I noted on that last post that I have a real talent at nosing around. I'm also good at hiding things. Always have been. The two go hand in hand. Most kids hide stuff behind their drawers and between their mattresses and in the back of messy closets. Not me because those places are so obvious.
When I was a kid I hid things in the Christmas decorations.
Sneaky, no? Who looks in Christmas decorations when it isn't Christmas?
I took them out around Halloween and returned them when things got put away after New Years and relocated them with the summer stuff between the two. No one looks in golf bags and lawn chairs and camping stuff in November.
I should've joined the CIA.
11.26.2008
thanksgiving eve
I haven't been keeping up with my full-disclosure account of my baby-free week. In all honesty, it's been boring. Good boring, but boring nonetheless.
Jake left about 5 or so on Saturday, and by 6.30 we were crapped out on the couch until about 9.30 when we rented Forgetting Sarah Marshall, watched it, loved it, and went back to sleep for another eight hours.
Sunday found us running around and actually getting things done, which is much different than running around trying to get things done. I almost forgot what a truly productive day feels like. Normally I feel on top of the world if there are no dishes in the sink by the time I give up on the day. When I went to bed Sunday the basement was almost totally clean, the laundry was done, the Christmas shopping was close to finished, the downstairs was immaculate, and I went to a birthday party. Holy crap. That's a lot.
Monday work. And then we finished up the basement. Tuesday work and a mediocre haircut and dinner at our favorite Vietnamese restaurant and a fruitless attempt at hooking up the new Wii (that's our Christmas present to ourselves, I'm waiting impatiently to find a Fit somewhere in this town but it seems that they are all bought up) on the TV we already have. Wii failed. Round two of presents to ourselves is a smallish TV for the basement. And no, we aren't letting Jake know anything about this second television and the wildly exciting entertainment playland that we are setting up for ourselves down there. This makes me wonder what secrets my parents held from me. Probably not many since I have bionic hearing and a penchant for nosing around and I knew about the Playboys under the bed (dad) and the Archway Dutch Cocoa cookies in the bedside drawer (mom). Also, just as an aside, please don't keep incriminating Polaroids under the cookies in your nightstand. Kids search everywhere when you aren't home, and no one needs to be scarred like that. And besides the aside, I just have to say that after I saw the pictures for the first time, I kept going back to steal cookies, but I did it with my eyes closed. Some things only need to be seen once.
Today is Wednesday and I am sitting at work listening to people make plans for tomorrow. I love to listen to people talk to their mothers. There is a lot of mouth breathing and eye rolling and finger guns pointed at heads. And immediate follow up calls to siblings so the bitching and moaning can be done privately and today so no one explodes in front of Grandma tomorrow afternoon.
I'm going to a friend's grandmother's house out in West Philly in a couple hours to help with the cooking but will absolutely not be doing any cooking of my own. Then tonight I might run around with my number one lady friend or we might sit in one of our houses and drink something. Tomorrow we will swing by a few places and mooch food. Call me if you need us to help you with your leftovers.
What else?
The tree is up. And most of the other stuff. I guess I could poke around and see what else I have in the cellar and decide whether I want to put more up, but I like the way things look now.
I'm debating on whether to dye my hair again. I like it now, but I like it dark too and maybe I'll like my haircut better if it is a nice auburn chestnut color. I need to repaint my toenails too. Which reminds me I promised to do the touchups on the downstairs paint. Crike. I wish there were elves that did stuff like that for you. Trolls, even. Whatever as long as it gets done.
Sure I miss the boy, but not to the point where I want him home yet. Mornings are bliss and I'm making good on my promise not to fall asleep by 8.30. I haven't quite mastered the art of staying up until midnight, but I think tonight may be a turning point for all that.
This is the millionth time that we have been away from Jake for this long. I guess that isn't really normal, is it? That boy gets passed around from house to house and has been raised like a gypsy child from about six months old. There are perks of having family who like taking your kid. I have friends with kid's Jake's age who have never had a babysitter. I don't know anyone else who is away from their kid for a week+ several times per year, except for custody issues. I couldn't do all this mom stuff without time apart. I need this time for me to try to figure out who I am anymore. It is so easy to get wrapped up in parenting that I can lose myself in my child and that's not a very good place for me.
I'm jealous of the moms who can raise the kid(s) and stay at home and be all June Cleavery during the day and not want to slice into their arterial walls on a nightly basis. I have a hard time doing it for two whole days on the weekends. I'm almost over the horrible guilt that I can never and will never be the kind of lady who is able to sacrifice and devote everything they have to being a wife and mother and I'm working on being okay with the fact that although my family is my number one priority, there are a lot of very close seconds. Near ties, even. Nothing would ever trump Jake, but man oh man. I sure do like other things. Like myself. And Dave is okay. And I like alone time. And books. And long walks to nowhere. And silence. And grown ups. And and and.
I don't know where this is going, but I don't think I'm going to delete that last paragraph even though it ends in oblivion.
I've gotten a few emails this week how I'm doing without Jake (phenomenally, as always when he is on vacation) and I've gotten several about what it is like to be alone with my husband. Most parents don't have a chance for extended one-on-one time with their spouses post-baby, and marriages are quickly redefined once kids are in the picture.
Well, I guess it's weird, kind of. It's strange for the first day. Sometimes the second, too. Hopefully not the third. This time around we got industrious, and that gives us something to concentrate on while we make the adjustment to being Lora and Dave instead of Mommy and Daddy. Then we just fall into the old rhythm of being us for a few days. Hanging out and bumming around and listening to music and watching TV and talking and eating. I guess that's how things were before Jake. I really don't remember. We were together ten and a half years without Jake and two and a half with. You would think there would be some sort of recollection of the former, but hardly.
I'm computerless at home again. Stupid hard drive. I doubt it will arrive today, so it will be awfully quiet around here until Monday. I'm sure you are thankful for that. Are your ears bleeding yet? I guess it would be your eyes, since you are reading. Is anything on your head bleeding as a result of me? If yes, sorry. If no, call me. I have one hundred things to talk about that I'm not blogging about.
Everyone have a safe and happy Thanksgiving. Eat lots and don't worry about it. You can come over later when I finally get my Wii Fit and we will hide in the basement and get skinny and hot by the time Spring rolls around.
Jake left about 5 or so on Saturday, and by 6.30 we were crapped out on the couch until about 9.30 when we rented Forgetting Sarah Marshall, watched it, loved it, and went back to sleep for another eight hours.
Sunday found us running around and actually getting things done, which is much different than running around trying to get things done. I almost forgot what a truly productive day feels like. Normally I feel on top of the world if there are no dishes in the sink by the time I give up on the day. When I went to bed Sunday the basement was almost totally clean, the laundry was done, the Christmas shopping was close to finished, the downstairs was immaculate, and I went to a birthday party. Holy crap. That's a lot.
Monday work. And then we finished up the basement. Tuesday work and a mediocre haircut and dinner at our favorite Vietnamese restaurant and a fruitless attempt at hooking up the new Wii (that's our Christmas present to ourselves, I'm waiting impatiently to find a Fit somewhere in this town but it seems that they are all bought up) on the TV we already have. Wii failed. Round two of presents to ourselves is a smallish TV for the basement. And no, we aren't letting Jake know anything about this second television and the wildly exciting entertainment playland that we are setting up for ourselves down there. This makes me wonder what secrets my parents held from me. Probably not many since I have bionic hearing and a penchant for nosing around and I knew about the Playboys under the bed (dad) and the Archway Dutch Cocoa cookies in the bedside drawer (mom). Also, just as an aside, please don't keep incriminating Polaroids under the cookies in your nightstand. Kids search everywhere when you aren't home, and no one needs to be scarred like that. And besides the aside, I just have to say that after I saw the pictures for the first time, I kept going back to steal cookies, but I did it with my eyes closed. Some things only need to be seen once.
Today is Wednesday and I am sitting at work listening to people make plans for tomorrow. I love to listen to people talk to their mothers. There is a lot of mouth breathing and eye rolling and finger guns pointed at heads. And immediate follow up calls to siblings so the bitching and moaning can be done privately and today so no one explodes in front of Grandma tomorrow afternoon.
I'm going to a friend's grandmother's house out in West Philly in a couple hours to help with the cooking but will absolutely not be doing any cooking of my own. Then tonight I might run around with my number one lady friend or we might sit in one of our houses and drink something. Tomorrow we will swing by a few places and mooch food. Call me if you need us to help you with your leftovers.
What else?
The tree is up. And most of the other stuff. I guess I could poke around and see what else I have in the cellar and decide whether I want to put more up, but I like the way things look now.
I'm debating on whether to dye my hair again. I like it now, but I like it dark too and maybe I'll like my haircut better if it is a nice auburn chestnut color. I need to repaint my toenails too. Which reminds me I promised to do the touchups on the downstairs paint. Crike. I wish there were elves that did stuff like that for you. Trolls, even. Whatever as long as it gets done.
Sure I miss the boy, but not to the point where I want him home yet. Mornings are bliss and I'm making good on my promise not to fall asleep by 8.30. I haven't quite mastered the art of staying up until midnight, but I think tonight may be a turning point for all that.
This is the millionth time that we have been away from Jake for this long. I guess that isn't really normal, is it? That boy gets passed around from house to house and has been raised like a gypsy child from about six months old. There are perks of having family who like taking your kid. I have friends with kid's Jake's age who have never had a babysitter. I don't know anyone else who is away from their kid for a week+ several times per year, except for custody issues. I couldn't do all this mom stuff without time apart. I need this time for me to try to figure out who I am anymore. It is so easy to get wrapped up in parenting that I can lose myself in my child and that's not a very good place for me.
I'm jealous of the moms who can raise the kid(s) and stay at home and be all June Cleavery during the day and not want to slice into their arterial walls on a nightly basis. I have a hard time doing it for two whole days on the weekends. I'm almost over the horrible guilt that I can never and will never be the kind of lady who is able to sacrifice and devote everything they have to being a wife and mother and I'm working on being okay with the fact that although my family is my number one priority, there are a lot of very close seconds. Near ties, even. Nothing would ever trump Jake, but man oh man. I sure do like other things. Like myself. And Dave is okay. And I like alone time. And books. And long walks to nowhere. And silence. And grown ups. And and and.
I don't know where this is going, but I don't think I'm going to delete that last paragraph even though it ends in oblivion.
I've gotten a few emails this week how I'm doing without Jake (phenomenally, as always when he is on vacation) and I've gotten several about what it is like to be alone with my husband. Most parents don't have a chance for extended one-on-one time with their spouses post-baby, and marriages are quickly redefined once kids are in the picture.
Well, I guess it's weird, kind of. It's strange for the first day. Sometimes the second, too. Hopefully not the third. This time around we got industrious, and that gives us something to concentrate on while we make the adjustment to being Lora and Dave instead of Mommy and Daddy. Then we just fall into the old rhythm of being us for a few days. Hanging out and bumming around and listening to music and watching TV and talking and eating. I guess that's how things were before Jake. I really don't remember. We were together ten and a half years without Jake and two and a half with. You would think there would be some sort of recollection of the former, but hardly.
I'm computerless at home again. Stupid hard drive. I doubt it will arrive today, so it will be awfully quiet around here until Monday. I'm sure you are thankful for that. Are your ears bleeding yet? I guess it would be your eyes, since you are reading. Is anything on your head bleeding as a result of me? If yes, sorry. If no, call me. I have one hundred things to talk about that I'm not blogging about.
Everyone have a safe and happy Thanksgiving. Eat lots and don't worry about it. You can come over later when I finally get my Wii Fit and we will hide in the basement and get skinny and hot by the time Spring rolls around.
11.25.2008
bonds
I guess I was about eight or nine, waiting in line at Waldemeer for the Bump, and my mom pointed to a little girl about my size running from the Wacky Shack to the Spider, her mom reluctantly trailing behind her. I know this is lost on any non-Erieites, but that isn't the point of the story.
My mom told me that little girl and I share the same birthday.
"How do you know?", I wondered. I had never seen that girl in my life.
"Because we labored together at Doctor's (Hospital)".
I never got that. How nine years later you would recognize someone you saw for a day and never spoke to again.
When I got pregnant I was desperate for peers. Few of my friends had kids, and certainly none of them were pregnant when I was. I launched a full-on assault to gather as many pregnant people as I could find. I lurked in maternity departments and pounced on anyone who looked mildly bloated, stalked people in the OB's waiting room, the grocery, the street. I got online and built me a brand new social circle of people just like me. Smart girls who listened to what the doctors had to say about what you were supposed to do with yourself when you were pregnant, all due between November and May and all having their first baby. Because that matters. When you are pregnant you don't want to hear conflicting views or be brushed off, especially when you are not of the "anything goes" or "been there done that" clubs.
We built ourselves a mini-army of comrades. We listened to each other, we asked embarrassing questions of one another about buttholes and vagina sizes and boob leakage and other nastiness that you don't find in regular conversations. We kept in touch, we blogged, we read, we cared. I was lucky enough to have Val, Susan, and Amy Jo living nearby. Even if we didn't see each other often, we knew we were out there for each other, going through things that our husbands didn't understand, that our mother's didn't know about thirty years ago, and our friends didn't want to hear.
My mommy friends are different than my other friends. I love them differently . We've been through the war together. We didn't share childhoods, we didn't go to college together, we never worked together, we never partied together. We don't know everything about each other, we don't know each other's families and friends, we don't bother with the minutiae. We have other friends for that. We share the stuff you don't find in the books, the stuff you can't bother the doctor with, that no one else can answer. The "holy crap is this normal or am I the worst mother ever and am I totally ruining my child or is my child totally ruining me" stuff.
Amy Jo and Susan came by for dinner last night with their boys. It was amazing to see them together, the last time they saw each other they had no interest in other little babies and now they were trying to share and play together. I wish Jake was there too, but he's jetsetting across the state and missed out on seeing the boys he's known since the belly. Though it's been almost years since we sat in the same room together, it seems like about four days have passed since we met. If time swallows us up and a decade passes before I see them again I know that nothing would change and we would dive right back in to frantically talking about everything and nothing between bites of pasta and cheese and bread and cake and it would probably be tenfold because we wouldn't have any mouths to wipe or boo boos to kiss.
My mom told me that little girl and I share the same birthday.
"How do you know?", I wondered. I had never seen that girl in my life.
"Because we labored together at Doctor's (Hospital)".
I never got that. How nine years later you would recognize someone you saw for a day and never spoke to again.
When I got pregnant I was desperate for peers. Few of my friends had kids, and certainly none of them were pregnant when I was. I launched a full-on assault to gather as many pregnant people as I could find. I lurked in maternity departments and pounced on anyone who looked mildly bloated, stalked people in the OB's waiting room, the grocery, the street. I got online and built me a brand new social circle of people just like me. Smart girls who listened to what the doctors had to say about what you were supposed to do with yourself when you were pregnant, all due between November and May and all having their first baby. Because that matters. When you are pregnant you don't want to hear conflicting views or be brushed off, especially when you are not of the "anything goes" or "been there done that" clubs.
We built ourselves a mini-army of comrades. We listened to each other, we asked embarrassing questions of one another about buttholes and vagina sizes and boob leakage and other nastiness that you don't find in regular conversations. We kept in touch, we blogged, we read, we cared. I was lucky enough to have Val, Susan, and Amy Jo living nearby. Even if we didn't see each other often, we knew we were out there for each other, going through things that our husbands didn't understand, that our mother's didn't know about thirty years ago, and our friends didn't want to hear.
My mommy friends are different than my other friends. I love them differently . We've been through the war together. We didn't share childhoods, we didn't go to college together, we never worked together, we never partied together. We don't know everything about each other, we don't know each other's families and friends, we don't bother with the minutiae. We have other friends for that. We share the stuff you don't find in the books, the stuff you can't bother the doctor with, that no one else can answer. The "holy crap is this normal or am I the worst mother ever and am I totally ruining my child or is my child totally ruining me" stuff.
Amy Jo and Susan came by for dinner last night with their boys. It was amazing to see them together, the last time they saw each other they had no interest in other little babies and now they were trying to share and play together. I wish Jake was there too, but he's jetsetting across the state and missed out on seeing the boys he's known since the belly. Though it's been almost years since we sat in the same room together, it seems like about four days have passed since we met. If time swallows us up and a decade passes before I see them again I know that nothing would change and we would dive right back in to frantically talking about everything and nothing between bites of pasta and cheese and bread and cake and it would probably be tenfold because we wouldn't have any mouths to wipe or boo boos to kiss.
Holiday Savings
I swear I tried to go green and cut all of the junk and catalogs from my mail. I jumped through all sorts of hoops, copied postal codes, and logged on to tons of websites and Do Not Mail lists. I called all my regular mail and internet order companies and told them that I am doing just fine checking their products online and ordering what I needed. But for some reason every day I come home to a giant pile of advertisements and coupons. Oh the coupons! These gloriously semi-glossed and adorably festive coupons promising me anywhere between thirty and seventy-five percent off my total order. Total! As in, sale items are included. It is as if these companies are paying me to come in and take away their stock for them. Retailers are clearing out and closing down and they need me. Me! They need me to help them get the job done. I'm like an economic superhero. My husband and I (thankfully) still have our jobs. And we certainly still have needs. And the stores have what I need and are willing to take pennies on the dollar if I’m willing to haul it away. Macy’s gave away the store last week, and I bought hundreds and hundreds of dollars of top-name button-down shirts and ties for my husband for about $125. I got a brand new set of pots and pans, originally $350 for $150. I left the store because I couldn’t fit anything else into the cab. Well, that and I was afraid of the damage I could do in there because my brain wasn’t set to “spending”, it was stuck on “saving”, and that is a dangerous way to go about your afternoon.
I have a stack of those postcard coupons in my day planner. I have nothing but time this week because my son is out of town with my dad for nine days. I absolutely have to get rid of those coupons or I’m going to spend wildly in some sort of delusional sense of security and necessity.
I mean, someday I’ll need new sheets and towels, right? Better stop at the soon-defunct Linens and Things and get them cheap now, because who knows if the price of linens (and things) will be rising sharply in the first quarter of the new year. Forty percent off Lucky Jeans? Lucky Jeans make my butt look phenomenal. Let's go at lunch, and you can try a pair on too and raise your self-esteem by way more than forty percent. Thirty percent off at Pottery Barn? That makes everything almost reasonably priced. I should just stop by and check out what they have. Fifty percent off one item at Home Depot? Certainly I need at least one item at Home Depot. And since I'm getting fifty percent off of one, that means I can spend the other fifty percent on everything else I need because it is like I'm getting it for free.
As of right now, I refuse to buy anything else that doesn't have to do with food or shelter. Okay, as of tomorrow. As of tomorrow I refuse to buy anything else. I don’t really need anything, and I certainly don’t need anything sitting around my house waiting to be needed. But it’s just so hard to turn my back on these companies who are so obviously concerned about our need to save money during these tough economic times. They are being awfully accommodating and sweet about things, aren't they? I feel like I owe them just one tiny peek...
I have a stack of those postcard coupons in my day planner. I have nothing but time this week because my son is out of town with my dad for nine days. I absolutely have to get rid of those coupons or I’m going to spend wildly in some sort of delusional sense of security and necessity.
I mean, someday I’ll need new sheets and towels, right? Better stop at the soon-defunct Linens and Things and get them cheap now, because who knows if the price of linens (and things) will be rising sharply in the first quarter of the new year. Forty percent off Lucky Jeans? Lucky Jeans make my butt look phenomenal. Let's go at lunch, and you can try a pair on too and raise your self-esteem by way more than forty percent. Thirty percent off at Pottery Barn? That makes everything almost reasonably priced. I should just stop by and check out what they have. Fifty percent off one item at Home Depot? Certainly I need at least one item at Home Depot. And since I'm getting fifty percent off of one, that means I can spend the other fifty percent on everything else I need because it is like I'm getting it for free.
As of right now, I refuse to buy anything else that doesn't have to do with food or shelter. Okay, as of tomorrow. As of tomorrow I refuse to buy anything else. I don’t really need anything, and I certainly don’t need anything sitting around my house waiting to be needed. But it’s just so hard to turn my back on these companies who are so obviously concerned about our need to save money during these tough economic times. They are being awfully accommodating and sweet about things, aren't they? I feel like I owe them just one tiny peek...
i'm thankful for stars
This is the star that sat atop my Christmas tree when I was growing up. When I was about 4, I sat on the seventiestacular styrofoam and glitter one, and my dad was upset, but we went out and picked this one out together. I wonder if he remembers that? It happened the day before I shocked myself on the outlet when I was playing with the tree light plug. I've been afraid of electricity ever since. Rough two days.
When my parents split, one of them got the original star and the other one went out and bought the same exact one so both of my trees had the same star on top. I swiped this one from my mom's house a few years ago. It's my favorite Christmas decoration ever and I still haven't found a prettier star. I bought something that I kind of like this year, but, meh. I'm half tempted to keep this out all year round so I can look at it whenever I want to, but I love taking it out of storage and holding it up to the windows and lights and figuring out where it will go.
I wonder if I look at this star the same way I look at my kid, as though it is the most perfect most beautiful most special thing in the whole wide world because it is all mine but everyone else sees snot and messy hair and precociousness.
11.24.2008
strangers with candy
I originally set my reader feeds to partial because I liked to see where my readers were coming from via Site Meter. I share a lot of personal stuff here, and I wanted to make sure no one was coming here out of sorts or after searching for porny sounding things or whatever.
Last week I was going to set them to full because I hate partial feeds and I'm assuming you do too. My traffic is relatively steady, I don't have a link to the picture blog on this site, and although there are personal things posted here, it is no less than what I might tell you at the playground or in line at the grocery or over lattes while waiting for the bus because I'm the Queen Mum of TMI and currently holding reign over the Province of Rambling about Nothing. So what the hell.
Point is, my cousin had Jake at Target last week and someone stopped him in the aisle and said "hi there Jake! Where is your mommy?". The lady who stopped him asked my cousin if she was with him and if I was there (answers were yes and no, respectively) and she said that her name was Lauren and to let me know she said hi. She said I would know her and Gino. Um, no. I don't. I know three Laurens. One was at my house at the time, one is in Chile, and one doesn't fit the description. I'm hoping that my cousin didn't hear her name right and whoever it was just hasn't gotten around to calling me and telling me she ran into Jake in aisle ten.
So, was it you?
Or you?
Or maybe you?
I wasn't creeped out by this at first, and I'm not really creeped out now. I've recognized bloggers and said hi to them and their kids, and I'm not creepy. Well, I'm not ubercreepy. Stalking you online and sending you @Twitter messages regarding what is going on with your personal life is hardly threatening, right?
I just want to know who it was so I can get past this and start obsessing about something else.
Last week I was going to set them to full because I hate partial feeds and I'm assuming you do too. My traffic is relatively steady, I don't have a link to the picture blog on this site, and although there are personal things posted here, it is no less than what I might tell you at the playground or in line at the grocery or over lattes while waiting for the bus because I'm the Queen Mum of TMI and currently holding reign over the Province of Rambling about Nothing. So what the hell.
Point is, my cousin had Jake at Target last week and someone stopped him in the aisle and said "hi there Jake! Where is your mommy?". The lady who stopped him asked my cousin if she was with him and if I was there (answers were yes and no, respectively) and she said that her name was Lauren and to let me know she said hi. She said I would know her and Gino. Um, no. I don't. I know three Laurens. One was at my house at the time, one is in Chile, and one doesn't fit the description. I'm hoping that my cousin didn't hear her name right and whoever it was just hasn't gotten around to calling me and telling me she ran into Jake in aisle ten.
So, was it you?
Or you?
Or maybe you?
I wasn't creeped out by this at first, and I'm not really creeped out now. I've recognized bloggers and said hi to them and their kids, and I'm not creepy. Well, I'm not ubercreepy. Stalking you online and sending you @Twitter messages regarding what is going on with your personal life is hardly threatening, right?
I just want to know who it was so I can get past this and start obsessing about something else.
11.22.2008
friday night
I got a comment on that last post regarding something about not leaving out any details of my baby-free week.
Which started about 5pm on Saturday, by the way. Just an hour after my hard drive bit it on the computer that just got "fixed". So now I'm stuck writing things by hand and typing them up at work three days later.
I remember a decade or so ago having a terrible problem with sitting down at a computer and allowing my brain to work creatively. I wrote everything longhand and then typed it later. It didn't seem to be such a pain, I had done it my whole life in school. Now I have a hard time handwriting anything more than a grocery list. Funny how things change.
My freshman year of college I took some sort of Math one-oh-something where the professor felt that there was no need to go over how to figure tangents and sines and cosine (that link is like porn to me {also, don't you learn that in like, ninth grade? College math was funny to me}) because he said that in the future everyone will have calculator technology at their fingertips. I called shenanigans on him. But he wins the argument. As it turns out, my phone can figure sine faster than my old $90 Texas Instrument Scientific Calculator.
Anyway.
I started acting babyfree a bit earlier than scheduled. Mara and Lauren came in town Friday night and after we polished off a bottle of wine, a few beers, and $30 worth of locally made cheeses we dumped the boy on Dave and hit up the new bar around the corner to talk about everyone we used to know way back when we were rocking the alldayallnight longandstrong coolkid lifestyle. Then we stopped at the bar on my corner so Mara could say hi to an old friend. Round about 1 or so in the morning I thought that everything going on around me would make an excellent blog post but not really, lest you are the judging type.
Somehow I can't find the words to appropriately explain to you how we ended up drinking shots of BYOHennessy* in an ill-reputed and oft-surveillanced cokebar surrounded by the guys that I like to watch file into the whorehouse across the street from my house every two weeks and a bunch of girls that look like trannys but are really just typical brutish South Philly girls looking for a good, hard, random lay while laughing hysterically in the corner by the payphone because we can't figure out whether we should tell Mara's friend that he has a big wad of, well, wad all over the front of his sweater as a result of his sexhaving with his girlfriend in the ladies room** and when we finally do let him know he tries to convince us that he didn't spill drugs on himself. Because, you know, drugs tend to have viscosity and splatter patterns.*** We left shortly after his girlfriend puked all over the place. Good times. Makes me wonder what we would have done if I didn't have a two year old scheduled to wake me up at 6 in the morning.
There just don't seem to be words for all that nonsense that make me sound like a good mom.
Which started about 5pm on Saturday, by the way. Just an hour after my hard drive bit it on the computer that just got "fixed". So now I'm stuck writing things by hand and typing them up at work three days later.
I remember a decade or so ago having a terrible problem with sitting down at a computer and allowing my brain to work creatively. I wrote everything longhand and then typed it later. It didn't seem to be such a pain, I had done it my whole life in school. Now I have a hard time handwriting anything more than a grocery list. Funny how things change.
My freshman year of college I took some sort of Math one-oh-something where the professor felt that there was no need to go over how to figure tangents and sines and cosine (that link is like porn to me {also, don't you learn that in like, ninth grade? College math was funny to me}) because he said that in the future everyone will have calculator technology at their fingertips. I called shenanigans on him. But he wins the argument. As it turns out, my phone can figure sine faster than my old $90 Texas Instrument Scientific Calculator.
Anyway.
I started acting babyfree a bit earlier than scheduled. Mara and Lauren came in town Friday night and after we polished off a bottle of wine, a few beers, and $30 worth of locally made cheeses we dumped the boy on Dave and hit up the new bar around the corner to talk about everyone we used to know way back when we were rocking the alldayallnight longandstrong coolkid lifestyle. Then we stopped at the bar on my corner so Mara could say hi to an old friend. Round about 1 or so in the morning I thought that everything going on around me would make an excellent blog post but not really, lest you are the judging type.
Somehow I can't find the words to appropriately explain to you how we ended up drinking shots of BYOHennessy* in an ill-reputed and oft-surveillanced cokebar surrounded by the guys that I like to watch file into the whorehouse across the street from my house every two weeks and a bunch of girls that look like trannys but are really just typical brutish South Philly girls looking for a good, hard, random lay while laughing hysterically in the corner by the payphone because we can't figure out whether we should tell Mara's friend that he has a big wad of, well, wad all over the front of his sweater as a result of his sexhaving with his girlfriend in the ladies room** and when we finally do let him know he tries to convince us that he didn't spill drugs on himself. Because, you know, drugs tend to have viscosity and splatter patterns.*** We left shortly after his girlfriend puked all over the place. Good times. Makes me wonder what we would have done if I didn't have a two year old scheduled to wake me up at 6 in the morning.
There just don't seem to be words for all that nonsense that make me sound like a good mom.
***
*Mara's friend had it in his car so he brought it in so we wouldn't have to buy shots. The bartender asked us if we got it from behind the bar, but we said no, we brought it in ourselves so she gave us shot glasses so we wouldn't have to pass the bottle around. What? Your bars in your town don't condone that? You should move here. It makes your night cheaper. In every sense of the word.
**Lauren caught them, so there is no denying. Etiquette says that you should always lock the door when doing it in a public restroom.
***I may have crossed the proverbial mommyblogging line with this post.
**Lauren caught them, so there is no denying. Etiquette says that you should always lock the door when doing it in a public restroom.
***I may have crossed the proverbial mommyblogging line with this post.
11.21.2008
Jake is going on an extended holiday beginning tomorrow and lasting until next weekend. Eight or nine baby-free days are spread out in front of me and glistening in the new fallen snow.
Want me to make you even more jealouser? My boss is in South America through the first week of December.
Next week has the potential for so much progress. I've printed an hourly planner off Outlook so I can carefully plot what I'm going to do. If I have to ink in scouring my bathroom, so be it. My main goals are to clean my house (of course, and lose ten pounds while I'm at it. The likelihood of both happening are about even), touch-up my walls with the corrective paint I bought last time Jake was out of town for a week, re-grout my sink and tub, go to the gym every day but Thursday, get the rest of the Christmas stuff up, put on make-up and comb my hair every day, finish cleaning out my basement, finish cleaning out that bottle of Maker's on my kitchen table, and staying up until midnight every night this week. Oh, and Wednesday night? It's on like old skoolio, babies. We are going the hell out.
You know, with all the other 22 year-olds in town who are out searching for long lost high school classmates so we can all show each other how much more attractive we are now than we were when we were 16 and awkward. And being pregnant doesn't exclude you from going out. Bars are smoke-free, bitches.
But seriously, I'm getting things done this time around.
Or I can just start freebasing under the El. It's not like I have a baby to take care of or a boss to make happy.
Enough of what I will do, here are things I won't do:
1. wash brightly colored plastic dishes
2. wipe someone else's butt/nose
3. listen to Life is a Highway
4. stub my toe on the bathroom step stool
5. step on Matchbox cars
6. fall asleep in a tiny bed at 8.30
7. wake up earlier than 7.30
8. make icky Gerber Oatmeal
9. worry about dinner
10. buckle carseats
11. tie shoes
12. brush little teeth
13. say "no" eighty times per day
14. talk about Thomass or Fireman Sam
15. or Diego or Dora or McQueen or Roary the Racecar
16. or monsters or ghosts or why we can't play with our genitals at Target
17. or Walmart or Ikea or CVS
18. read a book with pictures
19. watch a movie with no swear words
20. fall more and more in ridiculously squishy love every single minute of every single hour of every single day. I guess I'll put it on hold for a few days so my heart doesn't overflow and explode all over the place, making for a very messy and medically awkward holiday weekend.
go ahead and puke. I don't care. I'm going to miss that little boy.
Want me to make you even more jealouser? My boss is in South America through the first week of December.
Next week has the potential for so much progress. I've printed an hourly planner off Outlook so I can carefully plot what I'm going to do. If I have to ink in scouring my bathroom, so be it. My main goals are to clean my house (of course, and lose ten pounds while I'm at it. The likelihood of both happening are about even), touch-up my walls with the corrective paint I bought last time Jake was out of town for a week, re-grout my sink and tub, go to the gym every day but Thursday, get the rest of the Christmas stuff up, put on make-up and comb my hair every day, finish cleaning out my basement, finish cleaning out that bottle of Maker's on my kitchen table, and staying up until midnight every night this week. Oh, and Wednesday night? It's on like old skoolio, babies. We are going the hell out.
You know, with all the other 22 year-olds in town who are out searching for long lost high school classmates so we can all show each other how much more attractive we are now than we were when we were 16 and awkward. And being pregnant doesn't exclude you from going out. Bars are smoke-free, bitches.
But seriously, I'm getting things done this time around.
Or I can just start freebasing under the El. It's not like I have a baby to take care of or a boss to make happy.
Enough of what I will do, here are things I won't do:
1. wash brightly colored plastic dishes
2. wipe someone else's butt/nose
3. listen to Life is a Highway
4. stub my toe on the bathroom step stool
5. step on Matchbox cars
6. fall asleep in a tiny bed at 8.30
7. wake up earlier than 7.30
8. make icky Gerber Oatmeal
9. worry about dinner
10. buckle carseats
11. tie shoes
12. brush little teeth
13. say "no" eighty times per day
14. talk about Thomass or Fireman Sam
15. or Diego or Dora or McQueen or Roary the Racecar
16. or monsters or ghosts or why we can't play with our genitals at Target
17. or Walmart or Ikea or CVS
18. read a book with pictures
19. watch a movie with no swear words
20. fall more and more in ridiculously squishy love every single minute of every single hour of every single day. I guess I'll put it on hold for a few days so my heart doesn't overflow and explode all over the place, making for a very messy and medically awkward holiday weekend.
go ahead and puke. I don't care. I'm going to miss that little boy.
11.19.2008
shudder to think
I have three things I want to write about today. One involves real feelings, and may have to wait for a whiskey-mused moment because one of the people I want to type about is a reader/blogger/family member. Another people I want to type about is a non-reader/non-blogger/family member and is therefore off limits (call me if you need a guest poster). And the final thing is something that haunts my psyche to near sleeplessness but will make you laugh.
And the winner is...
I'll give you a good head-shaking chuckle today at my expense. Read on...
So, it's Christmas! As if you haven't noticed in my last eight posts and at K-mart/Walmart/Target/Macy's/insert-corporate-genericy-here.
And we are broke! As if you haven't noticed in your wallet/bank statement/credit card bill/insert-emptiness-here.
I mentioned the other day that we are going to start a collection of Geo Trash for the boy this Christmas. Payton's mommy forwarded me a (extremely helpful! thank you anonymous reader! and thank you for loving my niece!) email from a friend of hers that mentioned the deals she got on G.T.'s on eBay. Brilliant!
But wait.
When I was pregnant, the bed set that I just HAD. TO. HAVE for Jacob was rapidly selling out at my and your local Targets. I cried. And ate. And cried some more. And ate some more. (Please remember I was pregnant, and if you click on that link, please excuse the topless photo of a girl who was 7 months pregnant. Also, you may have noticed that I'm moving all my old Baby Steps posts over to this blog. So if you want to see how incredibly mad- I mean that in every sense of the word- I was while pregnant, visit the archives to the left).
I was absolutely devastated that my boychild mayn't have a duvet that matched his lampshades. Priorities are funny before you have your first baby, aren't they? Now I just make sure that everyone has their heads half screwed on before we leave the house and I feel like a wild success, and that carries me through the day by giving me high self esteem.
Someone at work mentioned eBay. Oh lord of lords and host of hosts! I can get any fucking thing I want on eBay! I can buy my brother the set of Bambi sheets he had when he was little (auction fail). I can buy my unborn son an original Star Wars bedsheet (auction win). This is fabulous!! I resolved to never buy anything new out of a store for my baby. Everything was coming off of Craigslist and eBay because I am slightly crunchy and I am going to be the best reducereuserecycle mommy evah! (Please also excuse the shameless blog promo)
Then I noticed that a lot of toys and baby gear were NiP (New in Package).
Then it hit me.
Oh Your God. (my god doesn't kill babies. must be yours.)
Those babies died.
All those mommies bought bedding and clothes and toys for their babies and those babies died before those mommies got a chance to open it up.
EBay is a haven for the goods of dead babies and if I buy dead baby's things I was going to wind up with a dead baby.
There is really no other explanation, right?
Right?
Well, maybe heroin addicts steal stuff out of stock rooms and truckloads and sell it for profit. But I don't want to go ahead and support their habits.
Srsly. Why is there so many NiP stuff on eBay? Baby clothes and toys=dead babies. Engagement rings and wedding bands=failed relationships. Antiques and collectibles=dad kicked it or ran away. What is a girl to do? Buy retail goods or buy cursed objects?
Anyone?
Anyone?
And the winner is...
I'll give you a good head-shaking chuckle today at my expense. Read on...
So, it's Christmas! As if you haven't noticed in my last eight posts and at K-mart/Walmart/Target/Macy's/insert-corporate-genericy-here.
And we are broke! As if you haven't noticed in your wallet/bank statement/credit card bill/insert-emptiness-here.
I mentioned the other day that we are going to start a collection of Geo Trash for the boy this Christmas. Payton's mommy forwarded me a (extremely helpful! thank you anonymous reader! and thank you for loving my niece!) email from a friend of hers that mentioned the deals she got on G.T.'s on eBay. Brilliant!
But wait.
When I was pregnant, the bed set that I just HAD. TO. HAVE for Jacob was rapidly selling out at my and your local Targets. I cried. And ate. And cried some more. And ate some more. (Please remember I was pregnant, and if you click on that link, please excuse the topless photo of a girl who was 7 months pregnant. Also, you may have noticed that I'm moving all my old Baby Steps posts over to this blog. So if you want to see how incredibly mad- I mean that in every sense of the word- I was while pregnant, visit the archives to the left).
I was absolutely devastated that my boychild mayn't have a duvet that matched his lampshades. Priorities are funny before you have your first baby, aren't they? Now I just make sure that everyone has their heads half screwed on before we leave the house and I feel like a wild success, and that carries me through the day by giving me high self esteem.
Someone at work mentioned eBay. Oh lord of lords and host of hosts! I can get any fucking thing I want on eBay! I can buy my brother the set of Bambi sheets he had when he was little (auction fail). I can buy my unborn son an original Star Wars bedsheet (auction win). This is fabulous!! I resolved to never buy anything new out of a store for my baby. Everything was coming off of Craigslist and eBay because I am slightly crunchy and I am going to be the best reducereuserecycle mommy evah! (Please also excuse the shameless blog promo)
Then I noticed that a lot of toys and baby gear were NiP (New in Package).
Then it hit me.
Oh Your God. (my god doesn't kill babies. must be yours.)
Those babies died.
All those mommies bought bedding and clothes and toys for their babies and those babies died before those mommies got a chance to open it up.
EBay is a haven for the goods of dead babies and if I buy dead baby's things I was going to wind up with a dead baby.
There is really no other explanation, right?
Right?
Well, maybe heroin addicts steal stuff out of stock rooms and truckloads and sell it for profit. But I don't want to go ahead and support their habits.
Srsly. Why is there so many NiP stuff on eBay? Baby clothes and toys=dead babies. Engagement rings and wedding bands=failed relationships. Antiques and collectibles=dad kicked it or ran away. What is a girl to do? Buy retail goods or buy cursed objects?
Anyone?
Anyone?
11.17.2008
32
My boy is as many months as I am years.
That's strange to think about. I guess there was a time when he was as many days as I was years. Or weeks. But months is big time.
I switched to the every-other-month monthly reporting when Jake turned two because he seemed like such a little man who was all grown up and hardly making milestone changes at all. Now he really seems like a little man and it is even harder to pin down the things to write about.
I can't list the foods he eats because he eats just about everything. Or nothing. It depends on how he is feeling that day. I can always get him to eat some raisins and sunflower seeds, carrots and hummus, or beans and rice. He will say no to cookies but he won't say no to any of that stuff.
I can't tell you what he is saying because he says it all, and I'm pretty sure he is speaking clearly enough for everyone to understand about 90% of what comes out of his head.
I wish I could list the things he knows, but he's got his letters (and their sounds) and numbers and colors and animals (and their noises) and symbols and shapes completely down pat. He even says things like "dollar sign" and "octagon" and "turquoise". It's adorable. He can read a few three and four letter words, plus fivers like Mommy, Daddy and Jacob. And even bigger ones like Barack Obama and Chuck E Cheese's.
I used to be able to tell you what he could do with his tiny little body, but now I could probably list what he can't do. That kid is everywhere. He loves soccer and baseball, and has some mad impressive skillz.
Jake has backed off the Thomass obsession a bit, but still loves trains. Fireman Sam holds a special little place in his heart, and we are constantly playing fire rescue. "put onyer helmet, we hafta go save sumpin!". What we have to save is rarely made clear. McQueen and Sally still reign supreme. Every night we tell stories about "mommy n jacob n mcqueen n sally n george n damannin da lello hat go to the park and the pizza pie place and the water ice place and fer ice cream cones".
Ask him if Daddy can join us. NNnooOOoo! Mommy n Jacob are the only two people in the world lately.
Bedtime is still my favorite time. We take turns telling stories and singing songs. Jake likes to hear Dream a Little Dream, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Goodnight, and another song that I made up when he was really little that is basically just me singing "close your eyes, close your eyes, close your eyes, baby Jacob" to that regular old "lullaby" tune while I tickle his face. I really try not to fall asleep in Jake's bed, but I do it at least once a week. It is just so nice and relaxing and he curls right up against me and begs me not to leave. "don't go, mommy. let's lay down together. just one more minute. sing to me. you sing so beautiful. i like your music. you're so pretty. i wanna look at you." It goes on and on. How is a girl supposed to walk out on that?
Jake likes to paint and color with his crayons, but prefers to "make lists" with a pen and lines paper. Not that his lists look like anything but big inked circles, but he thinks he is making great organizational progress with them so I just let him go at it and I put my very important lists of nonsensical items on the other side of the paper.
Jake hates when I call him Jake, by the way. I don't know why I type it that way. When I talk about him I call him Jake. When I talk to him I call him Jacob. He is okay with you calling him Jake. Just not me. I'm allowed to call him Jacob or Baby, or Buddy on the days that he doesn't want to be a baby. There is hardly anything baby about him anymore. But he still does that thing sometimes where he will pretend to cry and ask me to hold him and pretend to give him a bottle. It is usually only when he is tired or overwhelmed, so I usually play along because I know he will only let me for so long.
That's strange to think about. I guess there was a time when he was as many days as I was years. Or weeks. But months is big time.
I switched to the every-other-month monthly reporting when Jake turned two because he seemed like such a little man who was all grown up and hardly making milestone changes at all. Now he really seems like a little man and it is even harder to pin down the things to write about.
I can't list the foods he eats because he eats just about everything. Or nothing. It depends on how he is feeling that day. I can always get him to eat some raisins and sunflower seeds, carrots and hummus, or beans and rice. He will say no to cookies but he won't say no to any of that stuff.
I can't tell you what he is saying because he says it all, and I'm pretty sure he is speaking clearly enough for everyone to understand about 90% of what comes out of his head.
I wish I could list the things he knows, but he's got his letters (and their sounds) and numbers and colors and animals (and their noises) and symbols and shapes completely down pat. He even says things like "dollar sign" and "octagon" and "turquoise". It's adorable. He can read a few three and four letter words, plus fivers like Mommy, Daddy and Jacob. And even bigger ones like Barack Obama and Chuck E Cheese's.
I used to be able to tell you what he could do with his tiny little body, but now I could probably list what he can't do. That kid is everywhere. He loves soccer and baseball, and has some mad impressive skillz.
Jake has backed off the Thomass obsession a bit, but still loves trains. Fireman Sam holds a special little place in his heart, and we are constantly playing fire rescue. "put onyer helmet, we hafta go save sumpin!". What we have to save is rarely made clear. McQueen and Sally still reign supreme. Every night we tell stories about "mommy n jacob n mcqueen n sally n george n damannin da lello hat go to the park and the pizza pie place and the water ice place and fer ice cream cones".
Ask him if Daddy can join us. NNnooOOoo! Mommy n Jacob are the only two people in the world lately.
Bedtime is still my favorite time. We take turns telling stories and singing songs. Jake likes to hear Dream a Little Dream, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Goodnight, and another song that I made up when he was really little that is basically just me singing "close your eyes, close your eyes, close your eyes, baby Jacob" to that regular old "lullaby" tune while I tickle his face. I really try not to fall asleep in Jake's bed, but I do it at least once a week. It is just so nice and relaxing and he curls right up against me and begs me not to leave. "don't go, mommy. let's lay down together. just one more minute. sing to me. you sing so beautiful. i like your music. you're so pretty. i wanna look at you." It goes on and on. How is a girl supposed to walk out on that?
Jake likes to paint and color with his crayons, but prefers to "make lists" with a pen and lines paper. Not that his lists look like anything but big inked circles, but he thinks he is making great organizational progress with them so I just let him go at it and I put my very important lists of nonsensical items on the other side of the paper.
Jake hates when I call him Jake, by the way. I don't know why I type it that way. When I talk about him I call him Jake. When I talk to him I call him Jacob. He is okay with you calling him Jake. Just not me. I'm allowed to call him Jacob or Baby, or Buddy on the days that he doesn't want to be a baby. There is hardly anything baby about him anymore. But he still does that thing sometimes where he will pretend to cry and ask me to hold him and pretend to give him a bottle. It is usually only when he is tired or overwhelmed, so I usually play along because I know he will only let me for so long.
11.16.2008
photoshoot
I've had the house to myself all morning and I got tons of housework done (not that the house looks clean or anything. WTF is up with that?) and I got a little time to spend some quality minutes with Tyler and since my camera was right there I thought I'd take a chance to take a few pictures because, well, because Tyler is really old and I don't know if she is dying or if I just think she's dying because I think everyone is dying all the time.
Have you ever tried to take a self-portrait with your cat?
No?
Really?
Well, it isn't easy.
I thought Tyler was happy. She was purring. I snapped a few pictures in hopes that I got a cute one with both of us in there but now that I look at them she doesn't look happy at all.
Have you ever tried to take a self-portrait with your cat?
No?
Really?
Well, it isn't easy.
I thought Tyler was happy. She was purring. I snapped a few pictures in hopes that I got a cute one with both of us in there but now that I look at them she doesn't look happy at all.
I took Jake into my office last Monday. Of course everyone wanted to see him and of course he acted weird. He does this goofy eye-rolly, tongue-curling, loose-headed, wobbly-neck, Pee Wee Herman whisper-voice thing whenever he gets nervous. He's been getting nervous around people he doesn't know if he feels like they are paying close attention to him. My office is full of people he doesn't know paying close attention to him.
I guess it was Wednesday or Thursday when a couple co-workers and I who parent the 2-4 set were talking about what our kids were up to lately. We are all some sort of Parenting Professional, I do monitoring, which is more administrative than clinical and they all do more direct service stuff- teaching parenting classes, social workers for parenting issues, family therapy, etc.
Anyway, we all know what's up with the way you are supposed to do things and what is typical behavior for each age and round about when all the developmental stages come in and how to do behavior modification without hitching your kid's tongue up to a 9volt and how to keep up a constant state of discipline for both ourselves and our children and what sort of punishment is researched based and effective (timeouts for the little ones and taking away privileges from the bigger ones is just about the only ethical thing that really works long term. Scare tactics and cigarette burns usually work too, but please don't). We've often talked about things that we do that we know are wrong, things that we want to do that we know are wrong, and the fact that there is a whole lot of pressure to be a perfect parent and make perfect kids so no one finds out we are secretly normal people with normal kids and sometimes we yell or swat at them or give in when we first said no or bend the rules somehow that seems harmless at the time but then we are kicking ourselves when the exception to the rule becomes the new rule, which defies the very definition of the word rule.
Deep breath.
It's a lot, to say the least.
Enter my little maniac of a son with his wacky tendencies and his propensity to tell you that he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to because even though you are the boss, he is the boss too because he is big now that there is an "8" on the bottom of his shoes and a "3" on the tag of his shirt and two fingers in the air when you ask him how old he is. Everyone with half a brain understands that he is "normal", and two, and usually unusually well-behaved, and two, and two. And two. But it is still awkward sometimes. And embarrassing. Sometimes I feel like I need to make excuses for him, and assure everyone he is a healthy child who has no need for a helmet nor the short bus.
It's always nice to hear other people say that their kids spaz out too from time to time. Especially other people who are supposed to know what they are doing too.
Oh, and it works, this stuff we learn about in endless seminars and teach about in endless class cycles. Even though all kids are different and everyone is an individual and we are all special, blah blah blah, we aren't really. Ring a bell and our mouths will water (for me it's tapping the spoon clean on the lip of the pot. My mom would do that every night right before supper went on the table). That is so calming and so scary all at the same time that it both puts me to sleep and keeps me up every night. Hooray for science. Maybe Jake won't be an axe murderer after all if I keep paying attention from 9 to 5.
Once we got past that nonsense, we started talking about how since most of us are raising children in better circumstances and nicer homes and with nicer peers and better things than we were raised in and with, how do we teach our children to appreciate the things they have and to know that there are other kids who don't have lots of toys or food or warmth or clothes or love? "Keeping it real", I think the kids are calling it these days. How the hell do you keep it real?
One of the guys said that he tells his 3.5 year-old son bedtime stories about a little boy who is poor and hungry and cold and and and, and a little boy named (insert child's name here) who helps his mommy collect some toys and books and food and clothes to give to the boy so the boy can be happier and warmer. He bills his boy as the hero of the story, and tells him that because he is so lucky to have a mommy and daddy who love him and are lucky enough to have a warm clean house and both parents have a career and a car and tons and tons of stuff it is that little boy's job to help kids who aren't so lucky. I like that. Jake likes to pretend to be a superhero, so why not make him one for reals for reals?
I've had Jake come with me to donate toys and clothes to the shelters and rehabs where I work. It's as simple as making arrangements with the facilities on company time and driving up on a Saturday morning (or cutting out of work a bit early when I can get my hands on the car. Shhh). Jake knows those things were once his and now they are going to be someone else's. He is pretty much okay with that.
Lots of places will take donations without prior arrangements too, especially if the stuff is near-new or unopened. But it's always good to call ahead. Some of those places have more donations than they know what to do with and things just sit and rot. If you don't want to go to a shelter, take the stuff to church or a community center with you. Or to a friend with kids who are a bit smaller than your kid. Someone always needs maternity clothes, and if you are like me you have more than one pair of pants in your closet that just can't fit around your ever-expanding midsection. And it doesn't have to be kids stuff or clothes. There are plenty of grownups who are in need too. Most towns have one of those Working Wardrobe programs. Thrift shops take your old dishes, pots, pans, furniture, etc. and some even take it on consignment. Almost every donation is tax deductible, so keep a record of what you are giving if that is important to you. I never bothered before, but I might just have to start claiming it so we don't starve to death if things tank out here pretty soon. $50 or so buys lots of ramen noodles and canned tuna. I think I just almost puked in my mouth. Maybe I'll use my tax refund on something other than college food.
I have at least twenty unopened toys down in the cellar that are amazing and fun and high quality, but we just never got around to opening them or Jake already had something similar and because I'm so mean I don't let him have a million trucks kicking around. Most of (all of) these are birthday or Christmas gifts from friends and family. I've only bought Jake five or six toys, and they are small. And quiet. Big and loud makes my insides revolt. I apologize if you come over and you don't see what you bought Jake. It doesn't mean that he doesn't play with it. I've sent some of the toys to Jake's grandparents or other family where he spends time. But a lot of it never makes it out of the box. It doesn't get thrown out, though. It gets played with by someone. Someone who I like to think really appreciates it.
This year, please don't buy Jake any toys. He has more than enough already. He doesn't need clothes. He is outgrowing his 2T's and I have two bureaus full of 3 and 4T's. It's sick. He has three pairs of shoes that fit him now, and a few pairs waiting in the wings that are size 9s and 10s. Everyone is going broke, so I will advise you to put the money you would spend on Jake in your own savings account. Don't have one? Start one. If you feel the need to give, donate to your favorite charity. They are going broke too. They can use your dollars, and they can most likely use your time if you have some to spare.
If you want to do something specifically for Jake, spend some time with him. Take an afternoon and hang out on the couch watching movies and reading books and go ahead and play with his cars and eat pb&j's and apples on a blanket on the floor. Color together. He will appreciate this so much more than he will appreciate a toy. He wants your time more than he wants anything else.
Be a superhero.
It can cost next to nothing, which is a whole hell of a bunch cheaper than what we usually do this time of year.
I guess it was Wednesday or Thursday when a couple co-workers and I who parent the 2-4 set were talking about what our kids were up to lately. We are all some sort of Parenting Professional, I do monitoring, which is more administrative than clinical and they all do more direct service stuff- teaching parenting classes, social workers for parenting issues, family therapy, etc.
Anyway, we all know what's up with the way you are supposed to do things and what is typical behavior for each age and round about when all the developmental stages come in and how to do behavior modification without hitching your kid's tongue up to a 9volt and how to keep up a constant state of discipline for both ourselves and our children and what sort of punishment is researched based and effective (timeouts for the little ones and taking away privileges from the bigger ones is just about the only ethical thing that really works long term. Scare tactics and cigarette burns usually work too, but please don't). We've often talked about things that we do that we know are wrong, things that we want to do that we know are wrong, and the fact that there is a whole lot of pressure to be a perfect parent and make perfect kids so no one finds out we are secretly normal people with normal kids and sometimes we yell or swat at them or give in when we first said no or bend the rules somehow that seems harmless at the time but then we are kicking ourselves when the exception to the rule becomes the new rule, which defies the very definition of the word rule.
Deep breath.
It's a lot, to say the least.
Enter my little maniac of a son with his wacky tendencies and his propensity to tell you that he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to because even though you are the boss, he is the boss too because he is big now that there is an "8" on the bottom of his shoes and a "3" on the tag of his shirt and two fingers in the air when you ask him how old he is. Everyone with half a brain understands that he is "normal", and two, and usually unusually well-behaved, and two, and two. And two. But it is still awkward sometimes. And embarrassing. Sometimes I feel like I need to make excuses for him, and assure everyone he is a healthy child who has no need for a helmet nor the short bus.
It's always nice to hear other people say that their kids spaz out too from time to time. Especially other people who are supposed to know what they are doing too.
Oh, and it works, this stuff we learn about in endless seminars and teach about in endless class cycles. Even though all kids are different and everyone is an individual and we are all special, blah blah blah, we aren't really. Ring a bell and our mouths will water (for me it's tapping the spoon clean on the lip of the pot. My mom would do that every night right before supper went on the table). That is so calming and so scary all at the same time that it both puts me to sleep and keeps me up every night. Hooray for science. Maybe Jake won't be an axe murderer after all if I keep paying attention from 9 to 5.
Once we got past that nonsense, we started talking about how since most of us are raising children in better circumstances and nicer homes and with nicer peers and better things than we were raised in and with, how do we teach our children to appreciate the things they have and to know that there are other kids who don't have lots of toys or food or warmth or clothes or love? "Keeping it real", I think the kids are calling it these days. How the hell do you keep it real?
One of the guys said that he tells his 3.5 year-old son bedtime stories about a little boy who is poor and hungry and cold and and and, and a little boy named (insert child's name here) who helps his mommy collect some toys and books and food and clothes to give to the boy so the boy can be happier and warmer. He bills his boy as the hero of the story, and tells him that because he is so lucky to have a mommy and daddy who love him and are lucky enough to have a warm clean house and both parents have a career and a car and tons and tons of stuff it is that little boy's job to help kids who aren't so lucky. I like that. Jake likes to pretend to be a superhero, so why not make him one for reals for reals?
I've had Jake come with me to donate toys and clothes to the shelters and rehabs where I work. It's as simple as making arrangements with the facilities on company time and driving up on a Saturday morning (or cutting out of work a bit early when I can get my hands on the car. Shhh). Jake knows those things were once his and now they are going to be someone else's. He is pretty much okay with that.
Lots of places will take donations without prior arrangements too, especially if the stuff is near-new or unopened. But it's always good to call ahead. Some of those places have more donations than they know what to do with and things just sit and rot. If you don't want to go to a shelter, take the stuff to church or a community center with you. Or to a friend with kids who are a bit smaller than your kid. Someone always needs maternity clothes, and if you are like me you have more than one pair of pants in your closet that just can't fit around your ever-expanding midsection. And it doesn't have to be kids stuff or clothes. There are plenty of grownups who are in need too. Most towns have one of those Working Wardrobe programs. Thrift shops take your old dishes, pots, pans, furniture, etc. and some even take it on consignment. Almost every donation is tax deductible, so keep a record of what you are giving if that is important to you. I never bothered before, but I might just have to start claiming it so we don't starve to death if things tank out here pretty soon. $50 or so buys lots of ramen noodles and canned tuna. I think I just almost puked in my mouth. Maybe I'll use my tax refund on something other than college food.
I have at least twenty unopened toys down in the cellar that are amazing and fun and high quality, but we just never got around to opening them or Jake already had something similar and because I'm so mean I don't let him have a million trucks kicking around. Most of (all of) these are birthday or Christmas gifts from friends and family. I've only bought Jake five or six toys, and they are small. And quiet. Big and loud makes my insides revolt. I apologize if you come over and you don't see what you bought Jake. It doesn't mean that he doesn't play with it. I've sent some of the toys to Jake's grandparents or other family where he spends time. But a lot of it never makes it out of the box. It doesn't get thrown out, though. It gets played with by someone. Someone who I like to think really appreciates it.
This year, please don't buy Jake any toys. He has more than enough already. He doesn't need clothes. He is outgrowing his 2T's and I have two bureaus full of 3 and 4T's. It's sick. He has three pairs of shoes that fit him now, and a few pairs waiting in the wings that are size 9s and 10s. Everyone is going broke, so I will advise you to put the money you would spend on Jake in your own savings account. Don't have one? Start one. If you feel the need to give, donate to your favorite charity. They are going broke too. They can use your dollars, and they can most likely use your time if you have some to spare.
If you want to do something specifically for Jake, spend some time with him. Take an afternoon and hang out on the couch watching movies and reading books and go ahead and play with his cars and eat pb&j's and apples on a blanket on the floor. Color together. He will appreciate this so much more than he will appreciate a toy. He wants your time more than he wants anything else.
Be a superhero.
It can cost next to nothing, which is a whole hell of a bunch cheaper than what we usually do this time of year.
***
P.S.- at the risk of sounding like I think I'm better than everyone else because of my do-goodiness job and annoying habit of giving things away, I have to say I'm not. I'm mostly rotten on the inside and doing this kind of stuff makes me feel better about myself. That's all. As you were.
oh wait. P.P.S.- I asked Jake what he wanted for Christmas this year, and he pointed up to the Christmas decorations (yes, I caved. But just a little. Don't judge) and said "what? whattaya mean? I already have Christmas. Well, and I want a Christmas tree too".
Thanks for making me realize that I already have Christmas too, Jake.
P.S.- at the risk of sounding like I think I'm better than everyone else because of my do-goodiness job and annoying habit of giving things away, I have to say I'm not. I'm mostly rotten on the inside and doing this kind of stuff makes me feel better about myself. That's all. As you were.
oh wait. P.P.S.- I asked Jake what he wanted for Christmas this year, and he pointed up to the Christmas decorations (yes, I caved. But just a little. Don't judge) and said "what? whattaya mean? I already have Christmas. Well, and I want a Christmas tree too".
Thanks for making me realize that I already have Christmas too, Jake.
11.13.2008
it's beginning
Days like this make me wish I could wear a burka.
What?
It's just so crappy outside and I feel so chubby and my cheeks are looking more rosacea than rosy.
But, I'm really excited to go home and spend a little bit of one-on-one time with Jake. We may even order a pizza and eat it on a blanket spread out on the floor in front of the television. I'll see what he wants to do.
I know, right? He's two. What he wants to do shouldn't matter. But I haven't gotten a chance to spend much time alone with him this week and he is starting to be a little clingy so I may as well capitalize on it before he turns 30 and wants nothing to do with the snuggles. Because at the rate he's going, he'll be 30 in like a week.
I think we are going to start in on the construction paper chain for the Christmas tree. I cut the strips last night and I have this overwhelming itch to start getting the decorations up. I'm quite sure it is a mix of all the stores playing Christmas music starting on November one and the obnoxiously good sales going on in every single retail outlet in America and that I've had my house decorated for fall since Labor Day and that Jake sings Frosty the Snowman and talks about presents every ten minutes.
I hate to admit how excited I'm getting for Christmas this year. And not just for the cookies. If you happen to be at the house in the next week or so, don't be surprised if you start seeing less orange and red and more green and red. I'm just saying. If Macy's can do it, I can to.
What?
It's just so crappy outside and I feel so chubby and my cheeks are looking more rosacea than rosy.
But, I'm really excited to go home and spend a little bit of one-on-one time with Jake. We may even order a pizza and eat it on a blanket spread out on the floor in front of the television. I'll see what he wants to do.
I know, right? He's two. What he wants to do shouldn't matter. But I haven't gotten a chance to spend much time alone with him this week and he is starting to be a little clingy so I may as well capitalize on it before he turns 30 and wants nothing to do with the snuggles. Because at the rate he's going, he'll be 30 in like a week.
I think we are going to start in on the construction paper chain for the Christmas tree. I cut the strips last night and I have this overwhelming itch to start getting the decorations up. I'm quite sure it is a mix of all the stores playing Christmas music starting on November one and the obnoxiously good sales going on in every single retail outlet in America and that I've had my house decorated for fall since Labor Day and that Jake sings Frosty the Snowman and talks about presents every ten minutes.
I hate to admit how excited I'm getting for Christmas this year. And not just for the cookies. If you happen to be at the house in the next week or so, don't be surprised if you start seeing less orange and red and more green and red. I'm just saying. If Macy's can do it, I can to.
11.11.2008
annals
Long time readers may be shocked to hear this, but there was a time a few years ago when Dave and I decided to try to maybe not be so careful with the birth control. As in, go without for a time just to see what would happen. We were at a pass in our jobs where we could stay where we were or try to move upwards. We were tired of renting, looking to buy.
While I was doing the Great Purge of '08 I came across a few notebook pages tucked in the bottom of a Rubbermaid tote. I should have could have would have edited this a bit, but why start editing now? (answer: because it deals with real feelings.)
Now, don't judge. Please remember that I was probably drunk when I wrote this. This... this... this letter to an unborn child. WTH was my problem? (answer:sometimes drinking makes me have real feelings.)
6/21/2004
I begin writing this upon being forced whether to make a decision to put you off for another month. I have been taking birth control for nearly ten years, and decided about one year ago I would try to have a baby beginning on my 28th birthday. Now that is dangerously close and I only have six pills left. Fortunately, I have a pharmacist friend who agreed to slip me an extra pack, allowing me to buy one more month of reckless sex. I will be 28 in 54 days, and I’d imagine I should allow at least one month of cleansing before even chancing to get pregnant. After all, I have never loved anything as much as I love you, and I don’t want to drug you with a careful balance of estrogen.
Allow me to tell you a little bit about your mother. Throughout your life, many people will likely tell you that you would die if you knew me before you were born. They are right. I recently went through old pictures and artfully deleted those that would make you uncomfortable. I could tell you what I do, but you probably wouldn’t believe it, or not want to hear it, or worse yet, do the same things. Trust me- I know this first hand. I am a champion at mirroring my parents’ lives when they were my age. You will probably do most of the same things we all did, and I’m glad. There is nothing like your twenties to unleash the raw being of the human spirit. Beer helps. Just watch the hangovers if you ever want to get anything accomplished.
I am 5’7”, 135 pounds, and very healthy. I wear a 34D, use a lot of self-tanner, and am constantly trying to grow my hair. I know that men and women find me attractive and appealing and I love that people find it very easy to talk to me. I am a better talker than listener, and often sit and think about what to say next while I try to appear as though I’m listening. I try to treat all people with respect, even if I do not think that they deserve it. Note that I said TRY. Being nice, pretty, and somewhat respectful has gotten me most of what I have in life. Except, of course, for my education- that took some work. Not too much, you should not have much difficulty getting very far in school. You come from a long line of very smart people.
I will spare you the details of my childhood. I prefer to invent my own parents’ history based on photos and anecdotes passed on to my by my grandparents, and will give you the same courtesy. I know that my mom and dad loved me very much and did the best they could for me. I plan on doing just as much damage to you as they did to me. Screwing up your children must be one of life’s greatest joys. I don’t know one parent who hasn’t sufficiently done this.
Returning to my decision on whether or not to have you now. I should tell you some reasons this is so hard. I know that you will completely change my life, and I want to be sure that I can give you the world and the stability needed so your life does not need to change much until need be. Your father and I have just begun to look into buying a home that I would like you and your sibling(s) to live in until the eldest is at least 10. This is a huge deal for me. Beyond that- the reasons are truly selfish. I love my life as it is now- little responsibility, lots of friends, lots of late nights with lots of different people. We have a great apartment downtown so I can be at work in three minutes and at the bar in two. I am scared to give up my crazy social and professional life, but I think I am almost ready to do it.
For you.
6/29/04
I just got back from looking at houses. And picking up a pack of birth control. Buying this house is going to be stressful, and I want to deal with adulthood one babystep at a time.
If someone told me that life would change drastically in my twenties, I must have repressed that memory. Every day I feel strange emotions that I thought I would be prepared for but ended up completely taken off guard. This started about three years ago when I was turning 25 and doing things like staying out all night with an odd mix of people. Your uncle came with me once and said “I’m just a little boy in a big city. Make sure I go home with my family”. I wish I had someone to say that to, and someone to make sure I went home with my family. If you have moved away from home, I’m sure that you know what crazy things there are out there. I hope you see most of them, but have the sense not to try them.
A lot of my friends, ones that you will call aunts and uncles, are a giant “Just Say No” commercial. (Just Say No was a huge anti-drug campaign in the 1980’s. It is still around today, twenty years later but who knows if you will know what that is). They have taught me, through their actions, heartaches, and generally looking like an idiot, to stay away from drugs and alcohol, careless aquaintences, dangerous boyfriends, psycho girlfriends, one night stands, creepy old men, and anything that might seem like a good idea at the time. I thank my parents’ guidance and their own mistakes for teaching me to look at but not touch these things. Or, at least knowing that I will get burned if I do touch, firey devils they are.
I hope to teach you to find the beauty in small things. I particularly love trees, sunshine, flowers in unexpected places, old people who still smile, animals, sunsers, the moon, and quite noises outside the window at night. There are so many simple things in life that bring happiness and you will encounter many things that make you so overjoyed that your heart will nearly explode. Remember this feeling so you can use it when you need it. Try also to spread the joy you find to others, as it will be returned to you many times over. Believe in and practive Karma, and you will be rewarded.
As I keep this journal for you, I hope to pass on a sense of not only who you are and how you became that way, but how others are, and what is normal. I like to think that all I do, think, and feel has been done, thought, and felt by those who have come before me. It is comforting for me to have faith in a human experience, made whole by love, hate, joy, sorrow, birth, death, truth, lies, and shareing these things with others. Have one true friend who knows everything about you. It does not have to be your sister, brother, spouse, parent. One person who will not judge or divulge, laugh or keep their feelings from you. If you cannot find this person, hire a therapist. Keeping the truth, as ugly as it may be, inside will eat you alive. The freedom you will find in a confidant is unlike anything in the world.
And then I stopped until February of the next year. But I'll save that for another day. I've turned myself inside out enough for one night.
While I was doing the Great Purge of '08 I came across a few notebook pages tucked in the bottom of a Rubbermaid tote. I should have could have would have edited this a bit, but why start editing now? (answer: because it deals with real feelings.)
Now, don't judge. Please remember that I was probably drunk when I wrote this. This... this... this letter to an unborn child. WTH was my problem? (answer:sometimes drinking makes me have real feelings.)
6/21/2004
I begin writing this upon being forced whether to make a decision to put you off for another month. I have been taking birth control for nearly ten years, and decided about one year ago I would try to have a baby beginning on my 28th birthday. Now that is dangerously close and I only have six pills left. Fortunately, I have a pharmacist friend who agreed to slip me an extra pack, allowing me to buy one more month of reckless sex. I will be 28 in 54 days, and I’d imagine I should allow at least one month of cleansing before even chancing to get pregnant. After all, I have never loved anything as much as I love you, and I don’t want to drug you with a careful balance of estrogen.
Allow me to tell you a little bit about your mother. Throughout your life, many people will likely tell you that you would die if you knew me before you were born. They are right. I recently went through old pictures and artfully deleted those that would make you uncomfortable. I could tell you what I do, but you probably wouldn’t believe it, or not want to hear it, or worse yet, do the same things. Trust me- I know this first hand. I am a champion at mirroring my parents’ lives when they were my age. You will probably do most of the same things we all did, and I’m glad. There is nothing like your twenties to unleash the raw being of the human spirit. Beer helps. Just watch the hangovers if you ever want to get anything accomplished.
I am 5’7”, 135 pounds, and very healthy. I wear a 34D, use a lot of self-tanner, and am constantly trying to grow my hair. I know that men and women find me attractive and appealing and I love that people find it very easy to talk to me. I am a better talker than listener, and often sit and think about what to say next while I try to appear as though I’m listening. I try to treat all people with respect, even if I do not think that they deserve it. Note that I said TRY. Being nice, pretty, and somewhat respectful has gotten me most of what I have in life. Except, of course, for my education- that took some work. Not too much, you should not have much difficulty getting very far in school. You come from a long line of very smart people.
I will spare you the details of my childhood. I prefer to invent my own parents’ history based on photos and anecdotes passed on to my by my grandparents, and will give you the same courtesy. I know that my mom and dad loved me very much and did the best they could for me. I plan on doing just as much damage to you as they did to me. Screwing up your children must be one of life’s greatest joys. I don’t know one parent who hasn’t sufficiently done this.
Returning to my decision on whether or not to have you now. I should tell you some reasons this is so hard. I know that you will completely change my life, and I want to be sure that I can give you the world and the stability needed so your life does not need to change much until need be. Your father and I have just begun to look into buying a home that I would like you and your sibling(s) to live in until the eldest is at least 10. This is a huge deal for me. Beyond that- the reasons are truly selfish. I love my life as it is now- little responsibility, lots of friends, lots of late nights with lots of different people. We have a great apartment downtown so I can be at work in three minutes and at the bar in two. I am scared to give up my crazy social and professional life, but I think I am almost ready to do it.
For you.
6/29/04
I just got back from looking at houses. And picking up a pack of birth control. Buying this house is going to be stressful, and I want to deal with adulthood one babystep at a time.
If someone told me that life would change drastically in my twenties, I must have repressed that memory. Every day I feel strange emotions that I thought I would be prepared for but ended up completely taken off guard. This started about three years ago when I was turning 25 and doing things like staying out all night with an odd mix of people. Your uncle came with me once and said “I’m just a little boy in a big city. Make sure I go home with my family”. I wish I had someone to say that to, and someone to make sure I went home with my family. If you have moved away from home, I’m sure that you know what crazy things there are out there. I hope you see most of them, but have the sense not to try them.
A lot of my friends, ones that you will call aunts and uncles, are a giant “Just Say No” commercial. (Just Say No was a huge anti-drug campaign in the 1980’s. It is still around today, twenty years later but who knows if you will know what that is). They have taught me, through their actions, heartaches, and generally looking like an idiot, to stay away from drugs and alcohol, careless aquaintences, dangerous boyfriends, psycho girlfriends, one night stands, creepy old men, and anything that might seem like a good idea at the time. I thank my parents’ guidance and their own mistakes for teaching me to look at but not touch these things. Or, at least knowing that I will get burned if I do touch, firey devils they are.
I hope to teach you to find the beauty in small things. I particularly love trees, sunshine, flowers in unexpected places, old people who still smile, animals, sunsers, the moon, and quite noises outside the window at night. There are so many simple things in life that bring happiness and you will encounter many things that make you so overjoyed that your heart will nearly explode. Remember this feeling so you can use it when you need it. Try also to spread the joy you find to others, as it will be returned to you many times over. Believe in and practive Karma, and you will be rewarded.
As I keep this journal for you, I hope to pass on a sense of not only who you are and how you became that way, but how others are, and what is normal. I like to think that all I do, think, and feel has been done, thought, and felt by those who have come before me. It is comforting for me to have faith in a human experience, made whole by love, hate, joy, sorrow, birth, death, truth, lies, and shareing these things with others. Have one true friend who knows everything about you. It does not have to be your sister, brother, spouse, parent. One person who will not judge or divulge, laugh or keep their feelings from you. If you cannot find this person, hire a therapist. Keeping the truth, as ugly as it may be, inside will eat you alive. The freedom you will find in a confidant is unlike anything in the world.
And then I stopped until February of the next year. But I'll save that for another day. I've turned myself inside out enough for one night.
11.09.2008
Is everyone still surviving? It's freezing over here and I have a giant pile of blankets next to my television because I'm afraid to turn the thermostat above 65. Well, that's not true. I kick it up to 70 when I get home after work, but I turn it right down again when the house warms up. Oh, and guess what? I sealed my windows this year with that clear garbage bag looking shrinky dinking with the hairdryer stuff. We'll see how this works. Now if I can only find some weather stripping for my ill-fitting doors.
Usually this time every year finds me stocking up on food for our very large Holiday Party and buying presents every day on my lunch break. Unfortunately, I subscribe to the "one for you, two for me" method of gift giving. I solemnly swear I'm not doing that again this year, but I just might break down. I really want a dutch oven. For my kitchen. Not for my bed. Definitely not for my bed. I figure with the amount of soup and stews and chili I will make in a good pot, the money I spend will be the money I save by the end of winter. Who knows. And as for the party, it is still on but you'll be finding lots less exotic cheeses and meats this year. Oh stop. Fatty. You don't need eight pounds of prosciutto wrapped freshmozz anyway. It's not like I'm serving hotdogs and chips. You'll still be impressed, don't worry. And this year when people ask me what to bring, I'm telling them.
Anyway. That's not why you came here. I wanted to let you know that I've been doing a bit of rearranging and redecorating in my house. For practically free. I bought the kid some paint and brushes and only give him the color options that match my rooms and having him make me some art to hang in frames that I have lying around. Is this obnoxious mommy behavior? Yes. Is it cheap and cute? Yes. So it works. I'm headed to Staples on my lunch break to pick up some posterboard, red and green paints, glitter glue or some type of sparkley nonsense, and a cheapo frame so the boy can get all Picasso above the mantle this year. He is so damned proud of his work hanging around the house that I could just die. And if you are related to him, don't be surprised if all your presents are handpainted this year. I promise to at least put it in a nice frame. Not the $5 Walmart plasticine wood one like I gave you last time.
By the way, you look pretty today. Pale skin becomes you.
Usually this time every year finds me stocking up on food for our very large Holiday Party and buying presents every day on my lunch break. Unfortunately, I subscribe to the "one for you, two for me" method of gift giving. I solemnly swear I'm not doing that again this year, but I just might break down. I really want a dutch oven. For my kitchen. Not for my bed. Definitely not for my bed. I figure with the amount of soup and stews and chili I will make in a good pot, the money I spend will be the money I save by the end of winter. Who knows. And as for the party, it is still on but you'll be finding lots less exotic cheeses and meats this year. Oh stop. Fatty. You don't need eight pounds of prosciutto wrapped freshmozz anyway. It's not like I'm serving hotdogs and chips. You'll still be impressed, don't worry. And this year when people ask me what to bring, I'm telling them.
Anyway. That's not why you came here. I wanted to let you know that I've been doing a bit of rearranging and redecorating in my house. For practically free. I bought the kid some paint and brushes and only give him the color options that match my rooms and having him make me some art to hang in frames that I have lying around. Is this obnoxious mommy behavior? Yes. Is it cheap and cute? Yes. So it works. I'm headed to Staples on my lunch break to pick up some posterboard, red and green paints, glitter glue or some type of sparkley nonsense, and a cheapo frame so the boy can get all Picasso above the mantle this year. He is so damned proud of his work hanging around the house that I could just die. And if you are related to him, don't be surprised if all your presents are handpainted this year. I promise to at least put it in a nice frame. Not the $5 Walmart plasticine wood one like I gave you last time.
By the way, you look pretty today. Pale skin becomes you.
11.07.2008
Oh, yeah. Halloween.
Halloween was fun this year. Last year there were tons of trick-or-treaters and this year there were about a dozen, but it was still all good because we got to hang out with the cousins and a few of us took Jake around the spooky terrace across from Kat Kat's house to beg about a halfapumpkin full of candy. I let Jake keep two lollipops, I took the Clark bar, and I saved Dave a Reese Cup. The rest got dumped in the candy bowl at a Halloween party later that night.
What? You think I'm going to let him eat that candy? Hells no. Unless you want to have him over to your house after all that sugar. And let's be honest. I would have eaten most of it by November second. One of my little white mommylies is that the purpose of trick-or-treating is to go door-to-door collecting candy to give to our friends. I figure I have about two or three more years of him believing that. Last year there were so many kids coming around that we had to use Jake's loot to give out. This year there was so much leftover candy that I really don't feel bad about giving Jake's away. He'll be getting plenty for months.
Here are a few pictures. I'm superpissed because my new camera sucks for nighttime and indoor pictures. I should've just gone and spent the extra $40 on the point and shoot that I really wanted, but I had second thoughts after thinking about the babydamage that the other camera had to endure.
I dressed up too. And so did Dave, but I'll spare you and him from posting them here. It was awesome. I thought my costume would be cute, but it was really creepy.
And finally, I can't wait until Jake is big enough to give a big for reals scare to on Halloween, but a few "boo!"'s from behind a door and this will do for now. Can you just feel the sheer terror in his face? It took five minutes to get a picture of him standing next to these skeletons that didn't turn out as a shrieking grey blur running right at me
Halloween was fun this year. Last year there were tons of trick-or-treaters and this year there were about a dozen, but it was still all good because we got to hang out with the cousins and a few of us took Jake around the spooky terrace across from Kat Kat's house to beg about a halfapumpkin full of candy. I let Jake keep two lollipops, I took the Clark bar, and I saved Dave a Reese Cup. The rest got dumped in the candy bowl at a Halloween party later that night.
What? You think I'm going to let him eat that candy? Hells no. Unless you want to have him over to your house after all that sugar. And let's be honest. I would have eaten most of it by November second. One of my little white mommylies is that the purpose of trick-or-treating is to go door-to-door collecting candy to give to our friends. I figure I have about two or three more years of him believing that. Last year there were so many kids coming around that we had to use Jake's loot to give out. This year there was so much leftover candy that I really don't feel bad about giving Jake's away. He'll be getting plenty for months.
Here are a few pictures. I'm superpissed because my new camera sucks for nighttime and indoor pictures. I should've just gone and spent the extra $40 on the point and shoot that I really wanted, but I had second thoughts after thinking about the babydamage that the other camera had to endure.
I dressed up too. And so did Dave, but I'll spare you and him from posting them here. It was awesome. I thought my costume would be cute, but it was really creepy.
And finally, I can't wait until Jake is big enough to give a big for reals scare to on Halloween, but a few "boo!"'s from behind a door and this will do for now. Can you just feel the sheer terror in his face? It took five minutes to get a picture of him standing next to these skeletons that didn't turn out as a shrieking grey blur running right at me
11.05.2008
jolt
I'm trying to go to sleep. I swear. I have turned my phone off three times because I can't help but check my Google Reader and Twitter stream to see what everyone is saying. I have earplugs in. I'm typing this with one eye open. But I just had to tell you that last time I turned the phone off and laid down like I meant it and closed my eyes and tossed it out there that I'm pretty thankful for all my stuff and it would be nice if Jake made it through the night I added our new president elect in there too. I did it without even thinking about it. Rest assured I never thought about the safety of our current president. Its a nice surprise to care about and admire your nation's leader.
I guess this is what hope feels like. My heart seems bigger. My soul seems bigger. I feel open. Excited. Nervous. Dependent. Trusting.
I don't expect Obama to do everything he proposes in the next four years. I don't really want him too. That's an awful lot. But if he can pull off paving the way for change I will consider his presidency a success. I am more than willing to make little sacrifices over the next few years if it means my child won't have to suffer or struggle when he is old enough to realize what is going on outside his front door.
I guess this is what hope feels like. My heart seems bigger. My soul seems bigger. I feel open. Excited. Nervous. Dependent. Trusting.
I don't expect Obama to do everything he proposes in the next four years. I don't really want him too. That's an awful lot. But if he can pull off paving the way for change I will consider his presidency a success. I am more than willing to make little sacrifices over the next few years if it means my child won't have to suffer or struggle when he is old enough to realize what is going on outside his front door.
11.04.2008
I just stopped into the kitchenette in my office to get a drink of water and I had to pour myself a cup of coffee and pretend to root around for elusive Splenda that hides under the pinks and blues just so I could stay and listen to the two nurses in there.
One of the ladies was in the middle of telling another one about this "poor baby who has lost half her body weight over the past week and most of her hair has fallen out and her pupils have been dilated for three days and she is refusing food and was so dehydrated last night that you can see all her veins and bones and she won't stop crying and she isn't sleeping and the whole family was up all night with her". It was awful. It made me want to leave work and go get Jake and hold him and cry because I am so lucky and the mother of this baby must be wondering what the hell she did to deserve this poor dying thing and why is the world so weird and cruel and unfair.
Nurse #2 put her hand on Nurse #1's shoulder and said that she was so sorry and then I felt even more terrible because I thought that maybe this was Nurse #1's granddaughter or niece or something more than a patient and I didn't know whether to say something or just pretend I wasn't listening but then Nurse #1's cell phone rang and she said "oh it's a text from my daughter" and my heart jumped and she opened her phone and said "thank God! The baby just used the litter box twice in an hour! Things are looking up!".
Crazy old ladies and their kittenbabies.
I need new colleagues.
One of the ladies was in the middle of telling another one about this "poor baby who has lost half her body weight over the past week and most of her hair has fallen out and her pupils have been dilated for three days and she is refusing food and was so dehydrated last night that you can see all her veins and bones and she won't stop crying and she isn't sleeping and the whole family was up all night with her". It was awful. It made me want to leave work and go get Jake and hold him and cry because I am so lucky and the mother of this baby must be wondering what the hell she did to deserve this poor dying thing and why is the world so weird and cruel and unfair.
Nurse #2 put her hand on Nurse #1's shoulder and said that she was so sorry and then I felt even more terrible because I thought that maybe this was Nurse #1's granddaughter or niece or something more than a patient and I didn't know whether to say something or just pretend I wasn't listening but then Nurse #1's cell phone rang and she said "oh it's a text from my daughter" and my heart jumped and she opened her phone and said "thank God! The baby just used the litter box twice in an hour! Things are looking up!".
Crazy old ladies and their kittenbabies.
I need new colleagues.
polling
Local news channels showed lines wrapping around buildings all over the area. All over the country. Long lines plus a little boy who likes to wait until eight to eat breakfast is a lethal combination. I packed lots of snacks, his milkshake, a couple cars, and a Solo Party Cup. You know, for peeing.
I guess I could have been smart and dropped him off before going, but is important to me to take Jake to the polls, I've taken him every election since he's been born. I hold his little fingers and push the buttons with them while explaining what I am doing. This time he knew what was going on.
Every time we have passed the polling place since the Primaries he has said "I vote there!". Today he got to do it. When we got in our little booth (Jake asked if we were hiding from Obama so we could jump out and scare him), I didn't need to hold his hand, I just told him which squares to touch (almost but not quite straight Democrat), then I put him on the ground and let him push the big green button.
When we walked up to the building this morning he said "i'm gonna vote an' getta lollipop!". How does he remember this crap? You know I'm mean and I don't remind him about candy handouts, in hopes that he doesn't notice the giant bowl and we can sneak out with a sample ballot that he can color the back of as a consolation prize. Sample ballots don't rot your teeth. Although I read somewhere that some of those sample ballots can rot your soul though, so be careful.
Guess what else? No lines. I was voter 38 and Dave was 39 so there must have been a little bit of an early rush but we walked right in and back out again in fifteen minutes. Jake got a doughnut hole and a kiss from our neighborlady/pollster for his hard work.
So now we wait. And hope.
I guess I could have been smart and dropped him off before going, but is important to me to take Jake to the polls, I've taken him every election since he's been born. I hold his little fingers and push the buttons with them while explaining what I am doing. This time he knew what was going on.
Every time we have passed the polling place since the Primaries he has said "I vote there!". Today he got to do it. When we got in our little booth (Jake asked if we were hiding from Obama so we could jump out and scare him), I didn't need to hold his hand, I just told him which squares to touch (almost but not quite straight Democrat), then I put him on the ground and let him push the big green button.
When we walked up to the building this morning he said "i'm gonna vote an' getta lollipop!". How does he remember this crap? You know I'm mean and I don't remind him about candy handouts, in hopes that he doesn't notice the giant bowl and we can sneak out with a sample ballot that he can color the back of as a consolation prize. Sample ballots don't rot your teeth. Although I read somewhere that some of those sample ballots can rot your soul though, so be careful.
Guess what else? No lines. I was voter 38 and Dave was 39 so there must have been a little bit of an early rush but we walked right in and back out again in fifteen minutes. Jake got a doughnut hole and a kiss from our neighborlady/pollster for his hard work.
So now we wait. And hope.
11.03.2008
oh, yeah. and
Jake and I were at Shoprite a few weeks ago and he pointed to a popcorn box and said "oh look! there's yer other poppa"
Dammit if my Grandpa Jones doesn't look every bit like Orville Redenbacher. I'll have to do some serious digging for a picture of him to show you, I am terrible with taking/keeping family pictures. Plus, he's been dead for ten years. That means the Other Poppa Jake's been riding with is...
A ghost
Dammit if my Grandpa Jones doesn't look every bit like Orville Redenbacher. I'll have to do some serious digging for a picture of him to show you, I am terrible with taking/keeping family pictures. Plus, he's been dead for ten years. That means the Other Poppa Jake's been riding with is...
A ghost
scary
Well, I'm over the whole accosting incident. Still disappointed in humanity, but I've decided to just move on. Thank you for your emails, comments, phone calls, and hugs. Whenever I hear someone telling a story like that, I always wonder why she didn't run or scream or punch or kick and to not be able to do any of those things effectively was horrible. Grr. It's over. It's humbling, and now I have a greater empathy for victims. Deep breath. And exhale.
I had planned on telling you all about Jake's psychic abilities as a good Halloween story, but I got sidetracked. And my computer has been sent off to Texas for some repair work, and I didn't get into the office to type on the company dollar so Halloween passed and now I'm going to tell you a ghost story and instead of getting chills down your spine you can just shake your head and say that I need some spiritual advising. And a sage smudge. And a priest. And a new house. And some therapy.
You know about Monica and Vivi. They've been around for the better part of a year. Monica used to hang out in my room a lot, but she hasn't been by lately. Jake said she likes to be outside when the weather is nice. Maybe she will come back around when the warm spell finally breaks at the end of the week.
Vivi is usually around in the afternoon and she comes to play before bed once in awhile. Sometimes she plays blocks with Jake if he is up early "an itz not mornin' yet for goin' downstairs". A few times Jake has run in from our front door into the middle of our living room screaming Vivi's name saying "you came! you came! i'm so happy to see you! let's play!" and gives high fives to nothing and shares his milkshake. Jake has been sad about Vivi for the past few weeks. He used to say "oh no, Vivi's raining" and I had no idea what he was talking about but he has told me that Vivi is stuck out in the rain, sometimes running away with her mommy, sometimes running away from her mommy, sometimes running around looking for her mommy. It is all very sad stuff, and whether he really does see/imagine a little girl named Vivi and she has all this running going on in her life -er- death or he manifests his anxiety about whatever it is that two year olds have anxiety about (read: poop and monsters) in this little imaginary girl who has to run with/from/to her mommy my heart goes out to poor Jake who is going through all this with her. But she makes a great playmate while I'm getting dinner ready or throwing the clothes in the dryer so it is all good.
About a year ago, my mom was at a friend's house and there was a psychic there. I think her friend is friends with the psychic lady who lives in Lily Dale or somewhere. I'm not sure of the specifics. I'll ask her and clear it up here later.
Anyway, point is that she was talking to a psychic lady who told her (in a roundabout way, of course, because that is what they do) that my grandfather is watching over Jake. Good guess, right? That my granddad would be dead and I would have a kid. Par for the course at age 32. She told my mom that he hung out in doorways and on the ceiling and that is why Jake is always playing in doorways and staring at the ceiling. My mom had no idea Jake hangs out in doorways or stares at the ceiling so she couldn't have told her but he was 18 months old, and that is presumably what 18 month olds do. Right? Sure. Yawn.
Jake had seen my grandfather twice in his life, once at 2 or 3 months old and once at about 8 or 9 months old before he passed right after Jake's first birthday. If you know Jake personally, you know he is very mechanical and interested in the way things work. He took apart a lamp when he was 15 months old, and took a tire off a bicycle last Christmas. He has always used common household things as tools just like any good little monkey can, and I always say it is because he comes from good engineering-minded stock on both sides of the family and he is a genius baby. (And cute too. Just like his mother.) The lady said it was because my grandfather was there, showing him how to do things. That got me a bit. My grandfather loved to show us how to do things, and how to make things work. But, I dismissed the whole thing and hung up the phone and told my mom to go have fun at her devil party.
Of course I had to prove her wrong, so I asked Jake if Poppa was here. He got up from the middle of the living room floor, ran to the entryway, opened the door, closed it, looked up at the ceiling, ran to the dining room, looked up, peaked in the kitchen, and said "no mommy". Shit you not. Cross my heart and poke my eye to let it spill over my grandfather's grave.
So I cried.
And called my mom.
And wondered if he knew that I like to go to the bar after I put Jake to bed at least once a week or if he saw me doing it on my couch (we put a blanket down, you can still sit there).
Jake mentions Poppa pretty frequently, most recently when Jake was standing with Dave and me in the kitchen and he looked out in the living room and said "oh, Poppa, your makin'a mess wit my cars. lets clean up."
He kisses the air and says he's kissing Poppa.
When he takes something apart that he shouldn't have he blames Poppa.
He looks up to the door and says hi and bye to Poppa, and sometimes talks to him when he is playing with his blocks or cars.
He told me that Poppa taught him how to make a circle with a pen and paper and is teaching him to write letters. That fits his character, Poppa made me practice my handwriting until I was 16.
Jake has painted pictures and brought them to me saying "this one's from me and Poppa for you". Poppa loved to paint.
We don't encourage him, but we don't discourage him either. What do you say? Poppa's dead? Try explaining that. Or pretend like Poppa is there all the time? He's not, by the way. If we start telling Jake that people are in the house when people aren't in the house that can be a little damaging, I think.
You better check your shower and under your bed. Someone is under there. Just to play, though. It's not scary.
See? Damaging.
I don't have any pictures of my grandfather around the house, but when Jake sees an old man in a cap and glasses he says "hey there's Poppa!". A man in Target was wearing a cardigan and Jake said it was Poppa's sweater. He has no way of knowing that Poppa was a cardigan kind of guy.
Jake and I have coffee together a few times a week- kinda like a boy version of the tea party. A few months ago, he asked if Poppa can have coffee too, but only with real cream, not milk. We don't ever have real cream in our house and I'm guessing that daycare doesn't deal with real cream on a regular basis.
Jake told me that Poppa was "eatin' butter again" the other day. Sure enough, the butter dish was open. Poppa ate butter all the time, right off the knife, whenever the butter dish was left open and chased it with a handful of salt. And lived for like 175 years.
It's weird. But comforting. I like to think that people that love us in life can love us in death. There was no question that I was Poppa's favorite, his only girl in a crowd of sons and grandsons. When I had Jake he was completely thrilled, and didn't hesitate to get down on the floor with Jake and hold him and play with him and try to teach him shapes and letters and numbers even though Jake wasn't even one and Poppa was 94. Jake said "Poppa" to him a couple times, and if you could have seen how thrilled that made him you may have cried.
The last time I saw Poppa, he gave me a hug and thanked me for letting him spend a little time with Jake. He held Jake and told him that he would see him soon and they could play some more. He held me and told me he loved me.
I only make it back to my hometown once or twice a year, and I knew this would be the last time I saw him. I should have said more, but I know I didn't need to. Whenever Jake says that Poppa is here, I tell him to let him know I love him.
I had planned on telling you all about Jake's psychic abilities as a good Halloween story, but I got sidetracked. And my computer has been sent off to Texas for some repair work, and I didn't get into the office to type on the company dollar so Halloween passed and now I'm going to tell you a ghost story and instead of getting chills down your spine you can just shake your head and say that I need some spiritual advising. And a sage smudge. And a priest. And a new house. And some therapy.
You know about Monica and Vivi. They've been around for the better part of a year. Monica used to hang out in my room a lot, but she hasn't been by lately. Jake said she likes to be outside when the weather is nice. Maybe she will come back around when the warm spell finally breaks at the end of the week.
Vivi is usually around in the afternoon and she comes to play before bed once in awhile. Sometimes she plays blocks with Jake if he is up early "an itz not mornin' yet for goin' downstairs". A few times Jake has run in from our front door into the middle of our living room screaming Vivi's name saying "you came! you came! i'm so happy to see you! let's play!" and gives high fives to nothing and shares his milkshake. Jake has been sad about Vivi for the past few weeks. He used to say "oh no, Vivi's raining" and I had no idea what he was talking about but he has told me that Vivi is stuck out in the rain, sometimes running away with her mommy, sometimes running away from her mommy, sometimes running around looking for her mommy. It is all very sad stuff, and whether he really does see/imagine a little girl named Vivi and she has all this running going on in her life -er- death or he manifests his anxiety about whatever it is that two year olds have anxiety about (read: poop and monsters) in this little imaginary girl who has to run with/from/to her mommy my heart goes out to poor Jake who is going through all this with her. But she makes a great playmate while I'm getting dinner ready or throwing the clothes in the dryer so it is all good.
About a year ago, my mom was at a friend's house and there was a psychic there. I think her friend is friends with the psychic lady who lives in Lily Dale or somewhere. I'm not sure of the specifics. I'll ask her and clear it up here later.
Anyway, point is that she was talking to a psychic lady who told her (in a roundabout way, of course, because that is what they do) that my grandfather is watching over Jake. Good guess, right? That my granddad would be dead and I would have a kid. Par for the course at age 32. She told my mom that he hung out in doorways and on the ceiling and that is why Jake is always playing in doorways and staring at the ceiling. My mom had no idea Jake hangs out in doorways or stares at the ceiling so she couldn't have told her but he was 18 months old, and that is presumably what 18 month olds do. Right? Sure. Yawn.
Jake had seen my grandfather twice in his life, once at 2 or 3 months old and once at about 8 or 9 months old before he passed right after Jake's first birthday. If you know Jake personally, you know he is very mechanical and interested in the way things work. He took apart a lamp when he was 15 months old, and took a tire off a bicycle last Christmas. He has always used common household things as tools just like any good little monkey can, and I always say it is because he comes from good engineering-minded stock on both sides of the family and he is a genius baby. (And cute too. Just like his mother.) The lady said it was because my grandfather was there, showing him how to do things. That got me a bit. My grandfather loved to show us how to do things, and how to make things work. But, I dismissed the whole thing and hung up the phone and told my mom to go have fun at her devil party.
Of course I had to prove her wrong, so I asked Jake if Poppa was here. He got up from the middle of the living room floor, ran to the entryway, opened the door, closed it, looked up at the ceiling, ran to the dining room, looked up, peaked in the kitchen, and said "no mommy". Shit you not. Cross my heart and poke my eye to let it spill over my grandfather's grave.
So I cried.
And called my mom.
And wondered if he knew that I like to go to the bar after I put Jake to bed at least once a week or if he saw me doing it on my couch (we put a blanket down, you can still sit there).
Jake mentions Poppa pretty frequently, most recently when Jake was standing with Dave and me in the kitchen and he looked out in the living room and said "oh, Poppa, your makin'a mess wit my cars. lets clean up."
He kisses the air and says he's kissing Poppa.
When he takes something apart that he shouldn't have he blames Poppa.
He looks up to the door and says hi and bye to Poppa, and sometimes talks to him when he is playing with his blocks or cars.
He told me that Poppa taught him how to make a circle with a pen and paper and is teaching him to write letters. That fits his character, Poppa made me practice my handwriting until I was 16.
Jake has painted pictures and brought them to me saying "this one's from me and Poppa for you". Poppa loved to paint.
We don't encourage him, but we don't discourage him either. What do you say? Poppa's dead? Try explaining that. Or pretend like Poppa is there all the time? He's not, by the way. If we start telling Jake that people are in the house when people aren't in the house that can be a little damaging, I think.
You better check your shower and under your bed. Someone is under there. Just to play, though. It's not scary.
See? Damaging.
I don't have any pictures of my grandfather around the house, but when Jake sees an old man in a cap and glasses he says "hey there's Poppa!". A man in Target was wearing a cardigan and Jake said it was Poppa's sweater. He has no way of knowing that Poppa was a cardigan kind of guy.
Jake and I have coffee together a few times a week- kinda like a boy version of the tea party. A few months ago, he asked if Poppa can have coffee too, but only with real cream, not milk. We don't ever have real cream in our house and I'm guessing that daycare doesn't deal with real cream on a regular basis.
Jake told me that Poppa was "eatin' butter again" the other day. Sure enough, the butter dish was open. Poppa ate butter all the time, right off the knife, whenever the butter dish was left open and chased it with a handful of salt. And lived for like 175 years.
It's weird. But comforting. I like to think that people that love us in life can love us in death. There was no question that I was Poppa's favorite, his only girl in a crowd of sons and grandsons. When I had Jake he was completely thrilled, and didn't hesitate to get down on the floor with Jake and hold him and play with him and try to teach him shapes and letters and numbers even though Jake wasn't even one and Poppa was 94. Jake said "Poppa" to him a couple times, and if you could have seen how thrilled that made him you may have cried.
The last time I saw Poppa, he gave me a hug and thanked me for letting him spend a little time with Jake. He held Jake and told him that he would see him soon and they could play some more. He held me and told me he loved me.
I only make it back to my hometown once or twice a year, and I knew this would be the last time I saw him. I should have said more, but I know I didn't need to. Whenever Jake says that Poppa is here, I tell him to let him know I love him.
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