So this weekend was SO. MUCH. BETTER. than last weekend.
Writing the last post made me feel lighter. At Blogher, one of the sessions I actually attended railed against the idea of just manically typing and hitting publish. I think that is bullshit, because it works. It did what I intended it to do, make me feel better.
I think Gracie could see the crazy in my eye. On the way home Friday afternoon, we had a long conversation about how she would loose a lot of privileges this weekend if she didn't act appropriately. Toys would be confiscated, televisions would be unplugged, timeouts would be administered. There were a lot of "Yes, Mama's" uttered, but I was not a believer.
That night at dinner was the first time in weeks that Clare didn't throw her food on the ground in protest and try to stand on my plate. When Clare started to give us the "How dare you feed me!" stink eye, Gracie broke out in song and they were both laughing within seconds. The rest of the dinner was spent singing The Wheels on the Bus, with occasional Olivia interludes. It was bliss.
New Years Eve was filled with a trip to the zoo for the girls, much needed alone time for me and one of the best 9pm sans-children at home dinners we've ever experienced. It is amazing what a bottle and a half of champagne and two hours of uninterrupted conversation can do for the psyche.
Most of all, thank you for the comments and support. Knowing that I am not alone (or crazy) is the perfect catharsis to heal the wounds of last weekend.
Showing posts with label Blogging is Therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blogging is Therapy. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Friday, December 30, 2011
Blue Christmas
Christmas was rough this year.
I take that back. It was horrible. There, I've said it. It only took me a week to say. It was horrible.
We seem to be in a .... complaining phase .... around our house. Grace whines every time she doesn't get precisely what she wants within 30 seconds of asking for it (or within 30 seconds of her thinking about it but forgetting to ask), and Clare says NO! to everything.
A friend and I once had a conversation about how much harder it is to be a calm parent than one that yells and hits. These last few weeks have been a challenge. I have never (and will never) hit either of the girls, but I find myself yelling so much more that I want to, in a primitive attempt to raise my volume over theirs in an emotional (nonsensical) attempt to have my desires heard too.
It is soul crushing, this new feeling of parenting failure. I keep oscillating between thinking it is just two and four year old growing pains, and wondering if we are to blame for the constant poor behavior and we are doing our jobs wrong.
Maybe it is both.
And in admitting that, comes new stomach churning worries that the behaviorisms of our parents that haunt us and are constantly fought against are seeping into our girls lives too. Are we expecting too much of them? Are we too quick to take out our frustrations with frowns and sharply spoken orders? Are we too quick to drown those frustrations in an extra large glass of wine?
The answer is probably yes to all three, but how do we change that? How do you teach a two year old that it is not OK to climb on the kitchen table during dinner without frowns and sharp words? How do you teach a four year old about patience after the same request has been made 10 times in a row without frowns and sharp words?
Matt and I have spent a lot of time taking about the future lately. Four months from now, 12 months from now, three years from now. How our future will be brighter, relaxed and secure. For now though, I am worried about the now.
Tomorrow starts another three day weekend.
I take that back. It was horrible. There, I've said it. It only took me a week to say. It was horrible.
We seem to be in a .... complaining phase .... around our house. Grace whines every time she doesn't get precisely what she wants within 30 seconds of asking for it (or within 30 seconds of her thinking about it but forgetting to ask), and Clare says NO! to everything.
A friend and I once had a conversation about how much harder it is to be a calm parent than one that yells and hits. These last few weeks have been a challenge. I have never (and will never) hit either of the girls, but I find myself yelling so much more that I want to, in a primitive attempt to raise my volume over theirs in an emotional (nonsensical) attempt to have my desires heard too.
It is soul crushing, this new feeling of parenting failure. I keep oscillating between thinking it is just two and four year old growing pains, and wondering if we are to blame for the constant poor behavior and we are doing our jobs wrong.
Maybe it is both.
And in admitting that, comes new stomach churning worries that the behaviorisms of our parents that haunt us and are constantly fought against are seeping into our girls lives too. Are we expecting too much of them? Are we too quick to take out our frustrations with frowns and sharply spoken orders? Are we too quick to drown those frustrations in an extra large glass of wine?
The answer is probably yes to all three, but how do we change that? How do you teach a two year old that it is not OK to climb on the kitchen table during dinner without frowns and sharp words? How do you teach a four year old about patience after the same request has been made 10 times in a row without frowns and sharp words?
Matt and I have spent a lot of time taking about the future lately. Four months from now, 12 months from now, three years from now. How our future will be brighter, relaxed and secure. For now though, I am worried about the now.
Tomorrow starts another three day weekend.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remembering
I hate all of the 'Where were you?' September 11th posts.
'How did you feel? What were you doing?'
I suppose I was lucky that day, I was safely ensconsed in suburban Chicagoland. I knew nobody in New York or at the Pentagon. But today still riddles me with sorrow.... guilt.
'How did you feel? What were you doing?'
I rarely join in on the conversations. I listen, and smile sympathetically, but I don't contribute. I still feel so guilty about my response to those questions. I guess I should just go ahead and tell my story. Maybe my shoulders will lighten a little bit.
*******************
On September 11, 2001, I was working for a stockbroker.
I hated the job. It was a two man shop, me and him. He was hardly ever in the office, often out playing golf with clients. He was maybe two or three years older than me. I never asked him how old he was, I really didn't want to know. He talked constantly about how much money he was making, knowing that more than a few of his big ticket customers were there because I charmed them while he was out playing golf. I hated the job.
I mostly worked an 8 am - 4pm schedule, skipping lunch so I could leave early. The New York Stock Excahnge opened at 9:30 am which usually gave me an hour and a half to open the office and sort all the voice mail messages and faxes that had come through overnight.
Around 8:50 am a fax came through from headquarters. To my recollection, it said 'The Market will be delayed in opening. It has been reported that a small prop plane as struck a building in downtown NYC.'
And I laughed.
That is my guilt, my sorrow. I was glad for a delay to the start of my day. I laughed for a solid 5 minutes.
Until the next fax came through. And the one after that. And the one after that.
Details came through slowly, or so it felt. The handful of minutes between updates felt like hours. We didn't have a TV in the office and I don't know why it didn't dawn on me to turn on the radio. I just read the supply of faxes that started pouring in, each with an increasing about of information and horror. I started flinching every time I heard the machine kick on.
Per his normal schedule, my stockbroker flew into the parking lot a few minutes after 9:30.
'Have you heard what happened?' he asked, 'This will be bad for buisness. I need to think.' He shut himself in his office behind me. I sat in shock and read the flow of faxes.
I had laughed.
Around 10am he emerged with a pile of printouts. 'We have to do something. We have to tell people that their money is OK,' he announced. He handed me a stack of papers. It was a list of clients and phone numbers, A-M. 'People need to hear from us. We need to personally call everyone and reassure them their investments are safe.'
My stomach flip-flopped but I didn't say anything outside of saying that I wasn't comforatable with it. I should have screamed at him, told him what an asshole he was. People were dying and he was worried about money. I didn't say it though. I sat at my desk for 10 minutes and then picked up the phone.
A few numbers in, somebody answered. She answered with a shakey, tear filled voice. I followed my script. She screamed at me. Screamed the things that I should have screamed at my stockbroker. She knew people in those buildings. I deserved those words. The full impact of what was happending and what I had just done fully hit me. I wept uncontrolably.
That is the second fold of my sorrow, my guilt. I blindly followed instructions that I knew weren't right. That I knew were crass and careless.
After I told the stockbroker what happened, he sent me home for the day. And he changed his tactic. He narrowed this list to just his biggest clients and rang with concern about their families and connections on the East Coast.
****************
That is my story, my remembering. It isn't as horrible as it could be, as many are. But, it could be so much easier to tell, if only my actions that day were more thought out, more careful. I made someone's life worse that day, their heart ache more.
And you know what? 10 years later, I don't feel a shred better for having written this.
'How did you feel? What were you doing?'
I suppose I was lucky that day, I was safely ensconsed in suburban Chicagoland. I knew nobody in New York or at the Pentagon. But today still riddles me with sorrow.... guilt.
'How did you feel? What were you doing?'
I rarely join in on the conversations. I listen, and smile sympathetically, but I don't contribute. I still feel so guilty about my response to those questions. I guess I should just go ahead and tell my story. Maybe my shoulders will lighten a little bit.
*******************
On September 11, 2001, I was working for a stockbroker.
I hated the job. It was a two man shop, me and him. He was hardly ever in the office, often out playing golf with clients. He was maybe two or three years older than me. I never asked him how old he was, I really didn't want to know. He talked constantly about how much money he was making, knowing that more than a few of his big ticket customers were there because I charmed them while he was out playing golf. I hated the job.
I mostly worked an 8 am - 4pm schedule, skipping lunch so I could leave early. The New York Stock Excahnge opened at 9:30 am which usually gave me an hour and a half to open the office and sort all the voice mail messages and faxes that had come through overnight.
Around 8:50 am a fax came through from headquarters. To my recollection, it said 'The Market will be delayed in opening. It has been reported that a small prop plane as struck a building in downtown NYC.'
And I laughed.
That is my guilt, my sorrow. I was glad for a delay to the start of my day. I laughed for a solid 5 minutes.
Until the next fax came through. And the one after that. And the one after that.
Details came through slowly, or so it felt. The handful of minutes between updates felt like hours. We didn't have a TV in the office and I don't know why it didn't dawn on me to turn on the radio. I just read the supply of faxes that started pouring in, each with an increasing about of information and horror. I started flinching every time I heard the machine kick on.
Per his normal schedule, my stockbroker flew into the parking lot a few minutes after 9:30.
'Have you heard what happened?' he asked, 'This will be bad for buisness. I need to think.' He shut himself in his office behind me. I sat in shock and read the flow of faxes.
I had laughed.
Around 10am he emerged with a pile of printouts. 'We have to do something. We have to tell people that their money is OK,' he announced. He handed me a stack of papers. It was a list of clients and phone numbers, A-M. 'People need to hear from us. We need to personally call everyone and reassure them their investments are safe.'
My stomach flip-flopped but I didn't say anything outside of saying that I wasn't comforatable with it. I should have screamed at him, told him what an asshole he was. People were dying and he was worried about money. I didn't say it though. I sat at my desk for 10 minutes and then picked up the phone.
A few numbers in, somebody answered. She answered with a shakey, tear filled voice. I followed my script. She screamed at me. Screamed the things that I should have screamed at my stockbroker. She knew people in those buildings. I deserved those words. The full impact of what was happending and what I had just done fully hit me. I wept uncontrolably.
That is the second fold of my sorrow, my guilt. I blindly followed instructions that I knew weren't right. That I knew were crass and careless.
After I told the stockbroker what happened, he sent me home for the day. And he changed his tactic. He narrowed this list to just his biggest clients and rang with concern about their families and connections on the East Coast.
****************
That is my story, my remembering. It isn't as horrible as it could be, as many are. But, it could be so much easier to tell, if only my actions that day were more thought out, more careful. I made someone's life worse that day, their heart ache more.
And you know what? 10 years later, I don't feel a shred better for having written this.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Come Talk to Me @ BlogHer
So I’m about to go on an adventure.
All by myself.
But right now, I feel all by myself.
I tried packing my bag all weekend long. I put things in, I took things out. Grace put things in and took things out. I’ve analyzed if I have enough room to bring my own pillow like a child because I just don’t sleep right without it.
And now? My stomach is churning. The calendar has flipped and it is officially August and I am officially leaving in 2 days for San Diego.
Posts like this have really been helping, but still…. I get it is OK to be awkward. In my mind though, it is fine for other people to be awkward, but aren’t I supposed to have my shit together and fully embrace the idea of freedom and adventure for five very long days. Part of me relishes the idea of seeing this computer based life in person, but another part of me feels like such a fraud.
You know, you read me. You’ve noticed that my posts have dropped off significantly in the last year or so. Am I a blogger, just because I have a url? Well, I guess I did have business cards made to that effect.Once I get on the plane I know I will be fine. We have invites to parties galore, and lot of free booze will make all my worries go away, right?
So really, come talk to me. Because I think I will really need it.
Have I mentioned that my stomach is churning?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Pulse Points
I stood there, eyes fixed and willing myself not to let them mist.
She let go of my hand within 5 minutes of stepping into the room, welcomed into the classroom and enticed by the scent of strawberries.
The educational philosophy centers on stimulation and independence. Teaching kids through engagement and creativity.
They handed her a knife.
She let go of my hand within 5 minutes of stepping into the room, welcomed into the classroom and enticed by the scent of strawberries.
The educational philosophy centers on stimulation and independence. Teaching kids through engagement and creativity.
They handed her a knife.
Grace cooks with me often. I let her stand next to me by the stove and stir bubbling pots. I have never given her a knife though. I guess they knew something that I couldn't see.I stayed as far back as I could, but watched her closely. She handled it deftly.
She found a container full of tadpoles. She knew what they were without any help. (How does she know what a tadpole looks like?) She explained to the teacher the transformation they would go though. The teacher seemed impressed and told her to feel free to explore anything she was interested in.
She played with puzzles, found fire ants digging tunnels through gel, watched as another teacher transferred the baby chickens into a shaded coop.
She washed hands when instructed to and feasted on her share of the cut strawberries, mint and a sprinkle of sugar she helped prepare.
This change will be hardest on me. Watching my child prove first hand that my baby is no longer a baby. She will thrive in this environment. Without me. Without my vertical 100 yard proximity.Grace will soon be a Montessori girl and everything I have come to know and depend on will change. This will be good for her. Good for us.
But, ugh, how I hate change.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Away
Tuesday night was the first night I've ever been away from Clare.
393 nights I've spent with my Clare in my arms and pressed to my chest. Give or take a few.
When Matt travles for buisness, Grace says he is going on vacation because there is a hotel stay involved. So while I packed my bag on Monday night, Grace asked why I was going on vacation. I know it is just a word, vacation. Something that helps her understand what is going on, why we are sleeping in beds that are not our own, but it felt like a knife to me.
Mama is not going on vacation.
In fact, I am trying to come up with any feasable reason not to go. If I hadn't promised to split the cost of the hotel room with a colleauge, I don't think I would have gone. 393 nights with my babies. The panic attacks about not being there for the 394th night made my stomach churn right into my throat.
Dropping the girls off at daycare Tuesday morning was gut wrenching. I didn't cry on Clare's 1st day of daycare, but I bawled that monring.
393 nights I've spent with my Clare in my arms and pressed to my chest. Give or take a few.
When Matt travles for buisness, Grace says he is going on vacation because there is a hotel stay involved. So while I packed my bag on Monday night, Grace asked why I was going on vacation. I know it is just a word, vacation. Something that helps her understand what is going on, why we are sleeping in beds that are not our own, but it felt like a knife to me.
Mama is not going on vacation.
In fact, I am trying to come up with any feasable reason not to go. If I hadn't promised to split the cost of the hotel room with a colleauge, I don't think I would have gone. 393 nights with my babies. The panic attacks about not being there for the 394th night made my stomach churn right into my throat.
Dropping the girls off at daycare Tuesday morning was gut wrenching. I didn't cry on Clare's 1st day of daycare, but I bawled that monring.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Softest of Chew Toys
Clare is a breastfed baby. 100%. I am exceedingly proud of this fact.
Grace was a fight from the start. It took weeks of coaxing and effort to get her to breastfeed. At 5 months old she starting refusing to drink again. I have no idea why I didn't just go the route of pumping and then bottle feeding her. I think I tried and just couldn't produce enough. I know I took that as some sort of misguided failure on my part, so when she wouldn't breastfeed I gave her formula. Honestly though, I think she preferred the formula. At 7 months old, she began rejecting me completely so I gave up the fight.
Clare will be 7 months old next week. A 100% breastfed baby. She will drink expressed milk from bottles, but she prefers me. She took to me instinctively after birth and has never looked back.
****
From the stories I have heard, my birth was a traumatic one. My mom started hemorrhaging and was rushed to the hospital 5 weeks before her due date. Her c-section scar isn't the traditional hip bone to hip bone, it is belly button to pelvic bone, preformed without anesthesia.
She was unable to even consider breastfeeding me. It was 1978 anyway, so who's to say she would have even if given the choice. I do not question her decision at all. Formula was what was right for her to feed to both my brother and me. I really do believe that. It was my opinion before I ever had kids too. She, on the other hand, questions my decision to breastfeed at every turn.
****
Tonight, I discovered that Clare has sprouted her first tooth.
(Have I told you what an amazing baby she is? I knew she was teething, I could feel the hard edges behind her gums. But this tooth- I'm not quite sure when exactly it popped though. Not a peep from her, just solid nights of sleep and smiles galore. Business as usual.)
I discovered it because she bit me while nursing. Hard. One little edge of one little tooth, but it did damage. She and I will have to work out a new system. I think it will involve nipple callouses and cold packs on my end, with impish smiles of apology on hers.
When I shared the joyous news of new enamel with my mom though, her response?
...So does this mean you will finally stop breastfeeding or is she going to still be nursing when she is in high school?
****
I am lucky. I have supportive friends. The daycare teachers are beyond supportive, bordering on insistent. I work in a supportive environment. While many are surprised at my ability to keep a full time job and supply enough food for an ever increasing appetite, nobody seems to blink at the notion of my mammary glads fulfilling their intended purpose.
Nobody, except my own mother.
Grace was a fight from the start. It took weeks of coaxing and effort to get her to breastfeed. At 5 months old she starting refusing to drink again. I have no idea why I didn't just go the route of pumping and then bottle feeding her. I think I tried and just couldn't produce enough. I know I took that as some sort of misguided failure on my part, so when she wouldn't breastfeed I gave her formula. Honestly though, I think she preferred the formula. At 7 months old, she began rejecting me completely so I gave up the fight.
Clare will be 7 months old next week. A 100% breastfed baby. She will drink expressed milk from bottles, but she prefers me. She took to me instinctively after birth and has never looked back.
****
From the stories I have heard, my birth was a traumatic one. My mom started hemorrhaging and was rushed to the hospital 5 weeks before her due date. Her c-section scar isn't the traditional hip bone to hip bone, it is belly button to pelvic bone, preformed without anesthesia.
She was unable to even consider breastfeeding me. It was 1978 anyway, so who's to say she would have even if given the choice. I do not question her decision at all. Formula was what was right for her to feed to both my brother and me. I really do believe that. It was my opinion before I ever had kids too. She, on the other hand, questions my decision to breastfeed at every turn.
****
Tonight, I discovered that Clare has sprouted her first tooth.
(Have I told you what an amazing baby she is? I knew she was teething, I could feel the hard edges behind her gums. But this tooth- I'm not quite sure when exactly it popped though. Not a peep from her, just solid nights of sleep and smiles galore. Business as usual.)
I discovered it because she bit me while nursing. Hard. One little edge of one little tooth, but it did damage. She and I will have to work out a new system. I think it will involve nipple callouses and cold packs on my end, with impish smiles of apology on hers.
When I shared the joyous news of new enamel with my mom though, her response?
...So does this mean you will finally stop breastfeeding or is she going to still be nursing when she is in high school?
****
I am lucky. I have supportive friends. The daycare teachers are beyond supportive, bordering on insistent. I work in a supportive environment. While many are surprised at my ability to keep a full time job and supply enough food for an ever increasing appetite, nobody seems to blink at the notion of my mammary glads fulfilling their intended purpose.
Nobody, except my own mother.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Fallen
Two and a half weeks have flown by since we lost Lil’ Rick.
Matt picked up his ashes from the vet yesterday. I guess they will mingle with my good crystal until spring rolls back around and we can give him a proper burial. Returned to the earth under rose bushes dedicated in his name.
He was such a part of our routine. The first few nights I kept calling him, annoyed that he didn’t answer.
‘Come on dude, it’s time to go out. I want to go to bed!’
I’d go to grab a cookie, to shake the glass lid that housed them to rouse him from slumber upstairs, and the jar would be gone from the counter top. I’d freeze, futilely fighting the burn at the back of my throat. He’s not coming downstairs because he is no longer here.
We were grateful that Grace really didn’t ask questions about Rick’s where-a-bouts. She would mention him in passing when going through lists of family and things that she loves.
‘We’re going to go to my happy birthday party. You and Me and Daddy and Clare and Maga and Unkey Jer and Ricky!’
‘Ricky isn’t going to your party Love.’
‘Oh. OK. He’s a dog. He can't go.’
And then she would start talking about Curious George or the leaves she picked up off the ground that morning or what she ‘wants for eat’ that night.
We didn’t correct her. It was still too hard of a thing, and we figured why bring pain to her if she’s not specifically asking questions. The other day she asked. Or she said something about him that made us think she should tell her.
‘So Grace, you know how you haven’t seen Rick in awhile?’
‘Yeah. Where is he?’
‘Lil’ Rick had to go away Love.’
‘Oh? Where did he go?’
‘Well, he was really old – way older than you or me or even Maga – and he went away and isn’t going to be able to come back anymore.’
‘Where did he go? I want him to come back.’
‘He died sweetie. You know how the leaves are falling off the trees right now? It’s because the leaves are old and the tree can’t keep them attached anymore. The leaves die. The tree has to let the old ones go. Ricky was kind of like an old leaf.’
‘Oh, OK…. Ricky fell off??’
‘Kind of Grace. He was old and tired and ready to go to heaven.’
‘Oh. OK. I will miss him. Can I have another cookie?’
She’s mentioned him in the same passing ‘things I love’ way a time or two since that conversation, but hasn’t really asked more questions about him.
Nor has she played with the leaves in the morning though.
Now what?
Matt picked up his ashes from the vet yesterday. I guess they will mingle with my good crystal until spring rolls back around and we can give him a proper burial. Returned to the earth under rose bushes dedicated in his name.
He was such a part of our routine. The first few nights I kept calling him, annoyed that he didn’t answer.
‘Come on dude, it’s time to go out. I want to go to bed!’
I’d go to grab a cookie, to shake the glass lid that housed them to rouse him from slumber upstairs, and the jar would be gone from the counter top. I’d freeze, futilely fighting the burn at the back of my throat. He’s not coming downstairs because he is no longer here.
We were grateful that Grace really didn’t ask questions about Rick’s where-a-bouts. She would mention him in passing when going through lists of family and things that she loves.
‘We’re going to go to my happy birthday party. You and Me and Daddy and Clare and Maga and Unkey Jer and Ricky!’
‘Ricky isn’t going to your party Love.’
‘Oh. OK. He’s a dog. He can't go.’
And then she would start talking about Curious George or the leaves she picked up off the ground that morning or what she ‘wants for eat’ that night.
We didn’t correct her. It was still too hard of a thing, and we figured why bring pain to her if she’s not specifically asking questions. The other day she asked. Or she said something about him that made us think she should tell her.
‘So Grace, you know how you haven’t seen Rick in awhile?’
‘Yeah. Where is he?’
‘Lil’ Rick had to go away Love.’
‘Oh? Where did he go?’
‘Well, he was really old – way older than you or me or even Maga – and he went away and isn’t going to be able to come back anymore.’
‘Where did he go? I want him to come back.’
‘He died sweetie. You know how the leaves are falling off the trees right now? It’s because the leaves are old and the tree can’t keep them attached anymore. The leaves die. The tree has to let the old ones go. Ricky was kind of like an old leaf.’
‘Oh, OK…. Ricky fell off??’
‘Kind of Grace. He was old and tired and ready to go to heaven.’
‘Oh. OK. I will miss him. Can I have another cookie?’
She’s mentioned him in the same passing ‘things I love’ way a time or two since that conversation, but hasn’t really asked more questions about him.
Nor has she played with the leaves in the morning though.
Now what?
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Big Things in Little Packages
Lil' Rick was the dog I didn't really want.
I wanted a BIG dog. A Great Dane or a Bullmastiff. Something that weighed as much as a human, could do some significant damage to an intruder and had a heart and spirit as big as their body.
Instead, we got a Corgi.
During the normal course of a work day we were usually offered Corgis' several times. See, a coworkers wife showed dogs. Think the Thanksgiving Day Westminster Dog Show. The people who trot the fancy dogs around the ring. That was what she did- she trained, groomed and showed fancy pedigreed dogs as a profession. (Yeah, a little crazy, I know.) Anyway, once these fancy dogs won enough blue ribbons to be dubbed 'champions' and then went on to breed enough future champions, they were often abandonded by their true owners.
Hence, our possession of Lil' Rick. Champion of Corgi's with a google-able name, daddy to many more little champion Corgi's, and master of none of the tricks normal people expect your dog to preform whe the phrase 'show dog' is uttered.
When we finally broke down and agreed to a visit to meet the dog selected for us. I was by no means enchanted with him.
He was released from the dog pens with a fury. He ran into the room with a streak of orange fur. He jumped on furniture. He jumped on people. I backed away and sat down in a chair. He spied me and ran full speed in my direction to cover me in Corgi kisses. But he didn't stop soon enough. He launched himself into the air and only stopped due to a nose to nose collision. The tip of his snout to the bridge of my nose. Oh-my-God did it hurt.
I didn't want to take him, but Matt was taken with him. One week later we brought home our 5 year old puppy. We weren't always the best parents.
Over the last two years, Rick started having old age issues. Cateracts, bad teeth, arthritis, hearing loss. Last Christmas he started coughing. Several hundred dollars in vet visits couldn't bring a diagnosis. Allergies? The medicine didn't work. Fungal infection? The antibiotics didn't help. Cancer? What was the point of more tests to tell us something we couldn't do anything about.
Over the last few months he'd taken to coughing under our bed at 2am. We started putting him in the laundry room overnight. We always felt horrible about it, but sleep in this house is a fleeting, precious thing.
Last night was Lil' Rick's final night with us. I'm glad he spent it under our bed. Today when Matt got home from work, Rick was cold. The wag of his happy old-man body was gone.
13 years old. 91 in dog years. That's a pretty good run. I hope the last 8 were his favorite.
We'll miss you Lil' Rick.
I wanted a BIG dog. A Great Dane or a Bullmastiff. Something that weighed as much as a human, could do some significant damage to an intruder and had a heart and spirit as big as their body.
Instead, we got a Corgi.
During the normal course of a work day we were usually offered Corgis' several times. See, a coworkers wife showed dogs. Think the Thanksgiving Day Westminster Dog Show. The people who trot the fancy dogs around the ring. That was what she did- she trained, groomed and showed fancy pedigreed dogs as a profession. (Yeah, a little crazy, I know.) Anyway, once these fancy dogs won enough blue ribbons to be dubbed 'champions' and then went on to breed enough future champions, they were often abandonded by their true owners.
Hence, our possession of Lil' Rick. Champion of Corgi's with a google-able name, daddy to many more little champion Corgi's, and master of none of the tricks normal people expect your dog to preform whe the phrase 'show dog' is uttered.
When we finally broke down and agreed to a visit to meet the dog selected for us. I was by no means enchanted with him.
He was released from the dog pens with a fury. He ran into the room with a streak of orange fur. He jumped on furniture. He jumped on people. I backed away and sat down in a chair. He spied me and ran full speed in my direction to cover me in Corgi kisses. But he didn't stop soon enough. He launched himself into the air and only stopped due to a nose to nose collision. The tip of his snout to the bridge of my nose. Oh-my-God did it hurt.
I didn't want to take him, but Matt was taken with him. One week later we brought home our 5 year old puppy. We weren't always the best parents.
Over the last two years, Rick started having old age issues. Cateracts, bad teeth, arthritis, hearing loss. Last Christmas he started coughing. Several hundred dollars in vet visits couldn't bring a diagnosis. Allergies? The medicine didn't work. Fungal infection? The antibiotics didn't help. Cancer? What was the point of more tests to tell us something we couldn't do anything about.
Over the last few months he'd taken to coughing under our bed at 2am. We started putting him in the laundry room overnight. We always felt horrible about it, but sleep in this house is a fleeting, precious thing.
Last night was Lil' Rick's final night with us. I'm glad he spent it under our bed. Today when Matt got home from work, Rick was cold. The wag of his happy old-man body was gone.
13 years old. 91 in dog years. That's a pretty good run. I hope the last 8 were his favorite.
We'll miss you Lil' Rick.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Cut
Grace is 2 years, 10 months and 3 days old today. It is a monumental day. Her golden locks have fallen.
Gracie was essential bald until she as 1 year old. She didn't have hair long enough for pig tails until she was 2. There was never really any reason to bring out the scissors. Lately though, her hair has become a bit unruley. It looked a little bit like a overgrown mullet.
So I pulled out the bribes- Dum Dum lollipops. (that I *aquired* at a bank that doesn't hold one cent of my money. But my friends pennies pass through their door so I felt intitled)
We started slow. A lollipop for a trim of the bangs. I asked her if she wanted to cut all her hairs (as I do almost daily now) and she said no. Until that lollipop was gone. She wanted another one. How does a toddler aquire more candy? By sucumbing to parental pressure. Sure Mama, you can cut my hair if I can have more candy.
And so it was. I hesitated only for a second. I brushed her hair straight and steadied by hand.
Snip.
The deed was done. We were committed.
And I started to cry, but finished the job.
Bye-bye baby curls.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
My Return
Has it really been over a month since I've posted anything??
I've been distracted lately, to say the least.
Clare is a happy baby. A low key baby. A very hungry baby. In exchange for not crying and sleeping well, she eats non-stop. So I've been neglecting this blog.
Neglected, but not forgotten. I keep writing posts in my head. I still keep taking non-face pictures for posts. I just haven't actually been writing the posts. I have no excuse for that. Sometimes I start to tap them into my iPhone, but then big thumbs and tiny fingers and crossed eyes get in my way and I quit a few sentences in.
But I am back now. I have to be. Friday morning will usher in my return to work and the first day of being the parent of two children who need to be out the door around 6am. I will need a place to vent, to expound on my new found role.
Oh, and expect to see a lot of back dated material popping up in your reader! If I've forgotten to stories there will at least be pictures . (ahem... Easter anyone?)
I've been distracted lately, to say the least.
Clare is a happy baby. A low key baby. A very hungry baby. In exchange for not crying and sleeping well, she eats non-stop. So I've been neglecting this blog.
Neglected, but not forgotten. I keep writing posts in my head. I still keep taking non-face pictures for posts. I just haven't actually been writing the posts. I have no excuse for that. Sometimes I start to tap them into my iPhone, but then big thumbs and tiny fingers and crossed eyes get in my way and I quit a few sentences in.
But I am back now. I have to be. Friday morning will usher in my return to work and the first day of being the parent of two children who need to be out the door around 6am. I will need a place to vent, to expound on my new found role.
Oh, and expect to see a lot of back dated material popping up in your reader! If I've forgotten to stories there will at least be pictures . (ahem... Easter anyone?)
Monday, March 8, 2010
Please See Cashier
A few months ago I bought a new lighter at the grocery store. One of those big, long stemmed ones that keeps you from burning finger tips when lighting candles. Apparently my municipality puts lighters in the same category as cold medicine and spray paint. It’s part of the playground of miscreants.
I got carded.
Well, kind of.
The teenaged punk manning the mother-station of the self check kiosks just waved at me and said not to worry about the “Please See Cashier” notice flashing on my screen. I then overheard him tell his cohort punk that he just puts in random birthdays from 1978 when that comes up. Because anyone born 1978 is pretty old.
*Wait a minute. I was born in 1978.*
My head almost exploded. Then I fought back tears. And I know I will never be able to forget the heart crushing reality of the first time someone called me old. My mom gets pissy about being called ‘mam. I’ve never had much of an issue with this, because I can write it off as regionalisms and good manners, not a slam on perceived age. This kid though, he flat out said, “31 is pretty old.” Bastard.
While I was convalescing on the couch this past Saturday, I spent an unprecedented amount of time watching TV. I flipped though all the channels and watched more than my fair share of Hallmark movies. Then I remembered my beloved HBO In-Demand. Front and center was 17 Again. Score, it is something Matt would never watch.
This morning, while sorting through all the Facebook posts I missed over the weekend, I saw my 16 year old cousin Kat posted a quote from the movie. “You can plunder my dungeon anytime!” She and her high-school herd had also been taking advantage of Zac Efron’s free presence on HBO this weekend. So I commented.
And you know what? She too unintentionally called me old, by calling Efron old. She said, ‘Yeah, he’s a lot older than he looks. He’s like in his mid-twenties.’
And my heart once again stopped beating for a minute. First of all, I totally thought the kid was jail bait. Second, 22 IS NOT mid-twenties. Third, if 22 is old, then what is 32??
I know I am having this theoretical conversation with a 16 year old. I get that, but WTF.
The more I think about it though, the more I have to realize that maybe she is right. I like to pretend that I am still 20 in my head. Living just a toe over on the wild side. Not having to answer to anyone. Flirting my way into college bars with a barely passable ID. Parties that I didn’t always remember the end of. Sleeping until 5pm and then waking to do it all over again.
Now, I go to bed at 9:30pm. I wake before the sun finds it decent to be up. I dress conservatively and wipe butts and smile at the other daycare moms. A wild night is having an hour and a half dinner without interruption and an extended bedtime of 11pm. Which I then pay for the next day.
Am I old?
I cried when I turned 25. I tried to ignore my 30th birthday. Is the lighter punk onto something that I am completely missing? I don’t have wrinkles. I’m a young mother, not the Grandma. I still get carded at the liquor store… but is that because my signature is worn off the back of my debit card?
I guess that is the answer though. I am old enough. I am old enough to have my own life, family and money which has allowed me the ability to pay cash for my purchases via my debit card. Something I didn’t even come close to having at 20, much less 16. And I don’t want go back there. I love my life and the last twelve years that have turned me into a random old age to punch into a cash register when buying controlled substances.
The spiteful part of me just has to remember: Karma is a bitch and in 2025 it will be you standing in a random line being called old by some other teenaged punk making minim wage kid.
I got carded.
Well, kind of.
The teenaged punk manning the mother-station of the self check kiosks just waved at me and said not to worry about the “Please See Cashier” notice flashing on my screen. I then overheard him tell his cohort punk that he just puts in random birthdays from 1978 when that comes up. Because anyone born 1978 is pretty old.
*Wait a minute. I was born in 1978.*
My head almost exploded. Then I fought back tears. And I know I will never be able to forget the heart crushing reality of the first time someone called me old. My mom gets pissy about being called ‘mam. I’ve never had much of an issue with this, because I can write it off as regionalisms and good manners, not a slam on perceived age. This kid though, he flat out said, “31 is pretty old.” Bastard.
While I was convalescing on the couch this past Saturday, I spent an unprecedented amount of time watching TV. I flipped though all the channels and watched more than my fair share of Hallmark movies. Then I remembered my beloved HBO In-Demand. Front and center was 17 Again. Score, it is something Matt would never watch.
This morning, while sorting through all the Facebook posts I missed over the weekend, I saw my 16 year old cousin Kat posted a quote from the movie. “You can plunder my dungeon anytime!” She and her high-school herd had also been taking advantage of Zac Efron’s free presence on HBO this weekend. So I commented.
And you know what? She too unintentionally called me old, by calling Efron old. She said, ‘Yeah, he’s a lot older than he looks. He’s like in his mid-twenties.’
And my heart once again stopped beating for a minute. First of all, I totally thought the kid was jail bait. Second, 22 IS NOT mid-twenties. Third, if 22 is old, then what is 32??
I know I am having this theoretical conversation with a 16 year old. I get that, but WTF.
The more I think about it though, the more I have to realize that maybe she is right. I like to pretend that I am still 20 in my head. Living just a toe over on the wild side. Not having to answer to anyone. Flirting my way into college bars with a barely passable ID. Parties that I didn’t always remember the end of. Sleeping until 5pm and then waking to do it all over again.
Now, I go to bed at 9:30pm. I wake before the sun finds it decent to be up. I dress conservatively and wipe butts and smile at the other daycare moms. A wild night is having an hour and a half dinner without interruption and an extended bedtime of 11pm. Which I then pay for the next day.
Am I old?
I cried when I turned 25. I tried to ignore my 30th birthday. Is the lighter punk onto something that I am completely missing? I don’t have wrinkles. I’m a young mother, not the Grandma. I still get carded at the liquor store… but is that because my signature is worn off the back of my debit card?
I guess that is the answer though. I am old enough. I am old enough to have my own life, family and money which has allowed me the ability to pay cash for my purchases via my debit card. Something I didn’t even come close to having at 20, much less 16. And I don’t want go back there. I love my life and the last twelve years that have turned me into a random old age to punch into a cash register when buying controlled substances.
The spiteful part of me just has to remember: Karma is a bitch and in 2025 it will be you standing in a random line being called old by some other teenaged punk making minim wage kid.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Tiny Violins Please
This week has been a whirlwind.
An unpleasant whirlwind of pressure and illness and doctors and disappointments and doctors and pain meds and a million things to accomplish.
I have been crabby and a hairs breath away from crying at a moments notice. So I’m just going to type it all out, as the weekend is almost here, and try and let go.
- Grace had a fever for 3 days and was prescribed the amoxicillin that she hates, so now twice a day it is a battle to the death to shoot nasty, gritty medicine into her mouth.
- I was all ehem *bloated and moody* when I weighed in this week and was told I gained 2.2 lbs despite having eaten little more than salad and grilled chicken for 7 days. So I went home and ate a deep fried burrito.
- I finally swallowed my pride and showed my doctor a lump on my butt that was getting bigger. She said it was nothing to worry about, but was to big for her to remove and proceeded to have me show about 20 different people before I was surgically removed on Wednesday. The stitches hurt a lot more than I thought it was going to and the pain meds they gave me make me loopy.
- I was told by my boss - despite my monthly requests for him to schedule the activities I need to complete to qualify for my next promotion – the I should have been more proactive and now it is too late for me to get my promotion on time. I assume it will be at least 6 months late.
- I am applying for a new job. However, the same boss failed to file a required piece of paperwork properly, so now my stomach is in knots trying to locate alternative copies.
- I am going to another doctor today for a throat inspection. I seem to keep *not* getting strep throat, but some mysterious throat infection that seems to have my doctor concerned. Which makes me concerned. Plus, I swear the still have garlic breath from the deep fried burrito.
Life is grand. I feel like I am going to snap.
On the up side, today is the daycare graduation / spring program, during which Gracie is supposed to count to ten. I’m not quite sure what this means, but I will have my camera ready.
An unpleasant whirlwind of pressure and illness and doctors and disappointments and doctors and pain meds and a million things to accomplish.
I have been crabby and a hairs breath away from crying at a moments notice. So I’m just going to type it all out, as the weekend is almost here, and try and let go.
- Grace had a fever for 3 days and was prescribed the amoxicillin that she hates, so now twice a day it is a battle to the death to shoot nasty, gritty medicine into her mouth.
- I was all ehem *bloated and moody* when I weighed in this week and was told I gained 2.2 lbs despite having eaten little more than salad and grilled chicken for 7 days. So I went home and ate a deep fried burrito.
- I finally swallowed my pride and showed my doctor a lump on my butt that was getting bigger. She said it was nothing to worry about, but was to big for her to remove and proceeded to have me show about 20 different people before I was surgically removed on Wednesday. The stitches hurt a lot more than I thought it was going to and the pain meds they gave me make me loopy.
- I was told by my boss - despite my monthly requests for him to schedule the activities I need to complete to qualify for my next promotion – the I should have been more proactive and now it is too late for me to get my promotion on time. I assume it will be at least 6 months late.
- I am applying for a new job. However, the same boss failed to file a required piece of paperwork properly, so now my stomach is in knots trying to locate alternative copies.
- I am going to another doctor today for a throat inspection. I seem to keep *not* getting strep throat, but some mysterious throat infection that seems to have my doctor concerned. Which makes me concerned. Plus, I swear the still have garlic breath from the deep fried burrito.
Life is grand. I feel like I am going to snap.
On the up side, today is the daycare graduation / spring program, during which Gracie is supposed to count to ten. I’m not quite sure what this means, but I will have my camera ready.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Open Book
A few months ago I had a background investigation review done for my job.
I’ve gone through these interview and reviews for years. They have never been more than a slight inconvenience. Until this last review.
I assume the investigator never found any issues with my past behavior as I still have my job, but she really did try to find something. She asked me the same questions over and over and over again, during interview after interview after interview. Finally I grew terse with her in a post 5 pm Friday phone call, which for me is as good as yelling.
I never did hear from her again after that call.
The one of questions she kept asking me was, “How come you don't have any friends that knew you before you moved to Maryland?”
This has stuck with me and keeps bouncing around in my head. (Obviously)
I see this as a (perceived) accusation that there is something wrong with me for not having 40 phone numbers programmed into my cell phone and a Facebook page full of people that I don’t know in real life. I kept wanting to defend myself with long explanations, but told myself that it was none of her business. Keep my answers short, she doesn’t need to know WHY I can count the people that I would call my friends on one hand.
Yet, I keep writing this post and then deleting it.
How much information is enough? How much is too much? Is it my right to air my memories of final acts in a forum that they would never be able to respond? Is it my right to air their hurt?
I don’t know. But I am writing this blog for Grace. For my family to know things about me that I might not be able to say to their face. So they can understand me better.
So here I go:
My friends, my true friends, know that I love them. I call them. I smile at them. I talk to them. I include them in my life. I have no secrets from them.
I decided long ago that this would be my mantra.
I believed that friends that drifted away weren’t really friends. I know that friends that would intentionally speak ill of me are not my friends. I have a one strike – maybe two – policy. Any hurt after that will be done to someone else.
- K was my best friend from infancy to grade school. She developed breasts early, which made her popular. I did not, which made me not cool enough for her and the other brassiere wearing legions to hang out with.
o Her final act was convincing me to talk to the most popular boy in school on the playground because he had a crush on me. She made sure everyone stopped to watch and orchestrated a wave of laughter.
- E was my best friend in junior high. She was a new girl from California and had no bias like the rest of the school that I had been with for the last 7 years. In the final weeks of 8th grade, the high school activities recruiters came around. We decided to be band geeks together and she wanted to talk to the cheer squads too. Once we were in high school the social cliques pulled us apart.
o Her final act was telling me that she had to go straight home after school on a half day instead of having lunch with me. So I went out with my dad. She was sitting in the restaurant with a group of girls who whispered when they say me. I knew E felt bad, but she said nothing. They laughed as I walked out.
- D was best friend for the next 3 years in high school. I spent the rest of my freshman year alone. I could never imagine my life without her in it. We did everything together. When I went to college we were still in contact and I gave her a list of friends for her to lean on at her University the following year. She took my advice and went on a date with B on my recommendation.
o My final act was doing nothing. She called me the next night in tears, because she needed someone to talk to. B had assaulted her. No, she didn’t want to call the police. She didn’t want anyone to know. She just needed to talk. So I talked, but I did nothing. She stopped calling me after that and part of me was grateful because I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t make it right. I had hurt her and she had every right to quit me.
- L was my best friend in college. We, again, did everything together. Maybe we did to much together because I never realized what she was doing. I knew she resented that two of her ex-boyfriends asked me on dates after breaking up with her. I always said no, and never told her. I tried to pretend like it never happened, but I knew on some level that she knew.
o Her final act was my realization of the rumors she spread about me. When Matt and I started dating seriously, I questioned him as to why he hadn’t asked me out earlier. He said L told everyone who listened that I was a slut that slept with anyone with a pulse. I asked every. single. mutual friend we had and they all told me the same story.
So that, dear investigator, is why I don’t have tons of friends.
I am cautious of who I let into my life and don’t feel the need to keep friends that don’t make me feel good about myself. I married the one person who has known me the longest and he has never let me down.
The glorious women I have in my life now are solid. You have their names and numbers. Talk to them, they know everything important that there is to know.
I’ve gone through these interview and reviews for years. They have never been more than a slight inconvenience. Until this last review.
I assume the investigator never found any issues with my past behavior as I still have my job, but she really did try to find something. She asked me the same questions over and over and over again, during interview after interview after interview. Finally I grew terse with her in a post 5 pm Friday phone call, which for me is as good as yelling.
I never did hear from her again after that call.
The one of questions she kept asking me was, “How come you don't have any friends that knew you before you moved to Maryland?”
This has stuck with me and keeps bouncing around in my head. (Obviously)
I see this as a (perceived) accusation that there is something wrong with me for not having 40 phone numbers programmed into my cell phone and a Facebook page full of people that I don’t know in real life. I kept wanting to defend myself with long explanations, but told myself that it was none of her business. Keep my answers short, she doesn’t need to know WHY I can count the people that I would call my friends on one hand.
Yet, I keep writing this post and then deleting it.
How much information is enough? How much is too much? Is it my right to air my memories of final acts in a forum that they would never be able to respond? Is it my right to air their hurt?
I don’t know. But I am writing this blog for Grace. For my family to know things about me that I might not be able to say to their face. So they can understand me better.
So here I go:
My friends, my true friends, know that I love them. I call them. I smile at them. I talk to them. I include them in my life. I have no secrets from them.
I decided long ago that this would be my mantra.
I believed that friends that drifted away weren’t really friends. I know that friends that would intentionally speak ill of me are not my friends. I have a one strike – maybe two – policy. Any hurt after that will be done to someone else.
- K was my best friend from infancy to grade school. She developed breasts early, which made her popular. I did not, which made me not cool enough for her and the other brassiere wearing legions to hang out with.
o Her final act was convincing me to talk to the most popular boy in school on the playground because he had a crush on me. She made sure everyone stopped to watch and orchestrated a wave of laughter.
- E was my best friend in junior high. She was a new girl from California and had no bias like the rest of the school that I had been with for the last 7 years. In the final weeks of 8th grade, the high school activities recruiters came around. We decided to be band geeks together and she wanted to talk to the cheer squads too. Once we were in high school the social cliques pulled us apart.
o Her final act was telling me that she had to go straight home after school on a half day instead of having lunch with me. So I went out with my dad. She was sitting in the restaurant with a group of girls who whispered when they say me. I knew E felt bad, but she said nothing. They laughed as I walked out.
- D was best friend for the next 3 years in high school. I spent the rest of my freshman year alone. I could never imagine my life without her in it. We did everything together. When I went to college we were still in contact and I gave her a list of friends for her to lean on at her University the following year. She took my advice and went on a date with B on my recommendation.
o My final act was doing nothing. She called me the next night in tears, because she needed someone to talk to. B had assaulted her. No, she didn’t want to call the police. She didn’t want anyone to know. She just needed to talk. So I talked, but I did nothing. She stopped calling me after that and part of me was grateful because I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t make it right. I had hurt her and she had every right to quit me.
- L was my best friend in college. We, again, did everything together. Maybe we did to much together because I never realized what she was doing. I knew she resented that two of her ex-boyfriends asked me on dates after breaking up with her. I always said no, and never told her. I tried to pretend like it never happened, but I knew on some level that she knew.
o Her final act was my realization of the rumors she spread about me. When Matt and I started dating seriously, I questioned him as to why he hadn’t asked me out earlier. He said L told everyone who listened that I was a slut that slept with anyone with a pulse. I asked every. single. mutual friend we had and they all told me the same story.
So that, dear investigator, is why I don’t have tons of friends.
I am cautious of who I let into my life and don’t feel the need to keep friends that don’t make me feel good about myself. I married the one person who has known me the longest and he has never let me down.
The glorious women I have in my life now are solid. You have their names and numbers. Talk to them, they know everything important that there is to know.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Skin Deep
A colleague called me beautiful today. OK, I exaggerate slightly, she said the color of my hair was beautiful. Still, she used the word beautiful.
I've been thinking about beauty on and off today. Matt tells me that I'm beautiful all the time, but I guess you become slightly immune to your husband saying it. While I know he means every syllable of the word, the cynic in me doubts them.
Why is it, as women, we seem to be programed to look for flaws, picking away at our own warped body perceptions and dismiss contrary declarations as obligation?
Today, I also WANTED to tell someone they were beautiful.
I held back.
I thought / knew that marching up to someone I had just meet 30 seconds earlier in a workplace environment and declaring their beauty would be poorly received. But lord she was beautiful. She had the most exotic, striking face I've ever seen. And I'm sure she looks in the mirror and picks herself apart for it.
When I was about 7 months pregnant with Grace, I was stopped by a stranger outside of the hospital I went to for checkups. As she neared me, I she made direct eye contact with me and smiled. I just have to tell you, she said, you look so beautiful.
I was shocked. I blinked and said thank you. She kept walking in her direction and I in mine.
That comment got me through the next two months with my head held high. Today's comment will get me through the next few months with my head held high again.
I keep thinking about this though. If I don't believe in myself, if I don't think I'm beautiful, what kind of a role model will I be for Grace? If I don't take a compliment from Matt without a sarcastic grunt, why should Grace believe me when I say it to her in the coming years?
So I will start saying it out loud. To myself and others. I believe in karma and I am going to pay this one forward.
For myself.
For others who need to hear it.
For Grace, so she is never surprised to hear the words You Are Beautiful. So she isn't shocked by them. So she believes them.
I've been thinking about beauty on and off today. Matt tells me that I'm beautiful all the time, but I guess you become slightly immune to your husband saying it. While I know he means every syllable of the word, the cynic in me doubts them.
Why is it, as women, we seem to be programed to look for flaws, picking away at our own warped body perceptions and dismiss contrary declarations as obligation?
Today, I also WANTED to tell someone they were beautiful.
I held back.
I thought / knew that marching up to someone I had just meet 30 seconds earlier in a workplace environment and declaring their beauty would be poorly received. But lord she was beautiful. She had the most exotic, striking face I've ever seen. And I'm sure she looks in the mirror and picks herself apart for it.
When I was about 7 months pregnant with Grace, I was stopped by a stranger outside of the hospital I went to for checkups. As she neared me, I she made direct eye contact with me and smiled. I just have to tell you, she said, you look so beautiful.
I was shocked. I blinked and said thank you. She kept walking in her direction and I in mine.
That comment got me through the next two months with my head held high. Today's comment will get me through the next few months with my head held high again.
I keep thinking about this though. If I don't believe in myself, if I don't think I'm beautiful, what kind of a role model will I be for Grace? If I don't take a compliment from Matt without a sarcastic grunt, why should Grace believe me when I say it to her in the coming years?
So I will start saying it out loud. To myself and others. I believe in karma and I am going to pay this one forward.
For myself.
For others who need to hear it.
For Grace, so she is never surprised to hear the words You Are Beautiful. So she isn't shocked by them. So she believes them.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mother's Day 2.0
Babies OBVIOUSLY don't get the point of Mother's Day.
Maybe it's just me, but I kind of come at it like birthdays and Valentine's Day. If you don't expect anything, it's a nice surprise when you get something. (Yeah, I know. There is a lot of childhood trauma wrapped up in that statement.)
Anyway...
It is now 8:03 PM. I wondered today - out loud - why we ever wanted children. Until approximately 6:45 pm tonight. Grace is just shy of 19 months old. She doesn't know today from any other day in the year, except for the fact that Daddy made the pancakes this morning. (Which I swear she did raise an eyebrow to - as in Hey, what are you doing to my pancakes? :)
Grace was a basket case today. We are chalking it up to an ear infection - she's been tugging on her ears for days. Then, as always, 5 pm on Friday hits and she started running a temperature. Still, she was horrible today.
Today consisted of:
Crying for no reason.
Begging to be picked up and then insisting upon being put back down. Then demanding to be picked up again.
Refusing to have a diaper change and then rolling around and smearing the poo everywhere as soon as said diaper was unfastened.
Not wanting milk and then screaming when you put it back in the fridge.
Similarly, screaming for food and then feeding it to the dog when presented.
It was a brilliant day.
Then we opened a bottle of wine and for whatever reason, it suddenly got better. I did feel sad, knowing in the moment of the wine cork pop, that I would not be calling a fellow Mama for post-dinner drinks tonight, but c'est la vie. The wine turned all of our moods around. That was worth the sacrafice.
Suddenly Grace was gigging. Sure it was because Matt was punting her Pedipeds over her like in make shift football form, but so what.
She was happy. I was happy. WE WERE HAPPY.
Now tonight, Mother's Day 2.0 is closing with a bang. I will suck down the rest of my wine, and drift off to dreams of a teenager who tells me "I love you mom. What can I do to make this day better for you?"
I know it is a dream, but it is my wine and my dream - so I can do with it as I wish.
Maybe it's just me, but I kind of come at it like birthdays and Valentine's Day. If you don't expect anything, it's a nice surprise when you get something. (Yeah, I know. There is a lot of childhood trauma wrapped up in that statement.)
Anyway...
It is now 8:03 PM. I wondered today - out loud - why we ever wanted children. Until approximately 6:45 pm tonight. Grace is just shy of 19 months old. She doesn't know today from any other day in the year, except for the fact that Daddy made the pancakes this morning. (Which I swear she did raise an eyebrow to - as in Hey, what are you doing to my pancakes? :)
Grace was a basket case today. We are chalking it up to an ear infection - she's been tugging on her ears for days. Then, as always, 5 pm on Friday hits and she started running a temperature. Still, she was horrible today.
Today consisted of:
Crying for no reason.
Begging to be picked up and then insisting upon being put back down. Then demanding to be picked up again.
Refusing to have a diaper change and then rolling around and smearing the poo everywhere as soon as said diaper was unfastened.
Not wanting milk and then screaming when you put it back in the fridge.
Similarly, screaming for food and then feeding it to the dog when presented.
It was a brilliant day.
Then we opened a bottle of wine and for whatever reason, it suddenly got better. I did feel sad, knowing in the moment of the wine cork pop, that I would not be calling a fellow Mama for post-dinner drinks tonight, but c'est la vie. The wine turned all of our moods around. That was worth the sacrafice.
Suddenly Grace was gigging. Sure it was because Matt was punting her Pedipeds over her like in make shift football form, but so what.
She was happy. I was happy. WE WERE HAPPY.
Now tonight, Mother's Day 2.0 is closing with a bang. I will suck down the rest of my wine, and drift off to dreams of a teenager who tells me "I love you mom. What can I do to make this day better for you?"
I know it is a dream, but it is my wine and my dream - so I can do with it as I wish.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Here. Now.
The world of Mommy Bloggers is so sad right now.
I don’t know these people. I read their lives anonymously via the Internet, just as I suspect one or two people may read mine. I lurk around and read their stories – good times and bad – and feel more complete and justified with my life.
The choices I make. The choices I don’t make. The problems I just ignore and put back on the shelf until I feel like I can deal with them again.
To read these stories in a circumspect way makes me not feel so alone in the joy and woe of being a parent. It makes me feel connected to them and to this web-based world.
Then night fell on what I thought was a huge, monstrous web of people, and I am realizing how small and close knit Mommy Bloggers really are, which I suppose is part of the success of it.
I don’t know Maddie. I don’t know her family. To be honest, I had never read The Sphors are Multiplying. But all of a sudden the world went purple. People that I had never connected to in the world of Mommy Blogging all turned their Twitter avatars purple to show their sorrow over the loss of Maddie.
My favorite bloggers all wrote soul crushing posts about her loss. Their own loss.
And I cried.
Then another blogger lost their son.
Now another blogger, one that I adore, has a child in the hospital.
So I cried.
Parent’s don’t want to think about the death as it applies to children, especially their own children. It shakes me to my core to even fathom the idea, so I push it from my head.
And I cried.
I know there is a chance I will have to face challenges with Grace. I pray constantly that I won’t have to teach her about carbs, how to give shots, how to check her blood sugar.
But those challenges would be embraced with open arms over not have the opportunity to teach her anything ever again.
I don’t know these people. I read their lives anonymously via the Internet, just as I suspect one or two people may read mine. I lurk around and read their stories – good times and bad – and feel more complete and justified with my life.
The choices I make. The choices I don’t make. The problems I just ignore and put back on the shelf until I feel like I can deal with them again.
To read these stories in a circumspect way makes me not feel so alone in the joy and woe of being a parent. It makes me feel connected to them and to this web-based world.
Then night fell on what I thought was a huge, monstrous web of people, and I am realizing how small and close knit Mommy Bloggers really are, which I suppose is part of the success of it.
I don’t know Maddie. I don’t know her family. To be honest, I had never read The Sphors are Multiplying. But all of a sudden the world went purple. People that I had never connected to in the world of Mommy Blogging all turned their Twitter avatars purple to show their sorrow over the loss of Maddie.
My favorite bloggers all wrote soul crushing posts about her loss. Their own loss.
And I cried.
Then another blogger lost their son.
Now another blogger, one that I adore, has a child in the hospital.
So I cried.
Parent’s don’t want to think about the death as it applies to children, especially their own children. It shakes me to my core to even fathom the idea, so I push it from my head.
And I cried.
I know there is a chance I will have to face challenges with Grace. I pray constantly that I won’t have to teach her about carbs, how to give shots, how to check her blood sugar.
But those challenges would be embraced with open arms over not have the opportunity to teach her anything ever again.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The Crazies
Tonight was eventful. It was dramatic. Not the good kind of drama though. There are no awards to be given out. Well, maybe I'll nominate myself for Most Ridiculous.
1) We just had our 1st Wii (yeah, we bought one- more to come on that) related fight. Stupid, huh? I know. I was upset. I am really hormonal right now, which is what I am blaming all of my other frustrations on.
2) I went to the doctor today and found out I have a cyst that needs to be cut off. I am only typing this out loud because I don't think anyone (outside of a few friends that I would tell anyway) read this blog.
It's not a big deal. It is in a place that rarely sees daylight so it is something that I've been ignoring for years, but finally sucked it up and had it poked at yesterday.
You know when the Dr.'s response is "Oh my!" it is never a good thing. She said she has no doubt that is benign though, so there is no worries.
Just outpatient hacking into my flesh and a referral to a surgical team that seem to all speak some Middle-Eastern dialect. I am freaked out.
3) Given #1 & #2, I am drinking. Box wine. That is our reaction to the economic downturn. And I'm shopping a lot less during lunch breaks. Sad isn't it?
OK, so I've typed a 1,2 & 3, and am realizing that that is all I have. Thank you NES, blogging really is a form of therapy. #1 is because of #2 and is instigated by #3. I feel better already.
1) We just had our 1st Wii (yeah, we bought one- more to come on that) related fight. Stupid, huh? I know. I was upset. I am really hormonal right now, which is what I am blaming all of my other frustrations on.
2) I went to the doctor today and found out I have a cyst that needs to be cut off. I am only typing this out loud because I don't think anyone (outside of a few friends that I would tell anyway) read this blog.
It's not a big deal. It is in a place that rarely sees daylight so it is something that I've been ignoring for years, but finally sucked it up and had it poked at yesterday.
You know when the Dr.'s response is "Oh my!" it is never a good thing. She said she has no doubt that is benign though, so there is no worries.
Just outpatient hacking into my flesh and a referral to a surgical team that seem to all speak some Middle-Eastern dialect. I am freaked out.
3) Given #1 & #2, I am drinking. Box wine. That is our reaction to the economic downturn. And I'm shopping a lot less during lunch breaks. Sad isn't it?
OK, so I've typed a 1,2 & 3, and am realizing that that is all I have. Thank you NES, blogging really is a form of therapy. #1 is because of #2 and is instigated by #3. I feel better already.
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