Jake comes back from vacation today, thus ending my spree of independence. I shopped, I slept in, worked late, and enjoyed happy hour in miserably smoky bars. Three nights of coming home from dinner and drinks smelling of cigarettes and jumping into the shower to cleanse myself of the filth and vowing never to enter another restaurant until the smoking ban goes into effect in January.
This morning I flipped on the news to discover that our (otherwise terrible) mayor has bumped the ban up to next Monday. Hooray for that, but come on! Monday is too late! I just shaved six days off my life by breathing other people's bad habits. If you've never been to Philadelphia, you've never experienced an entire town of toxins. I feel like everyone smokes except for Dave and me. And they smoke everywhere, in total disregard of the no smoking signs. Like at Toys'R'Us, hiding behind the playhouses.
On the bright side, you know what a smoke-free bar means... babies welcome!
Totally kidding of course, but I won't be surprised when I have to maneuver my beer and chicken fingers around some kid in a carseat on the bar. I've done it countless times before and I'll no doubt do it again. People never cease to amaze me.
9.21.2006
logic is a peculiar word too
You would think that thirty-seven and one-half weeks of pregnancy (35.5, I guess, since for some reason you are technically pregnant even when you aren't for two entire weeks.) and twenty-six and one-half weeks of parenting would convince someone that they have a child somewhere in this world. Nope. I am still waiting for Jake's real mom and dad to come and pick him up. Just like I am waiting to buy a real home, pick out my real car, find a real job, and meet Dave's real wife.
After Jake left for the grandparent's last night, I was lying and reading peacefully with both ears closed in my temporarily baby-free home. Out of nowhere I was hit by some cosmic flying force that made me realize that the babyman living in my house was actually my child. And he wasn't in my house. Or in my belly. And we were both just fine and most likely will be for quite some time. The feeling has since passed, but it was weird while it lasted and I'm thankful that I have once again sunken into routine oblivion.
I had a hard time processing that the little ball of responsibility who hung out with me all the time was a solid, live, actual human being who would go into the world and be Jake. Or Jacob. Or Monkey, Buddy, or Monster. That the word "Jacob" now stands for the very real thing that was created in me, born through me, and will be raised by me.
I said the word "Jacob" over and over again (to the cats, so as not to be entirely crazy) and it sounded foreign. It has always sounded strange to me, and I always associate it with the skinny blonde boy who used to pull his pants down in the back of the fourth grade classroom behind the coats. As if "Jacob" was a verb loosely defined as "dropping trou". "Jacob" even looks funny. It makes me hungry for Taco Bell, corn, and bacon. It makes me think of spider webs. It doesn't rhyme with much of anything, unless you add the word 'up' to something else. Shake up Jacob, wake up Jacob, wake up Jacob by shaking him up! You can't change one letter and make it spell something different. You can't mix the letters up to make another word. It doesn't have a profound meaning. There are no Jacob songs that several of his teachers will inexplicably sing to him on the first day of school. We just liked it, agreed on it, and picked it. And now that is someone's name. And that someone is my child.
I'm in deep.
After Jake left for the grandparent's last night, I was lying and reading peacefully with both ears closed in my temporarily baby-free home. Out of nowhere I was hit by some cosmic flying force that made me realize that the babyman living in my house was actually my child. And he wasn't in my house. Or in my belly. And we were both just fine and most likely will be for quite some time. The feeling has since passed, but it was weird while it lasted and I'm thankful that I have once again sunken into routine oblivion.
I had a hard time processing that the little ball of responsibility who hung out with me all the time was a solid, live, actual human being who would go into the world and be Jake. Or Jacob. Or Monkey, Buddy, or Monster. That the word "Jacob" now stands for the very real thing that was created in me, born through me, and will be raised by me.
I said the word "Jacob" over and over again (to the cats, so as not to be entirely crazy) and it sounded foreign. It has always sounded strange to me, and I always associate it with the skinny blonde boy who used to pull his pants down in the back of the fourth grade classroom behind the coats. As if "Jacob" was a verb loosely defined as "dropping trou". "Jacob" even looks funny. It makes me hungry for Taco Bell, corn, and bacon. It makes me think of spider webs. It doesn't rhyme with much of anything, unless you add the word 'up' to something else. Shake up Jacob, wake up Jacob, wake up Jacob by shaking him up! You can't change one letter and make it spell something different. You can't mix the letters up to make another word. It doesn't have a profound meaning. There are no Jacob songs that several of his teachers will inexplicably sing to him on the first day of school. We just liked it, agreed on it, and picked it. And now that is someone's name. And that someone is my child.
I'm in deep.
9.18.2006
making urologist myologist
The six month checkup went well. Jake weighs in at 15.5 pounds and is 27 inches long. He was on an eating strike on Sunday and only ate half of his normal intake, so I'm guessing his weight was a little down because of that- plus he refused breakfast this morning. His head is right in the 50th percentile, his weight in the twentieth, and his length in the seventy-fifth.
For kicks, I also charted my stature compared to the other 20 year old girls in our nation- ha! I am in the eighty-fifth percentile for height (5'7") and the fiftieth for weight (127). My BMI is 20, which is normal. I'm guessing that the height percentile for 30 year-olds is about the same and the weight probably shifts up a little, which is great for my self esteem. I charted Dave's too, and let's just say that Jake takes after my side of the family. Jake's face is looking more and more like Dave's so I don't feel too bad about that.
I have to put in a call to the urologist this week to schedule an appointment to have Jake's undescended testicle looked at. I remember erroneously thinking at some point in my pregnancy that Jake's testicles were descending, based on info from a weekly what's-happening-now pregnancy guide that I followed. Well, I was half right. Of all the things I worried about being wrong with my child, this one never crossed my mind.
Baby has ten fingers, and ten little toes,
Two brown eyes, and one button nose.
Two long arms and two skinny legs
One kissy mouth, and-hey wait!- only one of those?
I just wrote that now. No planning, no editing, and pure poetic genius. I should quit my day job. I guess it is a pretty standard procedure, they just make a tiny cut and use a little vacuum to pull it down. Sounds as easy as retrieving the basketball that gets stuck under mom's station wagon, right? We are going through Children's Hospital of Philadelphia, so I am not worried at all.
And how am I, do you ask? Pretty good. I think that my hormones have finally re-regulated themselves and they sure aren't what they used to be. Despite being curbed with birth control pills I can feel them surging and PMS is a problem now. Who would have thought that I would ever have to deal with this. And Dave too. He definitely has to deal with it, and that is no fun for him. I get angry and sad and irritable and angry. Did I mention I get a little mad sometimes? I feel the way I did when I was pregnant. Wonderful.
My goal was to be down to 125 pounds by Jake's six month birthday. I'm at 127, and I started pregnancy at 135. Even though I weigh less, I still can't fit in a couple pairs of old pants. I lost a lot of muscle during pregnancy, and I am now working on fat burning rather than muscle building. Muscles require a lot of upkeep, and I just don't have all that time anymore.
My hips are putting themselves back together and this proves to be as painful as it was when they were coming apart. They unhinged in early October last year, and then opened up during my unproductive labor, and they are just now closing up. Ligaments are snapping back into place and the arthritis is coming back. It was nice to have an estrogen-fueled break in the rheumatism.
My hair and nail growth has slowed to a crawl, but my skin has cleared up. Fair trade.
The freckles and moles that got bigger and darker have gotten smaller and lighter, along with everything else that gets bigger and darker during pregnancy. Thank goodness for that, right ladies? Two words- Dinner. Plates. And fine china they were not. The brown line is just about gone, and I don't have a hairy belly and chest any more.
The question of each day from friends, family, and countrymen is "so*when*is*the*next*one?". All one word, as if they know it is really none of their business but need to know anyhow. The answer is as soon as possible. It is recommended to wait at least a year to get pregnant so the C-section scar can heal completely, and I am hoping to have another sometime around Jake's second birthday. I want to get this baby garbage out of the way as soon as possible. Every day Jake is more fun, but those first two months or so were absolutely miserable for me. I know a lot of it was the C-section recovery, but I had a hard time sitting around and waiting for someone to eat, poop, wake up, fall asleep, or whatever just so I can get a chance to eat, poop, wake up, or fall asleep. I know life will be more hectic as the kid(s) get(s) older, but I long for the day that Jake and #2 can grab a pb&j, and apple, and a glass of milk for lunch without me. Sweet, sweet independence.
Speaking of lunch, the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends to wait until at least ten months to introduce meat to a baby. Done and done. As you know, I am very by-the-book about nutrition and diet, especially when it is convenient for me. I talked to the pediatrician and did some independent internet research and found that a baby doesn't develop the enzymes to completely digest meat protein until nine or ten months. You won't kill them by giving them meat earlier, but you certainly aren't doing them or their little bellies any favors. Or yourself when diaper duty comes around. I have asked my mom for a food processor for Christmas to get all the dirty work done. I make a lot of soups and stews in the winter, so why not just grind Jake's portion up? Easy, right? Sure.
All this food talk is making me realize that I haven't had my brecky yet. I'm starving, and if I wait too long it will be lunch time. I prefer two meals on company time.
For kicks, I also charted my stature compared to the other 20 year old girls in our nation- ha! I am in the eighty-fifth percentile for height (5'7") and the fiftieth for weight (127). My BMI is 20, which is normal. I'm guessing that the height percentile for 30 year-olds is about the same and the weight probably shifts up a little, which is great for my self esteem. I charted Dave's too, and let's just say that Jake takes after my side of the family. Jake's face is looking more and more like Dave's so I don't feel too bad about that.
I have to put in a call to the urologist this week to schedule an appointment to have Jake's undescended testicle looked at. I remember erroneously thinking at some point in my pregnancy that Jake's testicles were descending, based on info from a weekly what's-happening-now pregnancy guide that I followed. Well, I was half right. Of all the things I worried about being wrong with my child, this one never crossed my mind.
Baby has ten fingers, and ten little toes,
Two brown eyes, and one button nose.
Two long arms and two skinny legs
One kissy mouth, and-hey wait!- only one of those?
I just wrote that now. No planning, no editing, and pure poetic genius. I should quit my day job. I guess it is a pretty standard procedure, they just make a tiny cut and use a little vacuum to pull it down. Sounds as easy as retrieving the basketball that gets stuck under mom's station wagon, right? We are going through Children's Hospital of Philadelphia, so I am not worried at all.
And how am I, do you ask? Pretty good. I think that my hormones have finally re-regulated themselves and they sure aren't what they used to be. Despite being curbed with birth control pills I can feel them surging and PMS is a problem now. Who would have thought that I would ever have to deal with this. And Dave too. He definitely has to deal with it, and that is no fun for him. I get angry and sad and irritable and angry. Did I mention I get a little mad sometimes? I feel the way I did when I was pregnant. Wonderful.
My goal was to be down to 125 pounds by Jake's six month birthday. I'm at 127, and I started pregnancy at 135. Even though I weigh less, I still can't fit in a couple pairs of old pants. I lost a lot of muscle during pregnancy, and I am now working on fat burning rather than muscle building. Muscles require a lot of upkeep, and I just don't have all that time anymore.
My hips are putting themselves back together and this proves to be as painful as it was when they were coming apart. They unhinged in early October last year, and then opened up during my unproductive labor, and they are just now closing up. Ligaments are snapping back into place and the arthritis is coming back. It was nice to have an estrogen-fueled break in the rheumatism.
My hair and nail growth has slowed to a crawl, but my skin has cleared up. Fair trade.
The freckles and moles that got bigger and darker have gotten smaller and lighter, along with everything else that gets bigger and darker during pregnancy. Thank goodness for that, right ladies? Two words- Dinner. Plates. And fine china they were not. The brown line is just about gone, and I don't have a hairy belly and chest any more.
The question of each day from friends, family, and countrymen is "so*when*is*the*next*one?". All one word, as if they know it is really none of their business but need to know anyhow. The answer is as soon as possible. It is recommended to wait at least a year to get pregnant so the C-section scar can heal completely, and I am hoping to have another sometime around Jake's second birthday. I want to get this baby garbage out of the way as soon as possible. Every day Jake is more fun, but those first two months or so were absolutely miserable for me. I know a lot of it was the C-section recovery, but I had a hard time sitting around and waiting for someone to eat, poop, wake up, fall asleep, or whatever just so I can get a chance to eat, poop, wake up, or fall asleep. I know life will be more hectic as the kid(s) get(s) older, but I long for the day that Jake and #2 can grab a pb&j, and apple, and a glass of milk for lunch without me. Sweet, sweet independence.
Speaking of lunch, the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends to wait until at least ten months to introduce meat to a baby. Done and done. As you know, I am very by-the-book about nutrition and diet, especially when it is convenient for me. I talked to the pediatrician and did some independent internet research and found that a baby doesn't develop the enzymes to completely digest meat protein until nine or ten months. You won't kill them by giving them meat earlier, but you certainly aren't doing them or their little bellies any favors. Or yourself when diaper duty comes around. I have asked my mom for a food processor for Christmas to get all the dirty work done. I make a lot of soups and stews in the winter, so why not just grind Jake's portion up? Easy, right? Sure.
All this food talk is making me realize that I haven't had my brecky yet. I'm starving, and if I wait too long it will be lunch time. I prefer two meals on company time.
9.17.2006
mid year report
Six entire months since Jake was born, quite possibly the fastest six months of my entire life. Faster even than the six months grace offered by my girl Sallie Mae after college graduation. And that, my friend, was fast.
Jake is growing in leaps and bounds, and by my guess he is probably 27 inches long and about 16.5 pounds. I have been tempted to weigh and measure, but I have resisted and will find out tomorrow at the pediatrician's office.
He is doing so much these days that I don't know what to write about first, so I'll start from the very beginning, rumored to be a very good place to start. When we read we begin with the ABC's, sung to Jake while he enjoys the book cover. He favors Dr. Seuss and has a pretty big collection of his work. Now that he is more interested in his toys and playing on the floor and in his exersaucer, I am careful to limit his television time. Sorry Boohbahs, but you guys are on the way out. Little freaks. Jake has retired his swing and spends most of his time poking at his toys on his blankets. He loves rattles and tiny stuffed animals, his crinkly book and his plastic keys. Anything really.
Jake is still getting five bottles a day (although he only took two today, I think he is busy growing this afternoon and can't be bothered much with mealtime) and is eating all the Gerber Stage 1's. He savors carrots, squash, green beans, peas, sweet potatoes, applesauce, peaches, pears, bananas, oatmeal, and rice cereal. He is ready to bump up to a thicker puree, but I have a couple dozen more jars of the thin stuff for him to work through. When he is ready to eat meat, I think that we will limit him to chicken, turkey, and beef. I am strongly considering making my own baby meat because jarred meat gives me the willies. Vienna sausage, anyone? They say it is 100% meat, but that means nothing. I have a pair of boots that are technically 100% beef, and I wouldn't put them near my mouth. If it were up to me Jake would be meat-free, but meat is an integral part of Dave's diet, so there has to be compromise somewhere. There will be no baby ham and certainly no baby veal. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. Now to work up the nerve to touch the meat I will be making for Jake. I shiver to think of it. I am not a vegetarian, but on the occasion that I eat meat I almost never have a hand in preparing it.
When the food isn't going in the mouth, all sorts of squeals and squeaks are coming out of it. I used to be able to describe the noises, but Jake is more about volume and less about variety these days. He was screaming "hiiiiii!!!" at everyone for awhile, but I don't think he meant it. He still does it, but now it is loud and long and hardly anything that can pass as a formal salutation. He whimpers a "ehmma-ehmma ehmma-ehmma" when he is hungry that I probably could claim is "mama mama", but I know better. He has just about abandoned the cute ah-loos and marmars.
The two bottom teeth are poking through, and there are little sharp nubby things, but I'm not going to count them as teeth until there is at least an eighth of an inch through. They have been like that for months, and they can stay like that as far as I'm concerned. The kid is a biter.
Jake knows how to sit up if he is put in the position, but he would rather just lie down or try to stand. I'm not to worried- I don't know any healthy adults who haven't mastered the sit yet. He is really good at flopping around until he moves himself to where he is going and is getting the hang of putting his knees underneath his belly, but I think it will be awhile before he can crawl. He is a pro at scooting backwards when I am trying to dress him or change his diaper, and rolling reigns supreme. Jake plays with his toes, and my toes, and cat toes, and yours too if you let him. He is giving huge hugs and sloppy kisses to anyone willing to undergo the pinchy torture.
Jake sleeps through the night from 10ish to 7ish. I think the newly dark mornings are a little confusing for him, as are the early evenings. It seems to throw off his eating and sleeping. I am slightly convinced that Jake is part rooster because of this. Well, this and the rooster hair do. More like hair don't. I try, I really do. It is destined to be fashionably tousled. I try to style it using Vaseline or baby lotion after his bath, but it is pointless.
I think that is the bulk of the new stuff. I'm doing well too and will let you know all about it tomorrow when I post the babystats. Now I am going to get some sleep. My mom is in town and Jake suckers her into taking care of him so I can sleep. Hooray sleep.
Jake is growing in leaps and bounds, and by my guess he is probably 27 inches long and about 16.5 pounds. I have been tempted to weigh and measure, but I have resisted and will find out tomorrow at the pediatrician's office.
He is doing so much these days that I don't know what to write about first, so I'll start from the very beginning, rumored to be a very good place to start. When we read we begin with the ABC's, sung to Jake while he enjoys the book cover. He favors Dr. Seuss and has a pretty big collection of his work. Now that he is more interested in his toys and playing on the floor and in his exersaucer, I am careful to limit his television time. Sorry Boohbahs, but you guys are on the way out. Little freaks. Jake has retired his swing and spends most of his time poking at his toys on his blankets. He loves rattles and tiny stuffed animals, his crinkly book and his plastic keys. Anything really.
Jake is still getting five bottles a day (although he only took two today, I think he is busy growing this afternoon and can't be bothered much with mealtime) and is eating all the Gerber Stage 1's. He savors carrots, squash, green beans, peas, sweet potatoes, applesauce, peaches, pears, bananas, oatmeal, and rice cereal. He is ready to bump up to a thicker puree, but I have a couple dozen more jars of the thin stuff for him to work through. When he is ready to eat meat, I think that we will limit him to chicken, turkey, and beef. I am strongly considering making my own baby meat because jarred meat gives me the willies. Vienna sausage, anyone? They say it is 100% meat, but that means nothing. I have a pair of boots that are technically 100% beef, and I wouldn't put them near my mouth. If it were up to me Jake would be meat-free, but meat is an integral part of Dave's diet, so there has to be compromise somewhere. There will be no baby ham and certainly no baby veal. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. Now to work up the nerve to touch the meat I will be making for Jake. I shiver to think of it. I am not a vegetarian, but on the occasion that I eat meat I almost never have a hand in preparing it.
When the food isn't going in the mouth, all sorts of squeals and squeaks are coming out of it. I used to be able to describe the noises, but Jake is more about volume and less about variety these days. He was screaming "hiiiiii!!!" at everyone for awhile, but I don't think he meant it. He still does it, but now it is loud and long and hardly anything that can pass as a formal salutation. He whimpers a "ehmma-ehmma ehmma-ehmma" when he is hungry that I probably could claim is "mama mama", but I know better. He has just about abandoned the cute ah-loos and marmars.
The two bottom teeth are poking through, and there are little sharp nubby things, but I'm not going to count them as teeth until there is at least an eighth of an inch through. They have been like that for months, and they can stay like that as far as I'm concerned. The kid is a biter.
Jake knows how to sit up if he is put in the position, but he would rather just lie down or try to stand. I'm not to worried- I don't know any healthy adults who haven't mastered the sit yet. He is really good at flopping around until he moves himself to where he is going and is getting the hang of putting his knees underneath his belly, but I think it will be awhile before he can crawl. He is a pro at scooting backwards when I am trying to dress him or change his diaper, and rolling reigns supreme. Jake plays with his toes, and my toes, and cat toes, and yours too if you let him. He is giving huge hugs and sloppy kisses to anyone willing to undergo the pinchy torture.
Jake sleeps through the night from 10ish to 7ish. I think the newly dark mornings are a little confusing for him, as are the early evenings. It seems to throw off his eating and sleeping. I am slightly convinced that Jake is part rooster because of this. Well, this and the rooster hair do. More like hair don't. I try, I really do. It is destined to be fashionably tousled. I try to style it using Vaseline or baby lotion after his bath, but it is pointless.
I think that is the bulk of the new stuff. I'm doing well too and will let you know all about it tomorrow when I post the babystats. Now I am going to get some sleep. My mom is in town and Jake suckers her into taking care of him so I can sleep. Hooray sleep.
9.14.2006
not my kid
I always forget why I never wanted to have children until the new school year starts. Hundreds of prepubescent and teenaged brats clogging city streets and subways with their hairspray and chewing gum, reeking of cigarettes and cheap perfume, and talking about absolutely nothing using their outdoor voices.
In our neighborhood you get a special treat because all the girls think it is cool to smoke and spit and swear and roll up the waistband of their uniforms 57 times so their rear ends are hanging out the bottoms of their skirts. Thanks for the show, Lolita, but even the boys your age are sickened by your pasty Irish thighs. They are making fun of you and you are too preoccupied with giving yourself to them to notice.
I'm assuming that with some good parenting and a bit of supervision these kids wouldn't be so wild. I remember quite a few kids from school who were a little "slutty" or "burnt out" and we all knew that they had it pretty rough at home. They lived in the gross house at the end of the block that was rumored to be Section 8 or HUD. Their moms were gross and their dads were either mean, drunk, or missing. They wore dirty clothes that were strangely fashionable at the time thanks to the boys coming out of Seattle. They didn't do so well in school and they certainly weren't doing anything good out of school. They were getting high and raiding liquor cabinets while the rest of us went to practice or to work. The nights I didn't have track practice you could find me scooping 31 flavors for the masses, leaving very little time for delinquency. There was still trouble to be found on holidays and weekends, but for the most part my friends and I were good kids. Our parents knew our friends and our friends' parents knew our parents. I got yelled at by other people's moms and got rides home after school and work by other people's dads, and my parents returned the favor. We were encouraged to be involved in school activities and to get a job instead of getting an allowance. Thanks moms and dads. It certainly took a village but you did it.
Working in social services gives a glimpse inside the homes of the bad kids. Mothers who think they are doing a good job because they send their kid to school in the morning, but aren't sure what the kid does after he leaves the house. It comes as a surprise to her that the child may not be going to school even though she is wearing her uniform, and despite the fact that the mother never went to school herself. Fathers who think that because they enforce a midnight curfew their sons can't get into any trouble. Besides, boys can't really get into trouble. It is the girls you have to worry about, right? Parents who are happy that the kids are drinking and smoking weed in the house, where they can experiment under supervision. Sex is okay because she is on the pill. There is a whole lot of "I did all this stuff, and I turned out okay, and you sure as hell can't stop kids-these-days from doing it too". Guess what. You didn't turn out okay. I am your social worker and I'm sitting here with someone from children's services. And a truancy officer and I think I hear the police at the door. In the homes that I have visited, a successful parent is marked by a daughter who doesn't get pregnant until after she turns sixteen and a son who isn't dead by eighteen. College isn't considered, a high school diploma is only marginally necessary. These obviously aren't the standards that I will hold my children to, but it may be those of classmates, neighbors, and (pleasegodforbid) friends.
I'm enjoying parenting now, when you don't have to do much of anything other than cuddle, read stories, play peek-a-boo, and watch as the baby grows and learns new tricks like sitting and eating off a spoon. And giving an occasional bath is nice too.
In our neighborhood you get a special treat because all the girls think it is cool to smoke and spit and swear and roll up the waistband of their uniforms 57 times so their rear ends are hanging out the bottoms of their skirts. Thanks for the show, Lolita, but even the boys your age are sickened by your pasty Irish thighs. They are making fun of you and you are too preoccupied with giving yourself to them to notice.
I'm assuming that with some good parenting and a bit of supervision these kids wouldn't be so wild. I remember quite a few kids from school who were a little "slutty" or "burnt out" and we all knew that they had it pretty rough at home. They lived in the gross house at the end of the block that was rumored to be Section 8 or HUD. Their moms were gross and their dads were either mean, drunk, or missing. They wore dirty clothes that were strangely fashionable at the time thanks to the boys coming out of Seattle. They didn't do so well in school and they certainly weren't doing anything good out of school. They were getting high and raiding liquor cabinets while the rest of us went to practice or to work. The nights I didn't have track practice you could find me scooping 31 flavors for the masses, leaving very little time for delinquency. There was still trouble to be found on holidays and weekends, but for the most part my friends and I were good kids. Our parents knew our friends and our friends' parents knew our parents. I got yelled at by other people's moms and got rides home after school and work by other people's dads, and my parents returned the favor. We were encouraged to be involved in school activities and to get a job instead of getting an allowance. Thanks moms and dads. It certainly took a village but you did it.
Working in social services gives a glimpse inside the homes of the bad kids. Mothers who think they are doing a good job because they send their kid to school in the morning, but aren't sure what the kid does after he leaves the house. It comes as a surprise to her that the child may not be going to school even though she is wearing her uniform, and despite the fact that the mother never went to school herself. Fathers who think that because they enforce a midnight curfew their sons can't get into any trouble. Besides, boys can't really get into trouble. It is the girls you have to worry about, right? Parents who are happy that the kids are drinking and smoking weed in the house, where they can experiment under supervision. Sex is okay because she is on the pill. There is a whole lot of "I did all this stuff, and I turned out okay, and you sure as hell can't stop kids-these-days from doing it too". Guess what. You didn't turn out okay. I am your social worker and I'm sitting here with someone from children's services. And a truancy officer and I think I hear the police at the door. In the homes that I have visited, a successful parent is marked by a daughter who doesn't get pregnant until after she turns sixteen and a son who isn't dead by eighteen. College isn't considered, a high school diploma is only marginally necessary. These obviously aren't the standards that I will hold my children to, but it may be those of classmates, neighbors, and (pleasegodforbid) friends.
I'm enjoying parenting now, when you don't have to do much of anything other than cuddle, read stories, play peek-a-boo, and watch as the baby grows and learns new tricks like sitting and eating off a spoon. And giving an occasional bath is nice too.
9.12.2006
commencing countdown
I have scheduled Custom Wavefront Lasik surgery for October 7th at 11am. I. Can't. Wait. I have to wear my glasses until then, which doesn't sound bad to most people but it is my own personal hell. I get all sweaty under them at the gym, the sun is killing me since I don't have Rx sunglasses, I can see around the frame- well, more like can't see around the frame- so 25% of what I'm seeing (or not) is very blurry, they are bent out of shape so I am constantly readjusting, and I feel like the leader of the Dork Brigade. I was quite popular with the fellows, and a few of the ladies too I'll have you know, at both the Starbucks and the Barnes and Nobles this week. I have even been invited to a couple art shows. Other glasses people seem to think that I just may be one of them and interested in joining the fold. Screw you, suckers... twenty six more days and I am so out of your little club.
In all actuality, I may need a pair of low grade prescription glasses as a crutch for low light areas or driving, but I am totally okay with that.
And finally, in Jakeland all is going well. You'll get the big six month report on Sunday, so stay tuned.
In all actuality, I may need a pair of low grade prescription glasses as a crutch for low light areas or driving, but I am totally okay with that.
And finally, in Jakeland all is going well. You'll get the big six month report on Sunday, so stay tuned.
9.08.2006
never say never
I am the queen of saying never only to prove myself wrong, but it dawned on me this afternoon that I may never wear contacts again. I am banned from sticking anything in my eye for the next 72 hours because I have my final LASIK screening on Monday morning. This last test is to see whether I qualify for a surgery which is one step up on the technology meter from LASIK, the one for which the know-how stemmed from the problems that NASA was having for the Hubble telescope lens. I say bring on the science.
Hopefully all will go well Monday and I can schedule the procedure for October 4th and be done with it. I can't wear contacts for one month before they make the corneal cut, placing me on the dork list for 30 days. Day one and I already found that it's true what they say- boys really don't make passes at girls who wear glasses. I was completely ignored by the construction workers outside my building this afternoon.
I feel like I should have commemorated the last day of contacts somehow. Maybe I should have taken a picture or saved the lenses, or maybe at least saved the blue Gap dress I was wearing. But all I could concentrate on is how I am totally ready for this to be done. I'm not nervous or having second thoughts (yet). I've worn contacts for 16 years and glasses for 22. That is almost a lifetime in the third world.
And here, from the home office in Philadelphia, PA is the top ten list of things I said I would never do:
10. buy a car (April 2005 we welcomed Miss Bruce, the little silver Hyundai Accent, to join Team M)
9. get married (June 1999)
8. date someone shorter than me (November 1994, Dave rings in at 5'6.5", me at 5'7". He tricked me by wearing Timberlands.)
7. buy a house (February 2005)
6. go to New Jersey (July 1994. My mom wanted to show me the Atlantic Ocean, as if they don't have that in like a dozen other states)
5. wear sensible shoes (I am reduced to Aerosoles and Easy Spirits)
4. be a social worker (October 2001. I was young, I needed the money)
3. eat sushi (summer 2004, I now eat it at least four times per week. I still hate cooked fish)
2. live in one place for more than five years (I've been in Philadelphia for seven looong years)
and of course,
1. have a baby (but what would you read for hours on end if I didn't?)
If you need me, I'll be in the corner eating crow. Feel free to leave your top ten list in the comments. You'll be surprised at how liberating it is to just let it go.
Hopefully all will go well Monday and I can schedule the procedure for October 4th and be done with it. I can't wear contacts for one month before they make the corneal cut, placing me on the dork list for 30 days. Day one and I already found that it's true what they say- boys really don't make passes at girls who wear glasses. I was completely ignored by the construction workers outside my building this afternoon.
I feel like I should have commemorated the last day of contacts somehow. Maybe I should have taken a picture or saved the lenses, or maybe at least saved the blue Gap dress I was wearing. But all I could concentrate on is how I am totally ready for this to be done. I'm not nervous or having second thoughts (yet). I've worn contacts for 16 years and glasses for 22. That is almost a lifetime in the third world.
And here, from the home office in Philadelphia, PA is the top ten list of things I said I would never do:
10. buy a car (April 2005 we welcomed Miss Bruce, the little silver Hyundai Accent, to join Team M)
9. get married (June 1999)
8. date someone shorter than me (November 1994, Dave rings in at 5'6.5", me at 5'7". He tricked me by wearing Timberlands.)
7. buy a house (February 2005)
6. go to New Jersey (July 1994. My mom wanted to show me the Atlantic Ocean, as if they don't have that in like a dozen other states)
5. wear sensible shoes (I am reduced to Aerosoles and Easy Spirits)
4. be a social worker (October 2001. I was young, I needed the money)
3. eat sushi (summer 2004, I now eat it at least four times per week. I still hate cooked fish)
2. live in one place for more than five years (I've been in Philadelphia for seven looong years)
and of course,
1. have a baby (but what would you read for hours on end if I didn't?)
If you need me, I'll be in the corner eating crow. Feel free to leave your top ten list in the comments. You'll be surprised at how liberating it is to just let it go.
9.05.2006
crikey!
I'm sure that the news regarding Steve Irwin's death has reached you by now. I have been reading some sites dedicated to the passing, mostly because I thought I was going to die at the hands of a stingray on my honeymoon. Excuse me- tail of a stingray on my honeymoon. It was the single most horrifying event of my entire life and I will someday work on the passage of a Mexican law that lifeguards must learn the word for "help" in all major Earthlanguages.
I was surprised to learn how many children are stricken by the death of their beloved Crocodile Hunter. There are online support groups and advice columns for these kids, as well as articles for parents detailing how to explain the death to those kiddies out in TV Land using Mr. Irwin as an example. According to the sites, I should be prepared to explain what will happen to his children, his wife, the show, and whether his dog Sui will be waiting for him in Crock Heaven (a place where the men are men and the handbags are fabulous). I have read that I should mull over my own belief system and evaluate how much my child is ready to learn, understand, and accept. I can explain how some people die in accidents like the Hunter and some people die of old age or sickness like Mr. Rogers. But be careful! Children can be afraid that all oldsters are going to keel at any time and every cough leads to sudden death. Someone call a priest! Grandma sneezed! This is hard stuff.
I don't remember learning about death, but I do remember when my grandmother died. I was five and I was confident that she was in Heaven and feeling much better. I was a little bit confused about why people were sad since Heaven beats out convalescent home any day, but I did understand that my mom wouldn't get to see her mom again which is a five year-olds biggest nightmare. I thought my grandma could see me at all times so I was on very good behavior. Between her and Santa I made sure I stayed in check even when no one is looking. To this day I wonder if dead people are looking at me, clucking and shaking their head when I am naughty. I guess my parents told me that when you die God makes you all better and you get the job of watching over your loved ones on Earth while spending time with your dead friends. Sounds kinda like my old job as a social work supervisor without the constant headache.
I know that I will have to explain the intricacies of Death and Dying to Jake one day, most likely and hopefully using a pet goldfish bought from Walmart. In my experience they are guaranteed to die within one month's time and are very fun to flush. RIP Draco, Cuervo, 31, Hawn, and Phinneaus, you lived short but swimmy lives.
I was surprised to learn how many children are stricken by the death of their beloved Crocodile Hunter. There are online support groups and advice columns for these kids, as well as articles for parents detailing how to explain the death to those kiddies out in TV Land using Mr. Irwin as an example. According to the sites, I should be prepared to explain what will happen to his children, his wife, the show, and whether his dog Sui will be waiting for him in Crock Heaven (a place where the men are men and the handbags are fabulous). I have read that I should mull over my own belief system and evaluate how much my child is ready to learn, understand, and accept. I can explain how some people die in accidents like the Hunter and some people die of old age or sickness like Mr. Rogers. But be careful! Children can be afraid that all oldsters are going to keel at any time and every cough leads to sudden death. Someone call a priest! Grandma sneezed! This is hard stuff.
I don't remember learning about death, but I do remember when my grandmother died. I was five and I was confident that she was in Heaven and feeling much better. I was a little bit confused about why people were sad since Heaven beats out convalescent home any day, but I did understand that my mom wouldn't get to see her mom again which is a five year-olds biggest nightmare. I thought my grandma could see me at all times so I was on very good behavior. Between her and Santa I made sure I stayed in check even when no one is looking. To this day I wonder if dead people are looking at me, clucking and shaking their head when I am naughty. I guess my parents told me that when you die God makes you all better and you get the job of watching over your loved ones on Earth while spending time with your dead friends. Sounds kinda like my old job as a social work supervisor without the constant headache.
I know that I will have to explain the intricacies of Death and Dying to Jake one day, most likely and hopefully using a pet goldfish bought from Walmart. In my experience they are guaranteed to die within one month's time and are very fun to flush. RIP Draco, Cuervo, 31, Hawn, and Phinneaus, you lived short but swimmy lives.
9.02.2006
dredlock rasta
I had to do it, and I apologize. I wasn't going to say anything because I know how you feel about this but I think that we have a very open and honest relationship.
I cut it. Jake's hair. But just a tiny bit. You can't even tell. I swear.
He had two nappy locs at the base of his neck from rubbing the back of his head on anything it came in which it came in contact. They made him look kind of like a dirty hippie. I mean, I almost busted out the tea tree oil and patchouli. I almost tie-dyed his onesies. I am so past that stage in my life, and I'll let Jake find it on his own when he goes to college. I am convinced that eighteen years from now the kids will still listen to the Dead, wrap their hair in embroidery thread, and wear jergas. And they will think it is new. I have plenty of pictures to prove otherwise.
I never understood why people are so upset about baby's first haircut, but I now can relate. It actually pained my heart to cut an inch or so from Jake's mane. I stare at the back of his head and feel it is practically bald. Yeah, hardly.
Jake and I aren't feeling very well today. He is being pumped full of Tylenol which seems to be working, and he is having a great time in the middle of the floor with some toys and his scream. I rubbed myself down with Vicks (under Dave's shirt of course, that stuff does a number to your clothes) and I'm hanging out near Jake so he can take in the mentholatum. It seems to be working, and his nose is running. It's gross but it is a lot better than pinning him down and sucking the snot out with the bulb thing. That takes baby-wrangling to a whole new level. Add the saline drops and you have a sport.
I am drinking darjeeling and honey and considering some Tylenol for myself. The throat is a little raw. Fun Labor Day weekend this is shaping up to be.
I got some of the fall decorations up this morning, and as soon as I get a chance I'll upload some pictures to get you in the holiday spirit, so check back after dinner sometime. Until then, I'm going to light the pumpkin spice candle from last year and rush the season along.
I cut it. Jake's hair. But just a tiny bit. You can't even tell. I swear.
He had two nappy locs at the base of his neck from rubbing the back of his head on anything it came in which it came in contact. They made him look kind of like a dirty hippie. I mean, I almost busted out the tea tree oil and patchouli. I almost tie-dyed his onesies. I am so past that stage in my life, and I'll let Jake find it on his own when he goes to college. I am convinced that eighteen years from now the kids will still listen to the Dead, wrap their hair in embroidery thread, and wear jergas. And they will think it is new. I have plenty of pictures to prove otherwise.
I never understood why people are so upset about baby's first haircut, but I now can relate. It actually pained my heart to cut an inch or so from Jake's mane. I stare at the back of his head and feel it is practically bald. Yeah, hardly.
Jake and I aren't feeling very well today. He is being pumped full of Tylenol which seems to be working, and he is having a great time in the middle of the floor with some toys and his scream. I rubbed myself down with Vicks (under Dave's shirt of course, that stuff does a number to your clothes) and I'm hanging out near Jake so he can take in the mentholatum. It seems to be working, and his nose is running. It's gross but it is a lot better than pinning him down and sucking the snot out with the bulb thing. That takes baby-wrangling to a whole new level. Add the saline drops and you have a sport.
I am drinking darjeeling and honey and considering some Tylenol for myself. The throat is a little raw. Fun Labor Day weekend this is shaping up to be.
I got some of the fall decorations up this morning, and as soon as I get a chance I'll upload some pictures to get you in the holiday spirit, so check back after dinner sometime. Until then, I'm going to light the pumpkin spice candle from last year and rush the season along.
foliage!
Note the Christmas star doing double duty. It stays there all year, along with all the other crap on the mantle.
Hopefully I can get to the Dollar Store tomorrow and pick up some yellow candles for this. The white is a bit too much, and I'm almost ashamed to show this to you. Because I'm highly retentive.
One of the many non-working clocks in my house. This is the one that I bought off a wall at a bar. Ask me why sometime when you have an hour. It is a great story but it is long. And I take up plenty of your time here already.
My prize possession, an antique desk I bought at a block sale downtown.
Oh wow. I just figured out that I could have done this in the first place. And saved us all a lot of time. See mom, I do clean sometimes!
You aren't helping, Jake. In fact, you are making more of a mess.
(as if. i totally staged this.)
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