Archive for May, 2010
We’ve all got a low-grade sicky-snotty thing and this is probably a terrible thing to say, but I am generally pretty laid back about snotty noses and colds in Sam. Hell, she’s a little kid, and she’s building her immune system, so short of carting her around in a bubble, I figure she’s going to get sick often enough, so we might as well get it over with, amiright? It’s just not worth it otherwise, and this, too, shall pass. (Provided it’s not puke. I do not do well with puke.)
However, I am, shall we say, LESS THAN THRILLED when the sickness leaches to the rest of us, and I find myself lying supine on the couch, a puddle of drool under my mouth as my face is smashed up against the arm, praying, just PRAYING, for my kid to entertain herself for five whole minutes so that I can stay immobile for as long as possible. Adam and I BOTH got it this time, so it’s not even like one of us can play the sick card, so dealing with Sam was a bit like a game of chicken today. YOU take her. No, YOU. I INSIST.
We had old friends over for dinner this weekend — one half of the couple is my closest friend from college, and is credited with introducing Adam and me — and it was lovely to see them, as I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed them until I was with them again. That’s what’s been strangest, I think, about being back here — I have a long history here, with friends from all over the place, and former coworkers, and dude, I KEEP RUNNING INTO PEOPLE and it’s WEIRD. At the grocery store! The hair salon! (That was nice, when I thought my friend Deb was my new hairdresser, and she was all, “Um, Jonna? I’m not cutting your hair. IT’S ME. DEB. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”)
Five years of living places where you have no history and you NEVER see people you know will do that to you. It’s weird and a little unnerving, because going to the grocery store in yoga pants and no makeup can take a turn for the reunion over the cheese case with someone you haven’t seen in ten years. It’s even weirder, because MetroWest is not a small place. I mean, it encompasses nine or ten towns and almost 200,000 people, and yet, EVERY DAY, oh look, someone I know! Oh, dear.
Anyway, our dinner companions do not yet have children, and the conversation inevitably turned to when the right time is to have kids, and all that rot, and you know what? I really sucked at selling it. I was kind of alarmed to look back on the conversation with the realization that, to a certain degree, I sounded like every other totally obnoxious parent trying to answer the questions of the kidless about How It Is. I mean, I wasn’t condescending or anything truly egregious, but to say I undersold the experience is probably a vast understatement. I complained about the usual — the sleepless nights, the lack of travel ease, the three to five months of screaming and I think I even threw in a nice line or two about how newborns truly suck.
You give up a lot when you have a child, it’s true. But what I completely failed to focus on is what you get in return, and how none of that ever — at least for me — makes a lick of sense until the child is yours, and every little thing is effing MAGICAL. Our friends were discussing how most people have advised them to travel — to get in some truly selfish, glorious trips in before their lives become infinitely more complicated and heading off to Rome on a moment’s notice is a virtual impossibility. I answered by sort of rolling my eyes and saying yes, dude, YES, traveling with a kid is nothing like it used to be, as we have to get a suite and flying sucks and ugh ugh ugh.
And yes, that’s true. But what is also true is that honestly, one of the things I’m looking forward to most is taking Sam to see the world. Yes, my days of luxuriating on the beach with a good book and a fruity drink are long gone (or at least on hold), but in exchange, I’m going to get to show Sam some of my favorite things, and find out what hers are. Yes, I don’t get nearly as much sleep as I used to, but none of that compares to how stupidly, laughably proud I felt when Sam learned to sing “Ooh-Ah! Ooh-Ah!” along with Laurie Berkner’s “Walk Along the River.” Yes, I spent the day in a virtual faceplant, too exhausted to want to deal with a kid who was antsy and desperate to get out of the house, but when I finally loaded her into the car seat and opened the passenger window, she threw her arms in the air like she was on a rollercoaster and giggled like a fool while the breeze blew her curls around.
We don’t get out much. We’re working on finding a local sitter, and yes, of course, we’re looking forward to date nights and dinners out without her and the occasional movie. All things I totally enjoyed and took for granted when I was childless. But I do not, and I mean this, resent that those days are gone, or even miss them that much. For one, I’m usually too damn tired by the end of the day, and besides, Adam and I have learned to make time for each other after Sam’s asleep, and alternating who gets to go out and for what. And my marriage? Is even better since we had Sam. It really is.
And again, my God, I got so much in exchange. A kid who thinks the (cleaned, I swear) perianal squeeze bottle I got in the hospital is the greatest bath toy ever. Geezuz, you’d think she discovered WATER the way she carries on with that thing, squirting herself, me and anyone who dares enter the bathroom. It’s the most thrilling thing EVER, that squeeze bottle, and my heart breaks a little from joy every time she waves her arms in anticipation of playing in the tub.
The kid can spot a picture of a dog from a mile away. And a real dog? Brace yourself for some serious excitement. The full-body wiggling! The pointing! The cries of “GEE GEE GEEEEEE! DOGGEEEEE!” Sorry, but that shit is unparalleled. I don’t know that I’ve seen anyone that excited about anything, ever. Seriously. Sometimes I can’t even find the dog she’s so jazzed about, and I have to scan the room, only to find the ONE greeting card on a display ten feet away that has the face of a dalmation on the front.
And the Frankensteining around! Toddling side-to-side, totally unstable, but fearlessly plunging ahead anyway. Oh, man. It can’t be beat. It just can’t. I love this kid so much, and seeing her grow up is something I wouldn’t trade for a million years of travel on an unlimited budget. I wouldn’t give up a second of this for anything in the world, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing.
This is all sounding very trite and lame, right? Of course it is. And I think that’s why I resort to complaining about the hard stuff. Because it’s easier to sound like the snarkier cliche than the glowy brainwashed one who goes on and on for a solid five minutes about how amazing it is that my kid — the one who didn’t sleep for more than two hours in a row the first ten months of her life — now snuggles into bed with Mr. Mouse and waves night-night to me before settling down FOR THE WHOLE NIGHT. UNTIL LIKE, SEVEN AM.
There’s no way to explain it. None at all. But if you’re thinking about it, want to do it, and just aren’t sure if it’s the right time, because you have all these things you want to do? Eh. Screw ’em. Just do it. You won’t regret it. You’ll still be you. But it doesn’t make a difference what I say, because you have to find out for yourself. That’s the truth.
Happy Tuesday! I hope you had a great holiday weekend.
May 31st, 2010
Well, WELCOME. Am I talking about diapers again? Oh yes, I am. Only this time, by way of disclaimer, I will explain that I am being compensated to talk about diapers, thanks to our friends at Huggies. And I know! I KNOW! I never do this kind of thing– and it’s true, I don’t, and if I were you, I wouldn’t look for it to happen very often. But, as many (most?) of you know, I had recent Unfortunate Diaper Issue and as a result, have done WAY TOO MUCH THINKING about diapers. Like, a lot. I tried every single diaper out there; I tried every different possible fit. I diapered at different times! With different creams! I diapered my face off! I examined my daughter’s butt from multiple angles! I sniffed her diaper before she so much as PEED in it to make sure it didn’t smell like chemicals!
And then Huggies, smartypants people that they are, noticed, and asked that I write about diapering and diapering-related issues, for them. Smart, see? And because *I* am smart and — genuinely, swear to God, I wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t true — got through my daughter’s infancy because of Huggies Overnites, I said yes! Why yes, of course!
But, and this is the truth, I like (and use) Huggies Little Movers diapers quite a bit, and they’re not even making me say that part, I promise. Especially for those who are looking for an alternative for a diaper they may no longer be happy with, they are honestly the best thing that I found — they don’t sag weirdly in the crotch, the padding goes all the way up the back to the waistline (almost NO diapers have this, and it’s really good for girls who pee a lot) and they don’t stink like chemicals (they’re unscented! Hallefreakinlujah!). This should be common sense for every diaper, but let’s be honest: it isn’t. The point is, I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t a natural fit (first diaper pun! drink!) and something I’d say anyway. Really. I turn down this stuff all the time! DAILY.
Are we ready to talk about diapers and diapering and all that, um, crap? (Second diaper pun! How original!) Because I can go on all day about this. And after fifteen months of this — after a crazy amount of diapering and pooping and peeing and other waste-related ridiculousness — I still have no idea what I’m doing in this area.
Specifically, two things are happening, and this seems as good a place as any to start:
1) I have no idea if I’m getting my kid in the right size diaper. None. I hear conflicting reports of where a diaper is supposed to fit. Is it with the front above the belly button? Just under? None of the above? Any lower than the bellybutton, and stuff blows up the back. And yet, if I get it too big (and this is EVERY brand, so it’s not a fit thing), I contend with out-the-leg issues. It’s like this crazy perfect-balance thing, and right now we have Sam in a size five. FIVE. She’s 15 months and has been a five for like, THREE MONTHS NOW. She’s tall. Honestly, it’s working pretty well for us, so I don’t know what else to say there. But for some reason, people think this is like, CRAZY HUGE. Is it? Am I Doing It Wrong? Would things be THAT MUCH BETTER if I switched to a smaller diaper? She’s 32 inches and 25 poundsish. I think. (I THINK.)
2) Dog. The dog. The dog and diapers, THE DOG AND THE DIAPERS. I know! I should use a Diaper Champ or something, I KNOW. But the thing is I never remember, and we take out the garbage every day anyway, so it’s not like my house smells (um, I don’t think?). Plus, I’ve got this mobile kid and I’m lucky if I remember to take off the old diaper and put on a new one before she’s off like a shot and demanding something, or worse, sticking her head in the toilet, and before I know it, I’ve walked away for FOUR WHOLE SECONDS and the dog is missing and she’s eating the diaper under the guest bed, and I’m trying not to throw up.
I don’t even think this is something you can help me with, because frankly, it’s my fault. I know it, everyone knows it. Even the dog knows it, which is why she keeps going for it. SHE WINS! Every time!
The only consolation I have is that we don’t have a cat. I think prying cat feces out of my dog’s mouth would be worse than my kid’s poop, which, let’s be honest, I end up wearing half the time anyway. Which reminds me, OH YES, recently we had an issue (thanks, prunes!), wherein we both had to change our clothes. BOTH OF US. GARGHTKETHIETH. No one’s ready for that, no matter how experienced you are at this parenting thing. And there’s also the fact that the dog likes to eat maxi pads, so guess who can’t leave ANYTHING in the bathroom trash? THIS GIRL.
So! Welcome to the corner of the internet where you can talk freely about your kid’s poop and their diapers. I won’t judge!
May 30th, 2010
So! Facebook. Is it not the worst thing to hit the internet? Am I not at the cutting edge of internet wisdom with that statement? God. The flame wars! The crazy political posts! The parents who post pictures of their children’s poop and worse, photos of their children on the toilet whilst potty training! UNSEE UNSEE UNSEE. And, just yesterday, some TOTALLY CRAZYPANTS comments from a woman (an adult who, as far as I know, is not special needs in any way) I know only tangentially, but am mysteriously friends with on Facebook involving … the death of her goldfish.
This woman, oh my lands, people, described how she “knew true love” because of this goldfish (named, appropriately, Girlfishi) and how an unfortunate Sophie’s Choice-like scenario (YES, REALLY, SHE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS), left her having to move the goldfish from one apartment to another, causing Girlfishi horrible trauma and leading to her untimely death. She then left an indecipherable rant as her status about how some people aren’t properly respecting her mourning and how she’s learned who her real friends are by how they respond to the death of her, ahem, GOLDFISH, and how Girlfishi was a special fish and she is beyond heartbroken and … well, folks, I’ve got nothing here.
Wait, that’s not true, because I think I’ve got a solid OH COME ON, LADY, in there somewhere. Also, I think what freaked me out more was all the commenters who leaped to her defense on the mourning post with how deeply sorry they were for her loss and how losing a pet IS like losing a child, yes, yes, it is, and all I keep thinking is, SERIOUSLY, A GOLDFISH. I mean, for some people losing a pet is like losing a child, yes, and I can go with it to a point, but no, I’m sorry, you can’t compare your goldfish to my kid. It just won’t work.
No disrespect to goldfish everywhere.
In other news, and this is going to sound very spoiled, and believe me, I know, I KNOW! I was totally spoiled, I KNOW!, but we used to live two minutes away from Adam’s office — for Sam’s whole life — and then (THEN!) we had two glorious months while Adam was between jobs, and honestly, I got used to having him around. He was home for dinner every night, save for the days when he traveled, because even if he had to work late, he came home to eat before heading back in. And in those two months, he was home every day. Every day! And now he’s got a commute, and working late and missing Sam in the evenings and it’s … it’s very sad. We miss him, although I also know that he’s enjoying what he’s doing. (He likes to work. He always has.)
It is also turning me into a bit of a crazy housewife, and I’m not proud of it. The combination of moving, (my) work deadlines, instant houseguests and suddenly being home alone for 14 hours a day has left me feeling completely overwhelmed with the status of how MESSY everything is and how! much! there is to be done and some nights he gets home and I’m standing there with my hand on my hip all but SCREECHING about all the shit that has to be done! And it’s GARBAGE NIGHT and while yes, I realize you just walked in the door, WE HAVE A LOT OF GARBAGE. HOP TO IT. I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY DAY IS LIKE AROUND HERE?
My face is all contorted and wrinkled in disgust just reading that, but there you have it. Last night I poured a rare glass of wine (booze used to be a lot more fun; now it just makes me want to go to sleep IMMEDIATELY after the first sip), plopped myself in front of Glee and told myself to get over it, because really, Jonna, REALLY. The next thing you know I’m going to be getting myself into a state over ring around the collar and dishpan hands! How WILL we ever go on?
Speaking of Glee, can I admit to you all what happens when Jesse St. James appears on the screen? My heart beats faster. No exaggeration. Gross, right? Gross. I’m THIRTY FOUR YEARS OLD. And also? Just now I found myself lost in a comment thread of teenagers who really believe Jesse is a real person, and they’re fighting about it. Like, seriously fighting about it. I witnessed apologies to the group and some kind of crazy statement about how they probably HURT JESSE’S FEELINGS and sorry, Jesse! I LUV U. And they were serious. Yes, very serious.
I don’t see me and my quickening heartbeat too much above that, to be honest. I mean, a) it’s a fictional character, eclipsed only by the crush I had on Fred from Scooby Doo. Yes, a CARTOON; b) the kid is like, 22 in real life, IF THAT; c) HE IS ALSO GAY, not that it matters, because let’s be honest, an unavailable cougar with a kid is hardly his ideal mate, even if he were straight as an arrow.
How many times am I going to talk about this? MANY, IT SEEMS. Well, I would, if the season wasn’t ending. Boy, you’re all glad about that. I’m one step away from talking about how a goldfish taught me love.
Speaking of seasons ending, I still haven’t seen the Lost finale. I KNOW.
Happy weekend! Ooh! Memorial Day!
*Madonna. And also, um, Jesse St. James in the Very Special Madonna Episode. What?
May 27th, 2010
Holla! Just FYI, I’ve started a (paid) column/bit on diapering for our friends at the diaper company that rhymes with “Ruggies.” The first post is up, and you can read it here.
May 26th, 2010
Aw, hell, you guys, I am really going to spend all of our money if I keep this up. I *am* like the Beverly Hillbillies up in here, because today was positively ENTRANCED by a Staples. A fucking STAPLES. I was perusing the aisles like some kind of caveman, marveling at all the fancy office supplies. I must have spent ten minutes in the highlighter section alone, and frankly, I have always found highlighters to be irritating and sort of stupid, not to mention blinding. I don’t LIKE highlighters, but I suddenly had the urge to buy every highlighter they made! I need to highlight important clauses on my freelance contracts before I send them back! I need to highlight my bank statements! Credit card bills! In hundreds of beautiful shades! OOH LOOK, CHARTREUSE.
I have this uncontrollable reaction when I’m near any kind of retail –like I have to gobble it all up instantly, planning not just for right now, but for a future that may not include access to fancy filing folders with flowers on them in case I want to pretty up my tax filing for 2010. I’m like the college kid who grew up in a strict household who’s suddenly like, HEY! BEER. Let me drink it all — every last beer in sight — TONIGHT.
I feel kind of barfy and purgey, as if such a thing was possible when referring to material goods. Except that I swear — swear! — we need most of this stuff. Because, if you recall, I have a husband who refuses to move mashed potatoes, much less something like extra Swiffer pads or sponges or anything useful. And besides, I needed new shirts! And Sam only had Robeez and oh, look! Cute sandals!
Erm. You see? You see where this is going? You see why although I saved money by purchasing a dress for $20, I then proceeded to accessorize it with more than $100 of add-ons? I might as well just have bought the $150 dress to begin with. Sick. I’m sick. Help me.
(Mom and Dad, please don’t worry, I’m really not going to spend Sam’s college fund on sparkly earrings from Target, I swear.)
The other issue I’m running into — will always run into, I fear — is road rage. I have it. Not the kind that makes people run random drivers off the road to beat the bag out of them for an erroneous directional or anything, but if you cut me off or fail to use a courtesy wave or–or!–have your turn signal on and are not turning or vice versa? I wave my arms and yell. I can’t help it. And people, they are AWFUL THINGS I’m yelling, and I’m amazed at how quickly I can come up with them, as though they are so ingrained in some dark, hidden corner of my twisty little mind. Douchenozzle! Taint face! (Oh, I know PRECISELY where I got that one, thanks to my friend Anna, and her douchey commenter!) Terribly, awfully offensive iterations of fuck!
But still! No one should be able to conjure–much less actually USE–those terms while driving in a motor vehicle with their impressionable toddler in the backseat.
Do you think … do you think when Sam is saying “shoosh!” for juice that she is actually saying … douche? OH M’LANDS.
Although really, that will be the last thing we need to worry about, as Adam quite accurately points out that someone might shoot me. I saw a BULLET HOLE in a car the other day, and in Vermont, when you saw a bullet hole, you knew it was because it was they just MISSED THE DEER.
Anyway, I know this is lame–getting back on the writing horse is HARD–but look, allow me to go on about my kid for a minute, if I may. She is, in a word, amazing. I know she’s just like most other kids, and that all moms feel this way, I know. I know this. But the progression of watching a little blob turn into a person? I never, ever expected it to be so cool. I never thought I’d have this much fun. She’s Frankensteining around like a little drunkard, and if I pay close enough attention, I can actually decipher what she wants. It’s INSANE.
It’s the most fun I’ve ever had. True story. I can’t believe I waited so long. I wonder … will I feel the same about the second? Because that doesn’t seem POSSIBLE. It seems like two would kind of SUCK and yet I want two–at least two. AND YET AND YET.
*Queen. And others. Also? FROM MYSELF.
May 25th, 2010
Well! That’s over. We had a family wedding this weekend, with houseguests, and have I ever mentioned that I love houseguests? I do. It’s a very strange thing, apparently, but a houseful of people always makes me feel warm and fuzzy and weirdly safe, like we can’t be broken into or murdered or anything strange, because there are so! many! people! Who could get away with such a thing? We have four-ish bedrooms and every last one of them was occupied by someone who would doubtless scream if intruded upon. Safety!
Plus, you know, I enjoy their company. That’s true, too. But once houseguests leave, there is the cleaning. Oh, the cleaning. Everything has three times as much dirt on it as before, because there were three more people involved and now there are toilets and laundry and maybe even bears, oh my!
It was a relatively uneventful family wedding–beautiful, loving and all that jazz. Two nights prior, however, my kid lost her shit at a family dinner in a janky-but-delicious Chinese restaurant (South Pacific in Newton, for those playing along at home–they have an original tiki room and serve scorpion bowls), and for the FRILLIONTH time, discovered that my kid bawls like a maniac whenever she’s confronted with an old(er) lady, this time being her great-aunt. There’s a juvenile prejudice that’s fun to explain! Hi! My kid hates old ladies! Yes, I’m sure YOU are lovely, but you are very clearly OLD and old ladies freak her out! So please, no no, don’t say hi to her, thanks. At all. It freaks her out. Yes, even you. YES, YOU, OLD LADY. YOU TOO.
Nice, right? Nice. My kid’s an ageist little pooper.
I am also really unclear why a restaurant, upon seeing a TABLEFUL of kids under the age of four, would refuse to deviate from their plan of offering their pu pu platters with towering flames in the center, but then again, some things defy logic, am I right? Here, kids! Let’s practice lighting our eyebrows on fire!
Anyway. Let us now discuss stink bugs. Do you guys KNOW what stink bugs are? HA HA. They look like this. (LINK TERRIFYING! WARNING!) And did you know those em effers can FLY? I did not know this. I had NO idea, in fact, until the other night when I thought I saw a fly and watched it land and NEARLY EFFING DIED. You can’t kill them, you see, because their stupid pheromones go shooting out and then you have a plague of stink bugs, not to mention they, um, STINK.
So there I am, trying to be calm and shit while I aim to trap it in two, um, cups (what?) and then … I LOST IT. AND FELT SOMETHING DOWN MY BACK. AND MADE A STRANGLED KIND OF NOISE. And God, look, there was wild running around and crazy tapdancing, and I wanted so bad to scream, but you know, MUST NOT WAKE BABY, so I just waved myself around wildly while frantically whispering, “HELP ME. HELP ME. HELP ME.”
HELP NEVER CAME. Or rather, it did, but HELP WAS LAUGHING TOO HARD TO ACTUALLY HELP. This went on for several minutes until I finally just locked myself on the sun porch and got buck naked, dislodging the stink bug from … oh God, from WHEREVER IT WAS, and Adam took it outside, thank you Jesus, and Amen.
I mean, RIGHT?
And now, let us cleanse ourselves with a delightful picture of my daughter, looking rather diabolical, yet adorable, in her wedding finery. Well, with strawberry stains, but whatever.
(Yes, that’s me in the background at an Unfortunate Angle, I hope, as I am looking rather PREGNANT, which is a state that I am not, I assure you.)
May 24th, 2010
Weeeelll, that’s right, friends, I have a blog. Life, it seems, is returning to normal. I hope. This past week was a mishmash of deadline (Glee, and though I love writing those things, they take me FOREVAH) and unpacking and honestly, just stupid dumbass insanity. Without going into it, allow me to share a brief glimpse, bullet-style:
— Our car broke on Adam’s first day of work. Luckily, he took my (newer, fresher, made in this decade) car to work just in case. Had car towed, $550 worth of repairs enacted and … car still broken. More repairs. Three days later (THREE DAYS. OF ME NOT LEAVING THE HOUSE AT ALL. WITH A TODDLER), learn that the car is NOT broken, but Adam had given me his “spare” key, which is an uncoded VALET key, which means it cannot start the car. $250 worth of useless labor expenses, not to mention $100 for a rental car, later, and our car was returned to us in exactly the same condition it was when I tried to start it.
Awesome, right? AWESOME. AND YET!
— Thrush! I got thrush again, and stuffed myself silly with probiotics and kicked it. Again. But not before those three days of being house-bound with a cranky kid and an assload of THRUSH! And no way to fix it! Because I could not get to Whole Foods!
THRUSH! And cabin fever! WIN WIN WIN.
— Bizarre suicide hostage crisis a few blocks from here! With rifles! And SWAT teams! And what the hell! We live in ADORABLE SUBURBAN USA. Not, say, Compton at the height of the crack epidemic.
— A hair appointment that wasn’t, wherein I was dicked around by the first receptionist, when I scheduled a consult and (long) appointment to have my frightening, frightening long-overdue hair colored. Then, when I got there was told I only had a consult, and not a real appointment, which would be fine, except that then the second receptionist said there was no way I EVER had a real appointment in a totally mean tone of voice and then, when I tried to explain, RAISED HER VOICE and said there was no way that happened, and have I ever had my hair colored at a reputable salon before? Because I should have known better.
Me. The customer. Who booked the appointment that they screwed up. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER. And she yelled it, too. And for some reason this makes it worse, but she was TWENTY THREE at best, and I’m all, BITCH, I’ve been getting my hair colored LONGER THAN YOU HAVE BEEN ALIVE.
So I said thanks, but no thanks to that haircut to nowhere, and stormed off, only to realize I had nowhere to go, because HA! we hadn’t picked up the car yet! So Adam dropped me off! For what he thought would be THREE AND A HALF HOURS! So I had just stormed out to … nothing. I had to sit on their porch while they glared at me out the window until Adam came back with Sam. Ha ha? HA HA HA.
Drama queen fail.
There was more, but I think that covers the highlights. It was a rough week. Smaller, more cheerful events include:
— Complete lack of impulse control now that I’m in sight of actual stores that carry actual things. I am going to send us to the poorhouse, not on extravagant things, but because I completely lack the ability to resist the vast array of cleaning products and other random sundries available at Target. Which brings me to …
— Swiffer! THE SWIFFER! How have I lived this long without a Swiffer? I can’t stop Swiffing! The house is sparkling! There isn’t a single speck of dog hair in sight! I Swiff three times a day! It’s so SATISFYING, all that Swiffing! I also picked up the Swiffer duster and have Swiffed the shit out of my baseboards! My mom suggested the WetJet, and oh dear, the can of worms she opened. I think I spent $60 in Swiffer products alone.
–I have lost (and regained and lost and regained) a lot of weight since having Sam and no matter what size the rest of my body is, my fingers have remained a half size bigger than they were before getting pregnant. Also? My feet are bigger, forever. Like, a whole half size. Which, um, ew.
Ergo, I gave in, friends, and took my wedding rings to be resized at the jeweler where we got them seven (SEVEN) years ago. It was a sad day, but it was time, I’m afraid.
But also? $200 to have them both done. I DIED. I REALLY DID. I know they’re diamond and platinum and it’s not like adjusting one of those rings you get in the gumball machine, but … really? I was floored by this, though I suppose there’s no real reason why. It’s not like I’d ever done it before, but perhaps had I known that, I wouldn’t have done it the same week I spent an ungodly amount on cleaning products, mythical car repairs and other sundry items purchased for no other reason than Because I Could, Dammit, and Finally.
— Our kid is sleeping through the night. DING DONG and HELLO. That only took … fourteen and a half months. She’s sleeping past 5, too, and I owe it all to Twitter, who provided some awesome advice when I threw out a random APB for assvice, and to Accidents, who shared her nightweaning plan. We moved from two naps to one (still a struggle to get that nap to be any length, but …) and I did a little Lite Ferber action (not even any effing crying, just yelling for about five minutes) and WHAT? THAT’S IT? THAT’S ALL IT TOOK?
There is also the small matter of Mr. Mouse, her chosen lovey, and let me tell you, my world is brighter because of Mr. Mouse. She gets EXCITED to go to bed with Mr. Mouse. She SNUGGLES Mr. Mouse. She PLAYS with Mr. Mouse before bed and at the moment, I am currently purchasing the entire stock of Mr. Mouse NATIONWIDE, so don’t even think about trying to buy a mouse toy right now. I’m on that shit and I will SNIPE YOUR ASS ON EBAY. (Or just order it from Kohl’s for $5. Whichever.)
— Sam’s walking! Sort of. She’s still holding on to stuff one-handed for comfort, but if she, say, has two shoes in her hands, she forgets that she’s not holding on to the wall and she just goes. The second she realizes she doesn’t have training wheels, she panics, gives up and crawls. But still! Steps! Oh my girl.
I am shocked — shocked! — at how much more I love the toddler vs. baby phase. I thought I would LOVE having a baby-baby, and, well, I didn’t. Not really. I mean, I loved her, of course, but it’s only gotten better and better and though I know I am in for a shitstorm when she turns three or so, I appreciate a communicative kid over a blob of inscrutable screaming any effing day of the week. Oh, this kid. She is so, so awesome.
*Insert adorable photo here, which I would totally do if I could find the camera, which I cannot. Not even a little*
Happy Wednesday! JE REVIENS.
May 18th, 2010
HELLLOO!! We’re here! We MADE IT!
And the boxes are almost all entirely unpacked, thanks to my completely neurotic and wonderful husband, who can’t let a packed box lie there and while I’m wrestling a kid and trying to unpack two boxes, he’s got an entire room done and is moving on to the next. It’s fantastic. Fantastic!
My kid, however, doesn’t think sleeping is all that important, and is getting up at 4:40 a.m. and it’s all making me want to KILL MYSELF SLOWLY, because she’s pulling NEWBORN-TYPE SHIT with her schedule — up every two hours, then up FOR THE DAY around 5, but USUALLY EARLIER. I’m a zombie. No wonder I’m not unpacking boxes with any sort of speed.
Speaking of speed, um, our first night here we stayed in a hotel because our furniture wasn’t arriving until the next day, etc. etc. and there was a small incident with the luggage cart that I can’t even BEGIN to explain with any sort of clarity, really. All I can really tell you is that while Adam was unloading the car, I helpfully went to get the luggage cart, baby in hand, and … oh God, you guys. The parking lot was on a steep angle that I hadn’t noticed, and although two people tried to help, I brushed them off, thinking I could handle it, when HA HA! I could not handle it! Not even a little!
The next thing I knew, I was RUNNING DOWNHILL towards Adam and the car with Sam on my hip, desperately trying to outpace the runaway luggage cart, my eyes so wild Adam didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me. I just kept yelling, “GRAB IT! GRAB IT! It’s GOING TOO FAST!” and oh you guys, it WAS. It was INCHES from crashing into like, SIX CARS.
AN EMPTY LUGGAGE CART! And then Adam was laughing too hard to really help me, so I was half on my own yelling, “PLEASE! I CAN’T HOLD IT MUCH LONGER!” And again with the running downhill and the … oh God. He caught it in the nick of time, thank you God.
And then OH THEN, after our stuff arrived and we had mostly unpacked the Fios guy came! FIOS! Look at us, with the modern conveniences like more than one Internet provider and fiber to the home and stuff! And I only had to show my vagina to get it! Oh wait – what?
Yessss. Sometime during the four to five-hour (!) installation process, I had to pee, natch, so I went in the bathroom/laundry room off of playroom (WE HAVE A PLAYROOM) while Sam hung out. I didn’t shut the door to the bathroom so that I could keep an eye on her, but I DID shut the door to the playroom and HALLO, I DID NOT REALIZE THE FIOS GUY WAS GOING TO BE IN THE PLAYROOM. So all of a sudden I looked up and saw the FIOS guy slinking out of the room, clearly hoping I did not see him — apparently he walked in, spied me on the toilet, staring off into space for I don’t even know how long, and tried to escape.
HA HA. HA HA. OMFG. And then I did what any normal person would do in that I SLAMMED the bathroom door shut, effectively blocking my view of Sam, which apparently signaled to him that he could come back IN and then we just pretended like it never happened, although I frankly would like to kill myself slowly, maybe with an asp on my bosom, because seriously.
Nothing is without humiliation. Nothing.
Beyond that, we’ve been getting a thrill a minute, quite literally, as we act like nothing less than the Beverly Hillbillies, going in and out of the various stores and marveling at all the STUFF you can buy. So much stuff! So many stores! The STORES! We stood in a plaza about five minutes from our house and discussed how there was more shopping in this single plaza than in all of Middlebury. And restaurants, OMFG. Indian! Chinese! Middle Eastern! KNISHES. That you can buy in a grocery store! KNISHES! Meat knishes!
And with that, I really have to go. I should be around a lot more lately, but my chapter of Glee is due next week, so I am working a bit, plus the chaos of the house and … yeah. I’ll be around, but also busy. Speaking of Glee, there is still time to contribute your essay for the contest, and have your work included in the same book. Go here for details.
Happy Monday! Happy Adam’s first day at his new job, too.
PS, have you joined the Book Lushes? We’ve got a new book for May (Olive Kitteridge!) and are selecting June’s book now.
May 9th, 2010
Movers come tomorrow morning (Tuesday). We arrive Wednesday and should maybe sort of have internet by Thursday night.
I hope against hope this settles things down a bit, and I’ll see you guys a little more often. I miss actually TALKING to you, rather than reading your comments and emails, smiling and moving on. I also think not responding makes me a tiny bit of a douche, and for that, I apologize. I’m not REALLY a douche, I’m just playing one lately.
See you at the end of the week!
May 3rd, 2010