fever-free that I've almost blocked the embarrassing girly cry I had in front of the neurologist about how I didn't want to die. I may have even said at one point, "I have a 3 month old at home. He needs me!" I also recall informing my husband that I hadn't changed my benefits at work to make him my beneficiary. Yeah, I felt that bad. And I was that delerious. OH, and I might be a bit of a drama queen, but this time, that was truly, truly the least of the three ingredients playing into my hysteria. Even the doctors looked at each other with concern each time my fever shot back up. That is not reassuring.
Anyway, "they" were the transports to the MRI. I told the nurse that maybe I didn't need it since I was feeling so much better and that sort of got a chuckle, like I was a little kid trying to get out of taking a bath or something. She may have thought that next I was going to start bargaining with her--"I'll share my french toast with you if you make that MRI disappear"...but I did not.I do have some dignity. And I don't share my french toast, people. Have you learned nothing?
So, the MRI, that little tiny tube that they slide you into that everyone says is a total claustrophobic nightmare? Loved it. Seriously. They secured my head nice and comfy, put a cool cloth over my eyes, gave me a button to press if I started to freak out, and then sliiiiiiiiiid me into the tube. The noises were weird and loud--almost like what I imagine the noises in a bad acid trip would be like or a truly awful techno dance club. They key, though, is that they were consistent and repetitive. So I fell asleep. Yup, I had a nice little nap in the MRI tube and before I knew it, the whole thing was over.
It was back upstairs to my french toast.
Oh, and by the time the frenchtoast was gone, I knew that my brain is time-bomb free and not at all threatening my life in anyway. Phewwwwww. I have been almost completely feverless for the past 24 hours and my pain is more under control. My blood work isn't the mess it was a couple days ago, so mayyyyyyybe they'll be letting me go home tomorrow. Think good thoughts. Think good thoughts. Think good thoughts....
Saturday, July 29, 2006
You Can't Make this Shit Up....
"Sarah, where on earth have you been?!" you ask. "It's not like you to go so long in between entries. Is everything all right?" Hmmmm...funny you should ask.
I'm in the hospital. A-g-a-i-n. What can I say, a girl needs a little institutionalized food every now and again. You'll recall how I loved the frenchtoast at Hotel Highrisk.
This time my hospital stay is clearly not pregnancy related. No, no, having conquered reproductive incompetence, my body is on to new, exciting and as of yet unexplored region on which to wreak havoc. I swear, if I could get up, I'd be twirling round and round in front of the bathroom mirror like a dog chasing its tail looking for the big [REJECT] stamp that I am sure was slapped on my backside on the conveyor belt up in heaven the day they made me.
I had a UTI. I say 'had' because now it so much more. the gift that keeps on giving. See, I am probably the only woman in the world for whom a UTI causes no symptoms. None of that tell-tale burning for me, thank you! I'd like to wait until I have a raging fever, backpain and a heinous headache before even getting a clue that something might be wrong, thanks. What, you say? By then it will be a bladder and kidney infection and I'll require hospitalization?? Wellll..as long as it doesn't burn when I pee....
So here I sit, day 2 and a half of the kidney/bladder fiasco that is my life right now. The backache is gone pretty much. The fever comes and goes in this rollercoaster of shaking and sweating--it almost feels like exercise. But it is a whole new kind of scary with the fever goes up to over 104. The headache is the worst of it right now and several times in the past couple of days I've been fairly certain that my head was going to explode or some sort of frightening creature was going to come chewing it's way out.
Aside from me, me, me, this is awful for Husband who is suddenly single dad and my poor little man, who I only get to see for a little while each day. I can't describe the heartbreak of being separated from them right now. Can't even make a joke about.
So this is my stranger than fiction reason for being out of the loop, internet. Hopefully when I stop sweating and my head stops throbbing and they bust me out of this joint, I'll be able get back up on the blog horse. Until then....
I'm in the hospital. A-g-a-i-n. What can I say, a girl needs a little institutionalized food every now and again. You'll recall how I loved the frenchtoast at Hotel Highrisk.
This time my hospital stay is clearly not pregnancy related. No, no, having conquered reproductive incompetence, my body is on to new, exciting and as of yet unexplored region on which to wreak havoc. I swear, if I could get up, I'd be twirling round and round in front of the bathroom mirror like a dog chasing its tail looking for the big [REJECT] stamp that I am sure was slapped on my backside on the conveyor belt up in heaven the day they made me.
I had a UTI. I say 'had' because now it so much more. the gift that keeps on giving. See, I am probably the only woman in the world for whom a UTI causes no symptoms. None of that tell-tale burning for me, thank you! I'd like to wait until I have a raging fever, backpain and a heinous headache before even getting a clue that something might be wrong, thanks. What, you say? By then it will be a bladder and kidney infection and I'll require hospitalization?? Wellll..as long as it doesn't burn when I pee....
So here I sit, day 2 and a half of the kidney/bladder fiasco that is my life right now. The backache is gone pretty much. The fever comes and goes in this rollercoaster of shaking and sweating--it almost feels like exercise. But it is a whole new kind of scary with the fever goes up to over 104. The headache is the worst of it right now and several times in the past couple of days I've been fairly certain that my head was going to explode or some sort of frightening creature was going to come chewing it's way out.
Aside from me, me, me, this is awful for Husband who is suddenly single dad and my poor little man, who I only get to see for a little while each day. I can't describe the heartbreak of being separated from them right now. Can't even make a joke about.
So this is my stranger than fiction reason for being out of the loop, internet. Hopefully when I stop sweating and my head stops throbbing and they bust me out of this joint, I'll be able get back up on the blog horse. Until then....
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Lunching at the OG...
Ah yes, food of the suburban gods, unlimited salad and breadsticks. How I love you and your bottomless bowl/basket tasty goodness. My friend V and I descended upon the Olive Garden this afternoon, a whirlwind of baby carriers, diaper bags, strollers, burp clothes, pacifiers and oh yeah, babies.
It is the mommy lunch date! My very first. I spent most of the morning fretting. Yes, I've been out with the little man dozens of times at this point, even to restaurants; but this would be my first foray into the lunchtime crowd with potentially cranky son in tow and no Husband to defray the anxiety and work involved in a 10 week old's public meltdown.
I was unable to leave the house without packing and repacking the diaper bag. I totally tapped into my "WHERE'S MY PASSPORT??!!" stress generally saved for international travel, only this time it sounded like, "WHERE ARE THE WIPES??!!"....oh, there they are. The contents of the diaper bag for this trip were as follows:
three diapers (because service can be realllly slow and you just never know what is going on in this boy's intestines), rash cream, wipes, antibacterial hand cream, changing pad, two receiving blankets (in addition to the one draped over the car seat) two bibs, three burp cloths, three clean onesies (in case he was suddenly hired to emcee an awards show and needed several wardrobe changes, apparently), a hat (it was 100 degrees, duh), three socks (you think keeping track of adult socks is hard? please.), aspirator, pacifier, one breast pad (apparently they can share?) and my wallet.
This was for one lunch time outting. Clearly, to travel any distance with this child, my house will have to be ripped from its foundation and hauled down the highway trailing a "WIDE LOAD" flag behind it.
My main concern with the lunch date was that the timing of it was worked out a little before Ethan's feeding schedule for the day was solidified. By mid-morning I have a pretty good idea of what times his little belly is going to demand the boob and I can schedule my day's out-of-home activities accordingly. I am not against public breastfeeding. As a matter of fact, don't get me started on a woman's right to feed her child wherever the hell she chooses, in front of whomever happens to be there at the time. And if the government is going to go saying that all women should breastfeed for at least six months, they'd better start educating people who find it "icky" and they'd better start making insurance companies pay for lactation consultants, because it's fucking hard to breastfeed without at least visit to the boob lady. It was not pleasant to have women I hardly know pulling at my breasts and torturing my nipples, but the kid really seems to be attached to the whole nursing thing, so it's worth it. But let's just say, my inner "Yeah, I'm in public and yeah, that's my boob! take that, bitch!" and my outer "oh god, please don't get hungry in public. I don't want to take out my boob!" don't quite match up yert. So I was fretting.
I chose the Olive Garden because I figured we would be in a booth in a fairly dimly lit room so that if either of us had to breastfeed, at least we had a prayer of being discreet about it. Ah, how the universe loves to punk me. We ended up in a regular, middle of the room table, in a room that was all windows out onto the bright sunny day. Surrounded by business men. Let's just say, had either of us had to feed our children, we would have been the main attraction in the diningroom.
I blame our waiter. Had he been remotely competent, we could have eaten our entire meals in the amount of time it took us to have the manager apologetically bring us our diet coke and water. So it was about two bites into my salad that Ethan had, what my friend Jamie calls, "a bit of a screech". Jamie is British and in my opinion all things sound quaint and lovely when expressed through British understatement and in that fabulous accent. So when my son is screaming bloody murder and I feel like my head is about to explode, I remind myself, "'T'sall right. Just a bit of a screech is all..." and somehow I manage to crack up through the wailing and get through it.
So Ethan had a "bit of a screech" midway through lunch and I feared the worst--empty belly. Fortunately, it was just empty mouth and a pacifier (thank god I had one!!!) seemed to do the trick. I held him throughout the remainder of the meal, so I am eternally grateful I only ordered the soup, salad and breadsticks--one hand required. Although I had to eat the soup like my arm was a crane, swinging way out and away from Ethan and then back in and around to my mouth, lest I spill the hot minestrone on his bare arm or leg and award myself "worst mother of the year" award for burning my baby's skin (yes, by this point the soup was tepid at best, but still, I don't want that award!)
Overall, lunch was a success and V and I agreed that we should do this at least once a week until she goes back to work by August's end. Perhaps sometime between now and then my inner public breastfeeding diva biotch will step up and take over. I hope so, because I think she's going to be super cool.
It is the mommy lunch date! My very first. I spent most of the morning fretting. Yes, I've been out with the little man dozens of times at this point, even to restaurants; but this would be my first foray into the lunchtime crowd with potentially cranky son in tow and no Husband to defray the anxiety and work involved in a 10 week old's public meltdown.
I was unable to leave the house without packing and repacking the diaper bag. I totally tapped into my "WHERE'S MY PASSPORT??!!" stress generally saved for international travel, only this time it sounded like, "WHERE ARE THE WIPES??!!"....oh, there they are. The contents of the diaper bag for this trip were as follows:
three diapers (because service can be realllly slow and you just never know what is going on in this boy's intestines), rash cream, wipes, antibacterial hand cream, changing pad, two receiving blankets (in addition to the one draped over the car seat) two bibs, three burp cloths, three clean onesies (in case he was suddenly hired to emcee an awards show and needed several wardrobe changes, apparently), a hat (it was 100 degrees, duh), three socks (you think keeping track of adult socks is hard? please.), aspirator, pacifier, one breast pad (apparently they can share?) and my wallet.
This was for one lunch time outting. Clearly, to travel any distance with this child, my house will have to be ripped from its foundation and hauled down the highway trailing a "WIDE LOAD" flag behind it.
My main concern with the lunch date was that the timing of it was worked out a little before Ethan's feeding schedule for the day was solidified. By mid-morning I have a pretty good idea of what times his little belly is going to demand the boob and I can schedule my day's out-of-home activities accordingly. I am not against public breastfeeding. As a matter of fact, don't get me started on a woman's right to feed her child wherever the hell she chooses, in front of whomever happens to be there at the time. And if the government is going to go saying that all women should breastfeed for at least six months, they'd better start educating people who find it "icky" and they'd better start making insurance companies pay for lactation consultants, because it's fucking hard to breastfeed without at least visit to the boob lady. It was not pleasant to have women I hardly know pulling at my breasts and torturing my nipples, but the kid really seems to be attached to the whole nursing thing, so it's worth it. But let's just say, my inner "Yeah, I'm in public and yeah, that's my boob! take that, bitch!" and my outer "oh god, please don't get hungry in public. I don't want to take out my boob!" don't quite match up yert. So I was fretting.
I chose the Olive Garden because I figured we would be in a booth in a fairly dimly lit room so that if either of us had to breastfeed, at least we had a prayer of being discreet about it. Ah, how the universe loves to punk me. We ended up in a regular, middle of the room table, in a room that was all windows out onto the bright sunny day. Surrounded by business men. Let's just say, had either of us had to feed our children, we would have been the main attraction in the diningroom.
I blame our waiter. Had he been remotely competent, we could have eaten our entire meals in the amount of time it took us to have the manager apologetically bring us our diet coke and water. So it was about two bites into my salad that Ethan had, what my friend Jamie calls, "a bit of a screech". Jamie is British and in my opinion all things sound quaint and lovely when expressed through British understatement and in that fabulous accent. So when my son is screaming bloody murder and I feel like my head is about to explode, I remind myself, "'T'sall right. Just a bit of a screech is all..." and somehow I manage to crack up through the wailing and get through it.
So Ethan had a "bit of a screech" midway through lunch and I feared the worst--empty belly. Fortunately, it was just empty mouth and a pacifier (thank god I had one!!!) seemed to do the trick. I held him throughout the remainder of the meal, so I am eternally grateful I only ordered the soup, salad and breadsticks--one hand required. Although I had to eat the soup like my arm was a crane, swinging way out and away from Ethan and then back in and around to my mouth, lest I spill the hot minestrone on his bare arm or leg and award myself "worst mother of the year" award for burning my baby's skin (yes, by this point the soup was tepid at best, but still, I don't want that award!)
Overall, lunch was a success and V and I agreed that we should do this at least once a week until she goes back to work by August's end. Perhaps sometime between now and then my inner public breastfeeding diva biotch will step up and take over. I hope so, because I think she's going to be super cool.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Home Improvements...
When Husband & I moved into our home, we did so with a mental list of all the things that had to be done to this place to make it tolerable to live in and representative of our personalities. Some of it had to be done before we could even move in, such as tearing down a wall-to-wall built-in book case which blocked a window in our livingroom, and painting almost every room in the house to change the feel from circus freakshow (seriously, flourescent green in the stairwell and upstairs hall--flourescent green, people!) to subtle sophistication (ha ha ha).
Once those "must do"'s were done and we moved in, we went ahead and steamrolled our way into pregnancy, leaving 90% of those other projects gathering cob-webs on our mental "to do" list. The first trimester found me crawling to the couch to nap moments after returning from work each day and by the middle of the second trimester, I was bed-bound (ah, the "good old days")--nothing in the way of home repairs got done. Not that I would have been doing them single-handedly, but Husband had more important things to do than rip up the carpet on the stairway during my bedrest months--he had to entertain me. This was not an easy task. The stairs remained carpetted; the front door remained purple and the porch red (circus freaks, people; I am not kidding); our basement and kitchen seemed to have been in mid-renovation when we bought the place and not a professional renovation.
I do believe the people who lived here before us were addicted to the show "Trading Spaces" and they would walk into a room of their house on a Friday, decide to "redo" it and by Sunday, they were either done with the sloppiest renovation ever in the history of home repairs (Bob Villa would freak) or they had lost interest in the renovation and just stopped. A.D.D. home repairs. "Honey, let's paint the room a lovely sunshine yellow (including the ceiling!) and hang purple curtains! Let's tear out those cabinets and re-tile the backsplash! Don't forget to paint all the outlet covers, sweetie! (pause) ooooooooh, Desperate Housewives is on! (dropping all supplies to the floor, grabbing a snack and leaving the room, never to return....)
So now that the little man is closing in on 3 months old and we have somewhat of a grasp on what our lives are now, we've started to look around and say, "Damn. This house needs some work!" First order of business...a back porch. I have fantasies of sitting on the back porch, watching the fire flies (we have tons of them) as the sun goes down, enjoying a glass of wine or a cold beer. Perhaps a little backwards, to add something to the house when there is a list of things already here that need some attention, but hey...we deserve a back porch after the year we've had! Hopefully the porch will be done by fall; of course the way summer is barrelling on by, I am not sure this week's laundry will be done by fall, so I shouldn't really hold my breath.
My sister-in-law and her husband built their own back porch--it is much bigger than the one Husband and I are thinking of and it has a built-in bench wrapping around one side of it. Gorgeous. They showed us pictures of it this weekend with almost the same enthusiasm we exhibit when we show pictures of Ethan to people, and who can blame them--talk about a labor of love. For a moment I felt guilty that Husband and I are hiring people to build our porch. I mean, wouldn't we appreciate it more if we constructed it with our own two hands? Mixed and poured the concrete together? Laid the boards ourselves?
Then I realized, as far as labors of love go, I've had my fill this year. Yes, they built a beautiful porch, but I gestated an entire human being--that's all the "building" I'll be doing this year. I'll be happy to bake cookies and make iced tea for the big sweaty men with 2X4's and hammers in my backyard during August. And I'm more than happy to go shopping for the deck furniture when the workmen leave...
Once those "must do"'s were done and we moved in, we went ahead and steamrolled our way into pregnancy, leaving 90% of those other projects gathering cob-webs on our mental "to do" list. The first trimester found me crawling to the couch to nap moments after returning from work each day and by the middle of the second trimester, I was bed-bound (ah, the "good old days")--nothing in the way of home repairs got done. Not that I would have been doing them single-handedly, but Husband had more important things to do than rip up the carpet on the stairway during my bedrest months--he had to entertain me. This was not an easy task. The stairs remained carpetted; the front door remained purple and the porch red (circus freaks, people; I am not kidding); our basement and kitchen seemed to have been in mid-renovation when we bought the place and not a professional renovation.
I do believe the people who lived here before us were addicted to the show "Trading Spaces" and they would walk into a room of their house on a Friday, decide to "redo" it and by Sunday, they were either done with the sloppiest renovation ever in the history of home repairs (Bob Villa would freak) or they had lost interest in the renovation and just stopped. A.D.D. home repairs. "Honey, let's paint the room a lovely sunshine yellow (including the ceiling!) and hang purple curtains! Let's tear out those cabinets and re-tile the backsplash! Don't forget to paint all the outlet covers, sweetie! (pause) ooooooooh, Desperate Housewives is on! (dropping all supplies to the floor, grabbing a snack and leaving the room, never to return....)
So now that the little man is closing in on 3 months old and we have somewhat of a grasp on what our lives are now, we've started to look around and say, "Damn. This house needs some work!" First order of business...a back porch. I have fantasies of sitting on the back porch, watching the fire flies (we have tons of them) as the sun goes down, enjoying a glass of wine or a cold beer. Perhaps a little backwards, to add something to the house when there is a list of things already here that need some attention, but hey...we deserve a back porch after the year we've had! Hopefully the porch will be done by fall; of course the way summer is barrelling on by, I am not sure this week's laundry will be done by fall, so I shouldn't really hold my breath.
My sister-in-law and her husband built their own back porch--it is much bigger than the one Husband and I are thinking of and it has a built-in bench wrapping around one side of it. Gorgeous. They showed us pictures of it this weekend with almost the same enthusiasm we exhibit when we show pictures of Ethan to people, and who can blame them--talk about a labor of love. For a moment I felt guilty that Husband and I are hiring people to build our porch. I mean, wouldn't we appreciate it more if we constructed it with our own two hands? Mixed and poured the concrete together? Laid the boards ourselves?
Then I realized, as far as labors of love go, I've had my fill this year. Yes, they built a beautiful porch, but I gestated an entire human being--that's all the "building" I'll be doing this year. I'll be happy to bake cookies and make iced tea for the big sweaty men with 2X4's and hammers in my backyard during August. And I'm more than happy to go shopping for the deck furniture when the workmen leave...
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Sleep Wars...
My son is not a fan of sleep. I can't wrap my head around this because, I for one, love sleep. LOVE. IT. Back in the day, when I actually worked for a living, the first thought that went through my head when the alarm so rudely disturbed me from my blissful slumber, was how many hours had to pass before I could reasonably crawl back into bed without seeming too lazy or depressed. I love sleep like Homer Simpson loves donuts, "mmmmm, donuts..."
Seriously. Ask Husband about the "Pajama Song". The lyrics and the tune change all the time, but the general message is the same--pajamas make me damn happy. I love all things associated with sleep--pjs, dreams, pillows, comforters...zzzzzzzzzzz...
oh, sorry.
So how is it that my son, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, carrier of half my genes, is so opposed to sleeping? Or should I say, sleeping when we want him to sleep? Husband and I are up half the night convincing this little man that sleep is, indeed, a good thing. There is rocking, there is swinging, there is shhhhhushhhhing, there is a vibrating pack and play, there are lullibies and soothing nature noises. He overpowers them all with his grumbly, groany declaration of "Nope. You can't make me! I'm awake!"
He seems to take the most joy in the fake-out. He will buy into our rocking and swinging, our lullibies and the rest. He will close his eyes and relax his little arms and legs. Sure. He'll do all that. And while you are mentally high-fiving yourself as you put him down, he's thinking, "Sucka!!!" and then there is much squirming and groaning. "Fooled ya, mom! I'm still awake!" Grrrrrr...
It'd be fine that he didn't like sleep if he could, say, go downstairs, make himself a sandwich and turn on the TV. Then he could stay up all night watching Noggin or Conan O'Brien if he wanted. It's not like he's got a demanding daytime schedule that he's got to be well-rested for. But he's got this whole 10 week old "I can't sleep. What to do? What to do? I know! You should hold me!" thing going on. And try as I might to explain to him that mommy and daddy need a few hours of shut eye in order to keep themselves remotely sane, he doesn't seem to grasp the concept. Go figure.
His saving grace is that he's so damn cute. And we tend to make up for the lack of night sleeping during the day. This is where I would insert a cute picture of Ethan and me snoozing on the couch, but stupid blogger.com is not cooperating...
Seriously. Ask Husband about the "Pajama Song". The lyrics and the tune change all the time, but the general message is the same--pajamas make me damn happy. I love all things associated with sleep--pjs, dreams, pillows, comforters...zzzzzzzzzzz...
oh, sorry.
So how is it that my son, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, carrier of half my genes, is so opposed to sleeping? Or should I say, sleeping when we want him to sleep? Husband and I are up half the night convincing this little man that sleep is, indeed, a good thing. There is rocking, there is swinging, there is shhhhhushhhhing, there is a vibrating pack and play, there are lullibies and soothing nature noises. He overpowers them all with his grumbly, groany declaration of "Nope. You can't make me! I'm awake!"
He seems to take the most joy in the fake-out. He will buy into our rocking and swinging, our lullibies and the rest. He will close his eyes and relax his little arms and legs. Sure. He'll do all that. And while you are mentally high-fiving yourself as you put him down, he's thinking, "Sucka!!!" and then there is much squirming and groaning. "Fooled ya, mom! I'm still awake!" Grrrrrr...
It'd be fine that he didn't like sleep if he could, say, go downstairs, make himself a sandwich and turn on the TV. Then he could stay up all night watching Noggin or Conan O'Brien if he wanted. It's not like he's got a demanding daytime schedule that he's got to be well-rested for. But he's got this whole 10 week old "I can't sleep. What to do? What to do? I know! You should hold me!" thing going on. And try as I might to explain to him that mommy and daddy need a few hours of shut eye in order to keep themselves remotely sane, he doesn't seem to grasp the concept. Go figure.
His saving grace is that he's so damn cute. And we tend to make up for the lack of night sleeping during the day. This is where I would insert a cute picture of Ethan and me snoozing on the couch, but stupid blogger.com is not cooperating...
Friday, July 07, 2006
Got Music?
Yesterday I read an article in Mothering magazine by the mother of a 13 year old boy. She shared the story of how she and her son were connected by music; as a baby they listened to all the cheesey little kid music (how I fear the day Ethan wants to go to a Wiggles concert) and once he grew into that "ugh, my mom is so freaking lame" teenager, she delved into the world of his musical tastes, at the same time sharing with him her favorite songs from her own childhood and adolescence. This, she claims, is how they maintained a close bond during those years when children typically pull away from their parents with all the force of opposing magnets ends.
It made me think about the impact of music on my life, especially in those years I spent pretty much stuck up in my room, being a sullen and moody only child and avoiding contact with my own parents. Now, the mid to late 80's didn't really offer a plethora of quality musical choices, by my recollection. We went from Madonna & Duran Duran to Bon Jovi & Guns N Roses. But somehow I found a way to make music a cornerstone of my sense of self & identity.
I kept a notebook of song lyrics that I felt adequately captured my angst and listened avidly to the words to the songs I loved to be sure that I knew them all by heart. It always floors me when Husband says he likes a song, but doesn't know more than two words of it. Just liking the beat or the music means nothing to me--I need to know what the song is about and whether it speaks to my life and my experience; if not, I can't really ever love the song. I can listen and enjoy it, but the songs that stay with me forever are songs that I find something in, something that reminds me of my own life, either through lyrics or the circumstances of where/when/why I first heard it, etc.
So I've been thinking--what are the songs/who are the artists that I will want to share with my son when he is old enough? So, in very "High Fidelity" style, here are "My Top Ten Songs/Artists to Share with Ethan"...
1. U2--"Pride in the Name of Love" & "One" in particular--from the time I was in high school until today Bono's voice and lyrics are simply ever present. Edge's guitar riffs have dictated an entire generation of musical influence and I am willing to bet that Ethan will be listening to u2's music during his own teen years, even without my intervention. I want Ethan to know that music can be more than a good beat and bubble gum lyrics; that it can have a conscience and motivate people to try to change the world. I think U2's music is a fairly pure example of this (well, maybe with the exception of "Discotheque", but whatever...)
2. David Bowie/Freddie Mercury--"Under Pressure" Although I never knew the song even existed until Vanilla Ice ripped off the beat for "Ice Ice Baby" (such a sad, sad confession), there is something about Mercury's voice as he croons, "Can't we give ourselves one more chance? Why can't we give love just one more chance?" that makes my eyes water and my heart soar. His voice is amazing and paired with Bowie's it is simply musical poetry. I want Ethan to be moved by the sound of voices mingling and creating a whole new sound.
3. Cold Play--"Fix You" & "Clocks" I wrote a post a few months ago about how "Fix You" was sort of the soundtrack of my pregnancy--about wanting to protect and shield a loved one from all that could hurt in this life. The opening piano of "Clocks" is the music that Husband and I entered our wedding reception to, down a gorgeous marble staircase; we agonized over what little snippet of music would represent us as a couple, making our grand entrance for the first time as husband and wife. Hopefully Ethan will realize that music stays with you; hearing a particular song brings you back to a specific moment in time--I hope he has those extraordinary moments and the pathway back to them that music can be.
4. Indigo Girls--"Galileo", "Closer to Fine" & "Virginia Wolff" He may not dig these three; admittedly, you don't see a ton of dudes rocking it at an Indigo Girls concert. But in the interest of focusing on songs that have meant a lot to me, I suppose I can't leave them out. The idea that "each life has it's place" and that we are all connected to each other in some way through history or inspiration has always moved me and made me feel both teeny tiny in this world and at the same time, a significant part of its very fabric. I want Ethan to feel that.
5. Duran Duran "Planet Earth" Simply one of the first songs and the first band I remember ever really liking. I was one of those Duran Duran freaks in the 80's to the Nth degree. I could have started a college fund for Ethan with all the money I spent on magazines and British import tapes and LPs. He should know Duran Duran so he understands why he has to apply for scholarships and work study to pay for his tuition.
6. Peter Gabriel "Salisbury Hill" & "Biko" The first one, while I always loved it, makes it onto my list because it was on the radio the afternoon I left the hospital, leaving Ethan behind in the NICU. The line, "'Son,' he said, 'Grab your things, I've come to take you home'" reduced me to a little puddle of tears at the thought that I was driving away from my baby. To this day, I am grateful that I was so preoccupied with the pain of the c-section and the frustration of pumping my seemingly non-existant breastmilk that I never truly grasped how gut-wrenching it was to be separated from Ethan during those seven days.
"Biko" makes the list for the same reason that U2 is on it--a song about Stephen Biko, and anti-Apartheid activist, Gabriel's song helped to highlight such a hideous practice to an audience that may not have ever learned of it otherwise. Let's face it, there was no chapter on Apartheid in our social studies books in high school--without the music I listened to, I would never have known. I remember playing this song for my "Modern World Literature" class of Honors Juniors several years ago. We listened to it as we read "Cry, the Beloved Country" early in the year. At the year-end course evaluations most students cited this song's lyrics as some of the most powerful and memorable literature of the year. Several students in the class joined Amnesty International after I played this song for them. Enough said.
7. 10,000 Maniacs "These are Days" The quintessential nostalgia song, "Never before and never since, I promise, has the whole world been as warm as this". It is a song about pure joy and elation. I hear it in my mind when I think of any number of happy memories in my life. Husband used it as part of our rehearsal dinner slide show. Just the opening beat makes my heart race with joy.
8. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" You might know it as the music from the Dr. Mark Green's death scene on ER. It is the soundtrack of my wedding and honeymoon--two classic and beautiful songs melded together with a island feeling. What's not to love?
9. Bee Gees and/or Credence Clearwater Revival--Pretty much anything by either. This is a shout-out to the musical tastes of my parents in the 70's. We are all influenced, as small children, by the music our parents listen to. How they managed to cram both the disco of the BeeGees and the southern-fried rock of CCR into my consciousness is beyond me, but I know the lyrics of almost every song either group ever produced and would be hard-pressed to say which I'd rather listen to.
10. Sting--all of it. I hope that Sting's music will transcend time and be as cool when Ethan's a teenager as it has been in my generation. How can I not choose Sting? I'm an English teacher and Sting's lyrics are poetry, plain and simple. Sometimes I don't even hear the music when listening to his songs.
So there they are--my top 10. Hopefully someday, when Ethan hits that wall of adolescence and wants to get as far away from me as possible, I will be able to find a pathway to him through these songs/artists and whatever is passing for music thirteen years from now.
It made me think about the impact of music on my life, especially in those years I spent pretty much stuck up in my room, being a sullen and moody only child and avoiding contact with my own parents. Now, the mid to late 80's didn't really offer a plethora of quality musical choices, by my recollection. We went from Madonna & Duran Duran to Bon Jovi & Guns N Roses. But somehow I found a way to make music a cornerstone of my sense of self & identity.
I kept a notebook of song lyrics that I felt adequately captured my angst and listened avidly to the words to the songs I loved to be sure that I knew them all by heart. It always floors me when Husband says he likes a song, but doesn't know more than two words of it. Just liking the beat or the music means nothing to me--I need to know what the song is about and whether it speaks to my life and my experience; if not, I can't really ever love the song. I can listen and enjoy it, but the songs that stay with me forever are songs that I find something in, something that reminds me of my own life, either through lyrics or the circumstances of where/when/why I first heard it, etc.
So I've been thinking--what are the songs/who are the artists that I will want to share with my son when he is old enough? So, in very "High Fidelity" style, here are "My Top Ten Songs/Artists to Share with Ethan"...
1. U2--"Pride in the Name of Love" & "One" in particular--from the time I was in high school until today Bono's voice and lyrics are simply ever present. Edge's guitar riffs have dictated an entire generation of musical influence and I am willing to bet that Ethan will be listening to u2's music during his own teen years, even without my intervention. I want Ethan to know that music can be more than a good beat and bubble gum lyrics; that it can have a conscience and motivate people to try to change the world. I think U2's music is a fairly pure example of this (well, maybe with the exception of "Discotheque", but whatever...)
2. David Bowie/Freddie Mercury--"Under Pressure" Although I never knew the song even existed until Vanilla Ice ripped off the beat for "Ice Ice Baby" (such a sad, sad confession), there is something about Mercury's voice as he croons, "Can't we give ourselves one more chance? Why can't we give love just one more chance?" that makes my eyes water and my heart soar. His voice is amazing and paired with Bowie's it is simply musical poetry. I want Ethan to be moved by the sound of voices mingling and creating a whole new sound.
3. Cold Play--"Fix You" & "Clocks" I wrote a post a few months ago about how "Fix You" was sort of the soundtrack of my pregnancy--about wanting to protect and shield a loved one from all that could hurt in this life. The opening piano of "Clocks" is the music that Husband and I entered our wedding reception to, down a gorgeous marble staircase; we agonized over what little snippet of music would represent us as a couple, making our grand entrance for the first time as husband and wife. Hopefully Ethan will realize that music stays with you; hearing a particular song brings you back to a specific moment in time--I hope he has those extraordinary moments and the pathway back to them that music can be.
4. Indigo Girls--"Galileo", "Closer to Fine" & "Virginia Wolff" He may not dig these three; admittedly, you don't see a ton of dudes rocking it at an Indigo Girls concert. But in the interest of focusing on songs that have meant a lot to me, I suppose I can't leave them out. The idea that "each life has it's place" and that we are all connected to each other in some way through history or inspiration has always moved me and made me feel both teeny tiny in this world and at the same time, a significant part of its very fabric. I want Ethan to feel that.
5. Duran Duran "Planet Earth" Simply one of the first songs and the first band I remember ever really liking. I was one of those Duran Duran freaks in the 80's to the Nth degree. I could have started a college fund for Ethan with all the money I spent on magazines and British import tapes and LPs. He should know Duran Duran so he understands why he has to apply for scholarships and work study to pay for his tuition.
6. Peter Gabriel "Salisbury Hill" & "Biko" The first one, while I always loved it, makes it onto my list because it was on the radio the afternoon I left the hospital, leaving Ethan behind in the NICU. The line, "'Son,' he said, 'Grab your things, I've come to take you home'" reduced me to a little puddle of tears at the thought that I was driving away from my baby. To this day, I am grateful that I was so preoccupied with the pain of the c-section and the frustration of pumping my seemingly non-existant breastmilk that I never truly grasped how gut-wrenching it was to be separated from Ethan during those seven days.
"Biko" makes the list for the same reason that U2 is on it--a song about Stephen Biko, and anti-Apartheid activist, Gabriel's song helped to highlight such a hideous practice to an audience that may not have ever learned of it otherwise. Let's face it, there was no chapter on Apartheid in our social studies books in high school--without the music I listened to, I would never have known. I remember playing this song for my "Modern World Literature" class of Honors Juniors several years ago. We listened to it as we read "Cry, the Beloved Country" early in the year. At the year-end course evaluations most students cited this song's lyrics as some of the most powerful and memorable literature of the year. Several students in the class joined Amnesty International after I played this song for them. Enough said.
7. 10,000 Maniacs "These are Days" The quintessential nostalgia song, "Never before and never since, I promise, has the whole world been as warm as this". It is a song about pure joy and elation. I hear it in my mind when I think of any number of happy memories in my life. Husband used it as part of our rehearsal dinner slide show. Just the opening beat makes my heart race with joy.
8. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" You might know it as the music from the Dr. Mark Green's death scene on ER. It is the soundtrack of my wedding and honeymoon--two classic and beautiful songs melded together with a island feeling. What's not to love?
9. Bee Gees and/or Credence Clearwater Revival--Pretty much anything by either. This is a shout-out to the musical tastes of my parents in the 70's. We are all influenced, as small children, by the music our parents listen to. How they managed to cram both the disco of the BeeGees and the southern-fried rock of CCR into my consciousness is beyond me, but I know the lyrics of almost every song either group ever produced and would be hard-pressed to say which I'd rather listen to.
10. Sting--all of it. I hope that Sting's music will transcend time and be as cool when Ethan's a teenager as it has been in my generation. How can I not choose Sting? I'm an English teacher and Sting's lyrics are poetry, plain and simple. Sometimes I don't even hear the music when listening to his songs.
So there they are--my top 10. Hopefully someday, when Ethan hits that wall of adolescence and wants to get as far away from me as possible, I will be able to find a pathway to him through these songs/artists and whatever is passing for music thirteen years from now.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
July 5--Two Months
Dear Ethan,
Today you are two months old. Where to even begin? Usually I just banter on about some little observation I've made about our lives, but on these posts I want to capture you. I want to make sure I remember every little thing that has gone on in your world in these past thirty days so that someday you can look back and understand how you became who you are and know how intensely you have been loved from the moment you came into the world.
This month has held all kinds of changes for you. For one, you "woke up", which means that the previous schedule of eat, sleep, poop, eat, sleep, poop is a thing of the past. Now there are entire hours at a time when you demand attention and stimulation. And so I stimulate. with books. with tummy time. with your busy little swing. with walks to the park. with larry the lion and the musical inch worm. with your aquarium kick and crawl. with my endless rambling and off-key singing. You usually end up paying more attention to whatever is happening just above you to the left rather than anything I present to you, but every once in awhile you reward me withe some bonafide undeniable interaction and eye contact. You are also developing some serious strength in your neck, back and shoulders--pushing yourself up during tummy time and scooting along with your legs. It won't be long until you are rolling over and if you don't watch out, you're going to end up crawling wayyyy before you're supposed to!
taking a break during the tummy time
First, a little shmooze with Larry the Lion. Next, the Sunday Crossword...
You did quite a bit of getting out and about this month. You went to visit Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry a couple of times. You made your first foray into the land of yuppidom by hanging out with mommy & daddy at Starbucks. You also got in touch with your inner fashionista when mommy took you to Georgetown when Tress came to visit. You were quite the hit at Sephora, as you insisted on being held rather than making do in your stroller.
Baby's first latte! Relax, people, it is an empty cup; there is no steaming hot beverage wedged into my son's stroller!
"To H&M, Jeeves!" Tress chauffered you around Georgetown this month.
That's another big "thing" this month---HOLD ME, MAMA!!! Yes, I know you can't speak, but you are a remarkably proficient screamer and you have a fairly distinctive "if you don't hold me, there'll be hell to pay" tone. You won't find me complaining; I know there'll be a day when you won't want to be in the same room with your lame-o mom, so right now while I am the center of your universe, I will soak it up with every fiber of my being, even if I do kvetch about it after 6 hours of sitting on the couch.
To avoid the constant couch potato-ing, I have attempted to "wear" you in a variety of different slings and gizmos so that you are smooshed against me and therefore content, yet I can still accomplish something other than widening my butt all day long. I think we may have struck gold just in the past week. We tried the NoJo sling, the hot sling and the moby wrap. No-go on the NoJo, and you were not at all warming up to the hotsling--apparently you don't feel like hanging out in a pouch anymore. The Moby wrap was nice, but it is about 50 feet of stretchy fabric that I am pretty sure I would end up accidently hanging myself with in an attempt to wrap it around myself correctly. I did love how snug you were in it, and perhaps we will revisit it when I am a bit more coordinated in the ways of the baby-wrap, but for now, you are a Bjorn baby. You finally hit the weight requirement, so I plopped you in that contraption as soon as I could figure out how to put it together. Voila!!! I cleaned an entire room of the house with you babbling at my chest, playing with your fingers and watching the world go by. You were on me, you were secure, you were happy and I was not vegetating on the couch!! Ahhhhhhhh...
You made your first friend this month, too, when little Chloe Marie came into the world. Imagine, two months old and already chatting up the ladies. We are going to be in so much trouble with you...
Little E and Little C live it up in the pack and play
Speaking of trouble, this month your digestive system decided it needed to liven things up a bit by creating more acid than your little belly needs. This is loads of fun for all of us, as you tend to scream like you're feet are on fire just moments after eating. And there's the spitting up. I may have mentioned it in previous posts, no?
Well, Monday I could take it no more and we went to see the doctor. She gave you a prescription for Zantac and now, even though the stuff apparently tastes horrifying, you seem to be a happier little man already. We have to mix some of mama's milkshake in to the dropper to even get you to consider ingesting it (such discriminating tastes for a two-month old!), but you are getting it down, and fingers-crossed, we have heard the last of the reflux wails.
You are moving tonight from your pack and play next to the bed to a "snuggle nest" that we are going to fit in the bed between Daddy and me. I have wanted to have you in bed with us all along, but you've been so tiny, I was afraid of smooching you. Hopefully the snuggle nest will get you that much closer and we will have an easier time getting together for those midnight snacks you seem to like so much.
Eating has become such an easy routine for us, thank goodness. You've definitely struggled to make peace with the boob on its own--no bottle (okay, one bottle at night from daddy), no shield, no nothing but you and the boob. But you're there now and you could give any other little kid lessons on how to eat like a champ. How the human race survived considering all the difficulties some women encounter with breastfeeding is beyond me, but it is definitely a worthwhile endeavor and I'm so glad I didn't stop. At the doctors this week, she mentioned adding rice cereal into a bottle of the milk to help with the reflux and I almost keeled over--unless I can eat the rice cereal and have it come out a few hours later in the milkshake, we'll pass on that, thanks...obviously mama's milk is good enough for you considering you have almost doubled your birth weight in these past two months.
At 8 pounds, 4 ounces, you have grown completely out of your preemie clothes and fit perfectly into most of your 0-3s, although I don't know what it is about 0-3 pants--they all still look like parachute pants on you (ah, the 80's). In your little jeans you look like you should be rocking it old school with MC Hammer. This is not a look I want for my son. So we take off the jeans and wait for you to grow. But I have to admit, I love seeing how your once skinny little frame is filling out into rolls and chewable little chubby parts. Daddy says you're starting to look like the Michelin Man--you'll never know in a million years what that means, but it makes me laugh.
"Can't touch this..." Ethan rocks it old school with the parachute jeans a la MC Hammer
You're finding your voice beyond the screaming, too. You have this funny little "terydactle" noise you make (your friend Chloe makes it, too and sometimes you make the noise at the same time--quite a chorus) and that is now spanning out into coo's and surprised sounding "ahh!"'s. Alas, the sneezescream is gone, but there are so many other little sounds coming from you these days, I hardly miss it.
There are smiles on your face these days, too, although they seem to still be random and directed at something going on in your mind (dare I dream?!) rather than at Daddy or me. My favorite face you make is the little "o" your mouth turns into when you see something interesting or new...there is almost mischief in your face, even now at two months. It is almost too much to bear. I do a lot of melting these days.
The look of discovery...
We go through growth-spurts, you and me. Together and as individuals. I love watching you change each day and I love knowing that every day you change me, too. I am becoming a mother; something I've always wanted to be, even though I never really, truly knew what it meant. I am so grateful I have you as my teacher, my sweet little man.
GO, SOX!!!
Today you are two months old. Where to even begin? Usually I just banter on about some little observation I've made about our lives, but on these posts I want to capture you. I want to make sure I remember every little thing that has gone on in your world in these past thirty days so that someday you can look back and understand how you became who you are and know how intensely you have been loved from the moment you came into the world.
This month has held all kinds of changes for you. For one, you "woke up", which means that the previous schedule of eat, sleep, poop, eat, sleep, poop is a thing of the past. Now there are entire hours at a time when you demand attention and stimulation. And so I stimulate. with books. with tummy time. with your busy little swing. with walks to the park. with larry the lion and the musical inch worm. with your aquarium kick and crawl. with my endless rambling and off-key singing. You usually end up paying more attention to whatever is happening just above you to the left rather than anything I present to you, but every once in awhile you reward me withe some bonafide undeniable interaction and eye contact. You are also developing some serious strength in your neck, back and shoulders--pushing yourself up during tummy time and scooting along with your legs. It won't be long until you are rolling over and if you don't watch out, you're going to end up crawling wayyyy before you're supposed to!
taking a break during the tummy time
First, a little shmooze with Larry the Lion. Next, the Sunday Crossword...
You did quite a bit of getting out and about this month. You went to visit Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry a couple of times. You made your first foray into the land of yuppidom by hanging out with mommy & daddy at Starbucks. You also got in touch with your inner fashionista when mommy took you to Georgetown when Tress came to visit. You were quite the hit at Sephora, as you insisted on being held rather than making do in your stroller.
Baby's first latte! Relax, people, it is an empty cup; there is no steaming hot beverage wedged into my son's stroller!
"To H&M, Jeeves!" Tress chauffered you around Georgetown this month.
That's another big "thing" this month---HOLD ME, MAMA!!! Yes, I know you can't speak, but you are a remarkably proficient screamer and you have a fairly distinctive "if you don't hold me, there'll be hell to pay" tone. You won't find me complaining; I know there'll be a day when you won't want to be in the same room with your lame-o mom, so right now while I am the center of your universe, I will soak it up with every fiber of my being, even if I do kvetch about it after 6 hours of sitting on the couch.
To avoid the constant couch potato-ing, I have attempted to "wear" you in a variety of different slings and gizmos so that you are smooshed against me and therefore content, yet I can still accomplish something other than widening my butt all day long. I think we may have struck gold just in the past week. We tried the NoJo sling, the hot sling and the moby wrap. No-go on the NoJo, and you were not at all warming up to the hotsling--apparently you don't feel like hanging out in a pouch anymore. The Moby wrap was nice, but it is about 50 feet of stretchy fabric that I am pretty sure I would end up accidently hanging myself with in an attempt to wrap it around myself correctly. I did love how snug you were in it, and perhaps we will revisit it when I am a bit more coordinated in the ways of the baby-wrap, but for now, you are a Bjorn baby. You finally hit the weight requirement, so I plopped you in that contraption as soon as I could figure out how to put it together. Voila!!! I cleaned an entire room of the house with you babbling at my chest, playing with your fingers and watching the world go by. You were on me, you were secure, you were happy and I was not vegetating on the couch!! Ahhhhhhhh...
You made your first friend this month, too, when little Chloe Marie came into the world. Imagine, two months old and already chatting up the ladies. We are going to be in so much trouble with you...
Little E and Little C live it up in the pack and play
Speaking of trouble, this month your digestive system decided it needed to liven things up a bit by creating more acid than your little belly needs. This is loads of fun for all of us, as you tend to scream like you're feet are on fire just moments after eating. And there's the spitting up. I may have mentioned it in previous posts, no?
Well, Monday I could take it no more and we went to see the doctor. She gave you a prescription for Zantac and now, even though the stuff apparently tastes horrifying, you seem to be a happier little man already. We have to mix some of mama's milkshake in to the dropper to even get you to consider ingesting it (such discriminating tastes for a two-month old!), but you are getting it down, and fingers-crossed, we have heard the last of the reflux wails.
You are moving tonight from your pack and play next to the bed to a "snuggle nest" that we are going to fit in the bed between Daddy and me. I have wanted to have you in bed with us all along, but you've been so tiny, I was afraid of smooching you. Hopefully the snuggle nest will get you that much closer and we will have an easier time getting together for those midnight snacks you seem to like so much.
Eating has become such an easy routine for us, thank goodness. You've definitely struggled to make peace with the boob on its own--no bottle (okay, one bottle at night from daddy), no shield, no nothing but you and the boob. But you're there now and you could give any other little kid lessons on how to eat like a champ. How the human race survived considering all the difficulties some women encounter with breastfeeding is beyond me, but it is definitely a worthwhile endeavor and I'm so glad I didn't stop. At the doctors this week, she mentioned adding rice cereal into a bottle of the milk to help with the reflux and I almost keeled over--unless I can eat the rice cereal and have it come out a few hours later in the milkshake, we'll pass on that, thanks...obviously mama's milk is good enough for you considering you have almost doubled your birth weight in these past two months.
At 8 pounds, 4 ounces, you have grown completely out of your preemie clothes and fit perfectly into most of your 0-3s, although I don't know what it is about 0-3 pants--they all still look like parachute pants on you (ah, the 80's). In your little jeans you look like you should be rocking it old school with MC Hammer. This is not a look I want for my son. So we take off the jeans and wait for you to grow. But I have to admit, I love seeing how your once skinny little frame is filling out into rolls and chewable little chubby parts. Daddy says you're starting to look like the Michelin Man--you'll never know in a million years what that means, but it makes me laugh.
"Can't touch this..." Ethan rocks it old school with the parachute jeans a la MC Hammer
You're finding your voice beyond the screaming, too. You have this funny little "terydactle" noise you make (your friend Chloe makes it, too and sometimes you make the noise at the same time--quite a chorus) and that is now spanning out into coo's and surprised sounding "ahh!"'s. Alas, the sneezescream is gone, but there are so many other little sounds coming from you these days, I hardly miss it.
There are smiles on your face these days, too, although they seem to still be random and directed at something going on in your mind (dare I dream?!) rather than at Daddy or me. My favorite face you make is the little "o" your mouth turns into when you see something interesting or new...there is almost mischief in your face, even now at two months. It is almost too much to bear. I do a lot of melting these days.
The look of discovery...
We go through growth-spurts, you and me. Together and as individuals. I love watching you change each day and I love knowing that every day you change me, too. I am becoming a mother; something I've always wanted to be, even though I never really, truly knew what it meant. I am so grateful I have you as my teacher, my sweet little man.
GO, SOX!!!
Sunday, July 02, 2006
The Crying Game...
This just proves that yes, my cherubic little bundle-o-love has his moments. We call him the "Mayor of CrankyTown", "Cranky Pants", "Sir Cranks a Lot" and then there's always, "Sweet Jesus, what the hell is your freaking problem?!" (okay, that's not so much a nickname as a verbal precursor to my own mental breakdown, which generally immediately follows).
Apparently an incompetent cervix wasn't enough. Fifteen weeks of bedrest wasn't enough. An emergency c-section wasn't enough. A week in the NICU wasn't enough. Struggles with breastfeeding, nope. Not enough. The universe decided that Husband and I really needed to add "colicky baby" to our list of trials and tribulations.
Now, I don't know it he's really colicky. Colic is, by definition, an enigma. No one knows where it comes from, what causes it or who will get it. I do know that about 2 weeks ago, he started crying. ALL. THE. TIME. That is only a slight exaggeration. There are exceptions for sleeping (which happens a lot less than it used to) and those rare moments when we have managed to distract him with our goofiness or our back-breaking side to side swishing.
It is disheartening to have a baby who starts crying the second he wakes up (and sometimes while he's still asleep) and continues to cry almost to the moment he falls back to sleep. If you weren't already feeling inadequate as a mother and a human being in general by the "normal" experiences of dealing with a newborn, try not being able to comfort that newborn when he is screaming his face red and punching at you with aimless fists. That, my friends, is good times.
We give him something called "Gripe Water"---sounds like something pumped out of a swamp, but it is actually a mixture of ginger and fennel seeds that seems to calm him for a little while (about a millisecond in colicky baby land). It's damn expensive at Whole Foods, but it makes him feel better. A drop of it on his tongue and he gets this "ooooh, yum. I can stop crying for this..." look. I love that look. I wait all day for that look. But alas, I know it is fleeting and that as soon as the Gripe Water wears off, the griping will start again.
There is also a LOT of spit up in our lives these days. Painful, scream-inducing spit up. Hello, reflux, anyone?! Earlier in his culinary life, I gave up the various foods prone to give breastfeeding babies gas--had to make sure the milkshakes were Ethan-friendly before I served 'em up. No difference. Ah, the mysteries of the infant digestive system.
On Thursday we go for Ethan's 2-month check up. We will be grilling the cute young doctor about colic and reflux and demanding that he earn his damn pay by doing something to make Ethan's little belly feel better. Mommy is getting close to replacing her daily intake of water with gin and tonics and I don't think a "G&T milkshake" is really on Ethan's "acceptable foods" menu.
Friday, June 30, 2006
It's Hard to Believe...
...that anyone who could create something as gorgeous as this little man could be so badly in need of a make over that the makeup consultants were tripping over themselves and clawing at each other to get to me first when I walked through the doors of Sephora the other day. But that is what happened...Ethan & I were strolling the mall and I decided "what the heck". Sure I'd been in the Sephora at Georgetown just two days before and bought frivolous Stila lip glosses (because all stay at home moms like plump shiny lips when they are loading the dishwasher and folding burp clothes).
The consultant for the "Benefit" line managed to scratch her way to me first, so she had the honor of transforming me from haggard hausfrau to yummy mummy. Ha. Ha. Really what she did was focus on my eyes and how to make them look less tired, frazzled and all around "old". It's amazing what a make up consultant can get away with saying to you in the name of making you look better. She must have insulted the "bags" and the "shadows" and the "tired appearance" of my peepers about a hundred times. And of course, each time I was determined to take her makeover and walk out without spending a freaking dime on her fancy shmancy product.
But damn it all if my eyes didn't look lighter, brighter and more alert after she spent about 20 minutes dabbing, patting and brushing. I hated to admit it, but she was right--I had looked like the living dead (my words, not hers. I mean, she has to have some tact, right?!) So I walked out of there $40 poorer after buying two of the four products she slathered on my face.
Of course, just like that fabulous hair cut that looks so amazing at the salon, it is impossible to recreate the look at home. This morning, in between Ethan's crying jags (I can't even bring myself to write about these--they are just too much), I made a mad dash into the bathroom and attempted to transform myself into that vibrant looking young thing that sashayed her way out of Sephora yesterday afternoon...um. When I walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I still looked like me, but with lots of really light makeup around my eyes. Hmmmmmm....
Good thing I had that lip gloss to really complete the look. I'm sure the cats appreciated my fancy new look as they watched me scoop out their litter box. Because if that isn't a good excuse to get prettied-up, I don't know what is
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
The One Where I Kvetch About the Size of My Ass...
So today I had to go to Old Navy and purchase a pair of jeans that could replace the spinnaker on a sailboat. It is depressing. I mean, really--he was 4lbs, 13oz people! That accounts for about 5lbs of the forty--yes, forty, that I managed to pack on. Where is my size 8 body??!! Yes, yes I know--"9 months up, 9 months down" and yes, I know that my body just performed an incredible feat and under difficult circumstances. Fine. Let's all join hands and sing a verse of Kumbya in honor of my body's tremendous accomplishment. And then let's call Dr. 90210 for a consultation on some serious lipo...
I lost 20 lbs within the first two weeks, and that leaves me with approximately 20 extra pounds. Perhaps that would not bother me so much if I hadn't spent my entire 20's battling the exact same 20 lbs. I am one of those girls who went to college, discovered fruity, frozen drinks and proceeded to pack on the freshmen, sophomore and junior 30. By senior year, I was waddling to class. It took me almost a decade to really get in gear and shed it. I cannot adequately express the fear that strikes me when I think it might take me another decade to get rid of this baby fat. Buying those jeans in a size I haven't worn during my 30's almost drove me to fill my prescription for Zoloft.
I would love to work out. Really I would. I would go to the gym this very instant, or even get down on the floor of my livingroom and knock out 100 crunches right now. But, see, I have this baby and he has a thing for being held. All. The. Time. Unless he is sleeping, he insists on being in my arms. I must have signed some contract or something because he is really adamant about it. Of course, he's not in my arms at this exact moment (ahhhhh, sleeping babies are the bestest babies in the world!!), but that means I have a choice to make: crunch or blog. Something tells me that "blog" will win out in that race every time...my fingers will be in magnificent shape.
if only I could teach my ass to type...
I lost 20 lbs within the first two weeks, and that leaves me with approximately 20 extra pounds. Perhaps that would not bother me so much if I hadn't spent my entire 20's battling the exact same 20 lbs. I am one of those girls who went to college, discovered fruity, frozen drinks and proceeded to pack on the freshmen, sophomore and junior 30. By senior year, I was waddling to class. It took me almost a decade to really get in gear and shed it. I cannot adequately express the fear that strikes me when I think it might take me another decade to get rid of this baby fat. Buying those jeans in a size I haven't worn during my 30's almost drove me to fill my prescription for Zoloft.
I would love to work out. Really I would. I would go to the gym this very instant, or even get down on the floor of my livingroom and knock out 100 crunches right now. But, see, I have this baby and he has a thing for being held. All. The. Time. Unless he is sleeping, he insists on being in my arms. I must have signed some contract or something because he is really adamant about it. Of course, he's not in my arms at this exact moment (ahhhhh, sleeping babies are the bestest babies in the world!!), but that means I have a choice to make: crunch or blog. Something tells me that "blog" will win out in that race every time...my fingers will be in magnificent shape.
if only I could teach my ass to type...
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back...
So we were out of the house yesterday for 8 full hours. Yes, folks, 60-minutes, 8 times in a row. That's the longest I have been out of this house for the past 6 months (not counting, of course, all the time I spent in Hotel High Risk and delivering the little man). And to top that off, we spent those 8 hours without the security of a bottle. Oh no. I was feeling bold and I just packed up my boobs and took them along instead. Living on the edge. And I'm thrilled to report that
a.) my child did not starve to death, and
b.) no one got a free boob show
Of course, before you go nominating me for "public breasfeeder of the year", I must confess that my audience was comprised of in-laws and close friends in the privacy of their homes. It's not as though I whipped them out on the subway or in the Cheesecake Factory. But that is the dream, my friends. That is the dream.
Now for the "one step back" segment of the post. I grocery shopped at 6am this morning. After some lovely bonding (which consisted of more rocket-launched poops--his, not mine), I tucked the little man into bed with the big man and skulked out of the house for a little "me" time at Harris Teeter. I recall a day when "me" time consisted of pedicures, a leisurely perusal of the paper in Starbucks, maybe taking in a movie in the middle of the afternoon with the pleasure of my own company. Now it is roaming the aisles of a grocery store at an ungodly hour hair in a messy ponytail and wearing my husband's t-shirt. The deli people weren't even working yet. There was one check-out lane open, and with a chatty-Cathy cashier--annoying.
The last time I was at a grocery store at that type of obscene hour I was a drunken college student, jonesing for a box of "chicken in a biscuit" crackers. I bumped into my 1800's American Literature professor in the same aisle. As she was reaching for a box of animal crackers, I can only assumes she was as wasted as me. Um, awkward.
The only people I encountered on my trip through the aisles today were young, sleep deprived parents much like myself. Some had their spawn with them, and some of them were just recognizeable as new parents by the look on their faces---the dark circles under the eyes and the vague expression of an escaped mental patient; clearly lost and aimless, but hoping they don't get captured and sent back to the ward.
One thing I've never realized about grocery stores is how freaking loudly they play their muzak. Without the countless bodies of roaming shoppers to absorb the sound waves, the plinky plunky versions of Les Miserable and Celine Dion songs are enough to make me want to jam forks in my ears until I achieve the blissful peace of silence. Truly if muzak had existed in his time, Dante would have devoted an entire circle of hell to it in his Inferno--perhaps as "musical" accompaniment to his river of excrement chapter. Good times.
Not the quality "me" time I had been craving, but I did kill two birds with one stone; the few minutes in the car alone were fabulous and now we have cereal, soy milk and wine to get us through the week.
a.) my child did not starve to death, and
b.) no one got a free boob show
Of course, before you go nominating me for "public breasfeeder of the year", I must confess that my audience was comprised of in-laws and close friends in the privacy of their homes. It's not as though I whipped them out on the subway or in the Cheesecake Factory. But that is the dream, my friends. That is the dream.
Now for the "one step back" segment of the post. I grocery shopped at 6am this morning. After some lovely bonding (which consisted of more rocket-launched poops--his, not mine), I tucked the little man into bed with the big man and skulked out of the house for a little "me" time at Harris Teeter. I recall a day when "me" time consisted of pedicures, a leisurely perusal of the paper in Starbucks, maybe taking in a movie in the middle of the afternoon with the pleasure of my own company. Now it is roaming the aisles of a grocery store at an ungodly hour hair in a messy ponytail and wearing my husband's t-shirt. The deli people weren't even working yet. There was one check-out lane open, and with a chatty-Cathy cashier--annoying.
The last time I was at a grocery store at that type of obscene hour I was a drunken college student, jonesing for a box of "chicken in a biscuit" crackers. I bumped into my 1800's American Literature professor in the same aisle. As she was reaching for a box of animal crackers, I can only assumes she was as wasted as me. Um, awkward.
The only people I encountered on my trip through the aisles today were young, sleep deprived parents much like myself. Some had their spawn with them, and some of them were just recognizeable as new parents by the look on their faces---the dark circles under the eyes and the vague expression of an escaped mental patient; clearly lost and aimless, but hoping they don't get captured and sent back to the ward.
One thing I've never realized about grocery stores is how freaking loudly they play their muzak. Without the countless bodies of roaming shoppers to absorb the sound waves, the plinky plunky versions of Les Miserable and Celine Dion songs are enough to make me want to jam forks in my ears until I achieve the blissful peace of silence. Truly if muzak had existed in his time, Dante would have devoted an entire circle of hell to it in his Inferno--perhaps as "musical" accompaniment to his river of excrement chapter. Good times.
Not the quality "me" time I had been craving, but I did kill two birds with one stone; the few minutes in the car alone were fabulous and now we have cereal, soy milk and wine to get us through the week.
Friday, June 23, 2006
File this Under: Shut Up, Bitch!
I can't believe this slipped my mind the other day when I wrote about my craptacular trip to school. I had the most inappropriate interaction with a lady who needs to have her jaw wired shut to keep her from ever speaking to anyone ever again.
It has been my experience that as soon as a woman announces she is pregnant to friends and family, or through her appearance becomes obviously pregnant to strangers, the population at large suddenly assumes the generally accepted rules of socially acceptable comments and topics of discussion are null and void. Anything goes. Please tell me about your 3rd degree vaginal tear. By all means, comment on how fat my fingers are and how relieved you are that I am pregnant, because you were afraid I was just "letting myself go". I want to hear nothing more than about how a co-worker's friend's sister-in-law lost her baby at 26 weeks. All opinions on, and condemnations of, parenting styles are welcome (especially if you've not asked my opinion about it before you rail against one technique and swear by the other).
But this, my friends, takes the cake...
As I was leaving the bbq, getting ready to pick up a few last things from my office, I was stopped in the hallway by one of the special education teachers I have worked with for the past 4 years. She's a nice enough lady, but apparently she has no internal filters with which to make socially appropriate decisions regarding her conversation with others.
She approaches me in all seriousness and waits for me to finish a bizarre conversation with another coworker who thinks that somehow I have the power to get another person fired (I was partially administration this year before leaving) and is trying to get me to exercise said power (which I don't really have to begin with, but especially not after 5 months off and my boss signing my year-leave-of-absence form). As psycho #1 leaves, psycho #2 enters and says to me....wait for it....wait for it...
"You know, Sarah, that he (points to Ethan like she's selecting a lobster from the tank at the fish counter) runs a high likelihood of being LD later in life." (for anyone not in education, LD means Learning Disabled).
Oh. My. God. Are you fucking kidding me? Did you really just say that??? Really???
Now, Husband tells me I have no poker face, but if anyone ever tried to hide her rage and absolute horror at the inappropriateness of something said to her, I did. My face hurt almost immediately from the fake smile I plastered on. Apparently she, as well as everyone else in the school, knows that he was 5 weeks early and as a special education teacher, she decided it was her duty (yes, this is how she described it) to let me know what we might "have to deal with down the line."
She seemed to realize a split second later just how horribly rude her little friendly "fyi" was and tried to back peddle by saying she hoped it didn't upset me to hear that and he might not have any issues, but that it was better to know early on so we can intervene before he hits school age, yadda, yadda, yadda...
Now, she may very well be right. Having a preemie does come with some baggage. Husband and I are prepared to have to deal with residual consequences of having Ethan at 34w5d. But is this really something you bring up casually, in the hallway, a total, "by the way..." sort of comment before saying, "Have a nice summer!"? My head was spinning. Since then I have spent an inordinate amount of energy fighting the urge to type "prematurity" and "learning disabilities" into a google search. My son is 7 weeks old; I don't want to worry about these things yet. I want to enjoy the cute little noises he makes and the faces that make Husband and I giggle without wondering if everything is the sign of some developmental delay.
These are the times when I wish I could come up with a witty sarcastic comment on the spot; I mean, this situation was begging for a pithy little retort, but I was tongue-tied. I am one of those people who is completely unable to come up with those sorts of comebacks when the situation calls for it, but on the way home I am a regular stand up comedian--with an audience of one...me. This time, though, the only thing I could come up with on the way home was, "shut up, bitch!!"
It has been my experience that as soon as a woman announces she is pregnant to friends and family, or through her appearance becomes obviously pregnant to strangers, the population at large suddenly assumes the generally accepted rules of socially acceptable comments and topics of discussion are null and void. Anything goes. Please tell me about your 3rd degree vaginal tear. By all means, comment on how fat my fingers are and how relieved you are that I am pregnant, because you were afraid I was just "letting myself go". I want to hear nothing more than about how a co-worker's friend's sister-in-law lost her baby at 26 weeks. All opinions on, and condemnations of, parenting styles are welcome (especially if you've not asked my opinion about it before you rail against one technique and swear by the other).
But this, my friends, takes the cake...
As I was leaving the bbq, getting ready to pick up a few last things from my office, I was stopped in the hallway by one of the special education teachers I have worked with for the past 4 years. She's a nice enough lady, but apparently she has no internal filters with which to make socially appropriate decisions regarding her conversation with others.
She approaches me in all seriousness and waits for me to finish a bizarre conversation with another coworker who thinks that somehow I have the power to get another person fired (I was partially administration this year before leaving) and is trying to get me to exercise said power (which I don't really have to begin with, but especially not after 5 months off and my boss signing my year-leave-of-absence form). As psycho #1 leaves, psycho #2 enters and says to me....wait for it....wait for it...
"You know, Sarah, that he (points to Ethan like she's selecting a lobster from the tank at the fish counter) runs a high likelihood of being LD later in life." (for anyone not in education, LD means Learning Disabled).
Oh. My. God. Are you fucking kidding me? Did you really just say that??? Really???
Now, Husband tells me I have no poker face, but if anyone ever tried to hide her rage and absolute horror at the inappropriateness of something said to her, I did. My face hurt almost immediately from the fake smile I plastered on. Apparently she, as well as everyone else in the school, knows that he was 5 weeks early and as a special education teacher, she decided it was her duty (yes, this is how she described it) to let me know what we might "have to deal with down the line."
She seemed to realize a split second later just how horribly rude her little friendly "fyi" was and tried to back peddle by saying she hoped it didn't upset me to hear that and he might not have any issues, but that it was better to know early on so we can intervene before he hits school age, yadda, yadda, yadda...
Now, she may very well be right. Having a preemie does come with some baggage. Husband and I are prepared to have to deal with residual consequences of having Ethan at 34w5d. But is this really something you bring up casually, in the hallway, a total, "by the way..." sort of comment before saying, "Have a nice summer!"? My head was spinning. Since then I have spent an inordinate amount of energy fighting the urge to type "prematurity" and "learning disabilities" into a google search. My son is 7 weeks old; I don't want to worry about these things yet. I want to enjoy the cute little noises he makes and the faces that make Husband and I giggle without wondering if everything is the sign of some developmental delay.
These are the times when I wish I could come up with a witty sarcastic comment on the spot; I mean, this situation was begging for a pithy little retort, but I was tongue-tied. I am one of those people who is completely unable to come up with those sorts of comebacks when the situation calls for it, but on the way home I am a regular stand up comedian--with an audience of one...me. This time, though, the only thing I could come up with on the way home was, "shut up, bitch!!"
Thursday, June 22, 2006
My Son, the Rocket Launcher...
Yes, that's him. Look how innocent. Yeah, right.
Today was the day of explosive bodily functions. Good times.
This morning I was audience to and target of a lovely butt blast of poo. Right in the middle of a diaper change. The first diaper change of my day. You know, that groggy, not on my game yet, reflexes still a bit slow diaper change. Yeah, that one. Ethan, or at least his butt, is always on, however, so we were not at all equal opponents in this battle.
I had just removed the dirty diaper and was lovingly coo'ing to my seemingly sleepy little one, the picture of innocence and peace (surprising for a diaper change; they are usually greeted with a sense of righteous indignation that involves some serious wailing and flailing). As I reached for a fresh-scented wipe, I heard the "thpppbbbbttttt" of air. This is common; one would think my son reguarly indulged in chilli or other bean-based treats considering the frequency and ferocity of his gas. He does not.
Well, this time the gas was accompanied by whatever was left from my darling's last feeding. I will spare you the details, but let me say this--thank goodness we used washable paint on his nursery walls. It was a bit modern-arty and perhaps would be worth some money someday if it hadn't been made of poo...
One would think this was enough explosiveness for the day, but no. With the butt explosion conquered, Ethan clearly felt he had to give equal time to the realm of burping/spitting up. By mid-day we had had a fairly peaceful day. There was play time, nap time, tummy time, and several little noshes to fill the little man's tummy.
After one of the above mentioned noshes, Ethan was inspired to "bedazzle" mama's shirt with a fabulous spray of milk. Let me say this, once it's out of my body via the boob, I really don't expect to ever see it or interact with it again. I'm done with it. But my son seems to think that I want it back, like it's only on loan to him, and that I want to wear it. He looks at me like a cat bringing home a dead bird and dropping it at my feet, "Here, Mama, I thought you might like this. Love you." Yeah, thanks, kid. Who needs a necklace or pair of earrings for accessories when you have a kicky little breast milk stain all over your collar and shoulder?! And you can toss out the perfume, too, as it's got quite a distinctive aroma. So cost effective...
like I said, good times...
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