Vacation
I didn’t mean to disappear for a week, but we were on two back to back awaycations, which were … well, they were fun, but you know how I’ve always maintained that nothing about having a baby is as bad as everyone tells you it is? There is one exception to that rule: travel. Travel is as bad, if not worse, as everyone says it is. Actually, now that I’ve written it down, it IS worse. It is. WORRRRRRSE. Please heed my advice. Do not travel in the first three months or so, unless … well, honestly, I can’t even think of an exception here.
The disruption in routine! The total lack of relaxation! The fact that you might as well be at home, because you’re pretty much doing the EXACT SAME THING that you’d be doing at your OWN HOUSE, except with your OWN STUFF, where it is MUCH EASIER. GRAAAAAAAH.
And the stuff. OMFG the stuff. You guys, the STUFF. THE STUFF YOU HAVE TO BRING. It’s like … it’s like … God, I don’t even know. It’s ridiculous, is what it is, and I stepped outside of myself for like, five seconds, in the hotel on Wednesday to see me as I must have appeared to others, and it was not good. Frazzled, hair all sweaty and ooky, pushing a crying, be-snotted baby in a stroller with a co-sleeping wedge balanced precariously on top of it all, while dragging a suitcase crookedly behind me. My shirt was untucked, my stretch-marked belly was half-exposed and all that was missing was a leaky boob, and only because I remembered a damn breast pad. Seriously. The Cool Train passed me by so long ago, I don’t even know if I could catch it with a jet pack.
The difference, at least in our first trip, is that we were with family and that — THAT — is what makes it worth it. Other people to talk to! Other people for Sam to stare at! Other people to wear her ass OUT.
Life after baby is never boring, except when it is. Which is every day.
Onward! Sam met her Gramps — Adam’s dad — for the first time during our second trip, and would you believe, no, really, WOULD YOU BELIEVE, that he gave her a giant pink pony? I mean, what the hell. This thing is … it’s … it’s giant, is all I can say. And pink. The only thing missing is a a giant sign that reads “PRINCESS” on the side of it.
Speaking of, I’m really struggling to find cute, reasonably priced clothes for Sam that aren’t a) pink; b) ruffled; or c) made by Dov Charney, who probably jerked off into the bolt of fabric used for the infant kimono pants before sending it to production. I have ordered a few from Basic Brilliance, but beyond that, we got nothin’. Surely I can’t be the ONLY mother who doesn’t want her daughter dressed like a cupcake and doesn’t care if she’s mistaken for a boy at this age? Right? And WHY WHY WHY do we have to make every girl so … GIRLY?
Obviously I could go on with some sort of totally lame-but-accurate societal observation here, but you’d all be asleep, and besides, I think you get it. I mean, her name is SAM for crying out loud. And that was DELIBERATE.
And finally, bits of randomness that have no relation whatsoever:
- We’re in that awful TV time where NOTHING GOOD IS ON. NOTHING. TrueBlood and other summer goodies aren’t for a few more days/weeks, and I’m left with Make Me a Supermodel and the Housewives. Incidentally, I’m Team Jonathan all the way on the former. I mean, he’s a DAD! And British! And … Sandhurst has funny teeth.
- The one good thing about parenthood I’ve discovered is that just when you are at your lowest — your weepiest, most miserable LOW OF LOWS and you can’t possibly go on ONE MORE SECOND, NO REALLY — things turn around. And then they turn around again, and you’re low again. Sundry summed it up here, but it’s so true. I was all hand-wringy and weepy yesterday about something (Sam’s sleep. In the co-sleeper. Why yes, we’ve spent thousands on sleep solutions and can now house six sleeping babies comfortably), and then of COURSE OF COURSE, she slept fine in it for four whole hours. OF COURSE. Nothing lasts forever. Or even five minutes. It’s like a never-ending ACID TRIP.
- Have I mentioned how much I hate Dave Eggers and his smuggy smugness that is so smug I want to knock his smug ass out? Well, I do. I hate the whole hipster generation he fosters, and … well, that’s enough. History has shown that when I write about someone, they find me, and the next thing you know, Vendela Vida will be at my door with a pitchfork. Did I ever tell you guys that like, five minutes after I wrote a SCATHING review on Goodreads about Chris Bohjalian, I learned that he lives like, TEN WHOLE MINUTES FROM ME? I envisioned him showing up at my door for weeks, I don’t know why.
- My parents arrive tomorrow. This is, officially, the busiest we’ve been in ages. IT NEVER ENDS OMG.
Happy Tuesday!
*The Go-Go’s. And God, NOT A VACATION.
46 comments June 1st, 2009