Archive for March, 2011
So the other day Sam cut her finger after dropping a coffee mug she wasn’t supposed to have in the first place. Now I, as her mother, should have realized that she had it, because whenever she has something she’s not supposed to have/realizes she no longer wants, she immediately hefts it over to one of us, repeating, “THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” over and over again, as if to prompt a similar response from us. So there she is, rather obviously struggling with something as she croaked out, “THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” and I turned to corner to see what was in her hand and crash! Coffee mug everywhere and clean-up.
What I didn’t notice was that apparently she’d cut her finger, but when I put her in her booster seat, you guys, OH MY LANDS, I could actually smell blood. Smell! Blood! It was like Carrie exploded all over our kitchen from an effing tiny cut, and she wouldn’t keep the Band-Aid on and oh my God, that thing bled for HOURS, and I thought, seriously, that we were going to end up in the ER from a cut the width of a needle, and it would be like Adventures in Babysitting, where that Indian doctor announces in a heavy accent, “One stitch! All better!”
It also made me realize that I may not be equipped for serious injuries, because I fretted over that stupid cut a little more than was healthy. The kid can clonk her head a thousand times on our ceramic tile floors and I don’t bat an eyelash, but blood apparently is enough to send me nearly apoplectic. By the way, our floors? Are HARD. We live in a slab ranch, so it’s basically concrete covered in ceramic, and if you think that carrying a wine glass isn’t harrowing enough, you should try toting them through our house. It feels death-defying, really, because it’s a guaranteed shatter and you can NEVER get up all the little pieces and it’s just a crapshoot whether you’re going to slice your foot open or worse, your TODDLER or DOG is going to slice themselves open and my God, my God, I need more area rugs, MY GOD.
Tomorrow I’m going to visit a preschool for Sam. Yes, PRESCHOOL. My baby is going to PRESCHOOL. It’s a grand total of like, six hours a week, but still. PRESCHOOL. I can’t not write that down in all-caps, because, PRESCHOOL. I am remarkably conflicted as to whether I want to do one or two days a week — the two-day program is five minutes from my house, while the one-day program is in the next town over, and would be a huge PITA to get to in morning traffic (hello, Route 9, I do not want to SEE YOUR FACE).
The cost difference, shockingly, is significant — more than double — although not out of the realm of affordability and IF YOU GUYS ONLY KNEW the agony this stupid decision is causing me. IS CRAZY. It’s like I am acting like whether I’m deciding to send her to Harvard vs. Yale. HARVARD VS. YALE. Or no — NO! — it’s as if I’m choosing between those two schools, but there is a POSSIBILITY that one of those schools will turn from Harvard or Yale into Podunk Technical College where they teach hair weaves and axel cleaning instead of mathematics and literature.
In other words, I am taking this way too seriously. As for the question of why put her in preschool at all this early, my feelings are that if we DO have another child, having an outlet, even if it’s only for less than six hours a week, would be a GODSEND. Plus, all her buddies are doing it, and she’d be in class with some of them, and God, this is the most boring analysis OF THE YEAR, right here, and it’s not even covering my feelings on the topic, which also include, MY BABY IS OLD ENOUGH TO GO TO PRESCHOOL WHAT THE HELL?
She’ll be three next school year. THREE. THREE. THREE. I mean, holy badongles, time flies.
March 30th, 2011
So as it turns out, the great sleeping disaster was so obviously some kind of crazy language explosion that I feel STUPID in retrospect. A few days after she stopped sleeping, she started busting out full sentences, on one occasion even singing me the “Party In My Tummy” song from Yo Gabba Gabba completely unprompted. There are countless other examples of Stuff She’s Learned This Week, including, unfortunately, the phrase, “Holy crap!” which was uttered in the car after seeing something particularly startling and promptly repeated, over and over again.
Also repeated and learned was, “We’re going to get booze!” as I playfully told her that’s why we were going to Trader Joe’s. “We get BOOZE!” she parroted cheerfully. “Booze!”
I am carefully curbing my use of expletives, but instead, I am teaching my toddler other, equally awful words and habits and oh God, in some ways it was so much easier when all she could do was lay there like a bump on a pickle.
ANYWAY, did I TELL you that Adam and I booked a trip, just the two of us? To … well, it’s to Las Vegas, for a terrifyingly long time, considering it’s Las Vegas and also, we’re going to be away from our kid for SIX DAYS. And yes, as I mentioned, that’s a long time for VEGAS!-type activities, but when you consider that we’re parents who routinely get up at the crack of dawn so that our offspring can bang on a snare drum and crash cymbals while singing and playing the kazoo, and so help me, people, if ALL WE GET TO DO is lay in bed and read books and watch TV and take long, uninterrupted baths, IT WILL BE A RAGING SUCCESS. YOU MUST TRUST ME ON THIS.
Incidentally, the Caribbean and/or some other locales were considered and hoped for, but ultimately Jonna, Practical Budgeter, decided that no matter how awful a year we’d had, money must be saved, and this is an easy save.
Practicality blows sometimes.
Who doesn’t blow, however, are my parents, who are coming here to stay with Sam the entire time we’re gone. And my friends, who have promised to help them and hang out with Sam and her friends and keep life normal for everyone. Well, for Sam, anyway. Can I get an amen for my parents? Because, seriously. I am so lucky. Seriously.
I am also sick and fearful and worried about being away from Sam, not because I think she’s going to be mistreated or in trouble or ANYTHING, because after all they are my PARENTS and are generally awesome, but because … oh, Sam. My little lumpkin. She’s so much fun right now — talkative and funny, snuggly and madly in love with her mama — that I think about being away from her and I feel sick. At least one moment every day, I think, well, this: this is why I had kids.
And yet, I know it’s good for us, and I also know that the next time we do this will probably be the twelfth day of never, because if we DO have a second kid, let’s be honest, I won’t want to leave THAT one until s/he is at least two, and by then, Sam could be FIVE and in KINDERGARTEN and LET US ALL PAUSE TO HYPERVENTILATE HERE, and you see why I can’t think of a situation that far into the future without throwing up.
Oh, and finally: My sister’s surgery went awesome. She’s home already, two days earlier than they thought she’d be. It was entirely successful, there’s nothing wrong with her — well, except for feeling like ass and you know, missing part of a major organ — and can I get an AMEN?
That’s all I got. I hope you have an awesome Tuesday.
March 28th, 2011
First of all, thank you so much for propping my sorry ass up the other day. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, and I never, never want to take advantage of your kindness by being That Person, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. (Do you?) So thank you. Truly.
I felt better almost the minute I hit publish, and then I felt better and better with each passing comment or email, and I just FELT BETTER. And now I feel a LOT better. For starters, Sam must have known — don’t they always? — that I was about to sell her to the highest bidder, because my God, she napped the next day. It was a battle, and she wasn’t pleased about it, but that kid NAPPED. Come bedtime, she went to sleep. And the next day? She napped. And tonight? She went to bed without a holler. She’s asleep right now in her special snowman pajamas, clutching her kitty and smashed up against her bee blanket.
(Related: man, I do not miss the SIDS-panic days. She can have a blanket! And buddies! I mean, is it any wonder infants don’t sleep? You practically have to lay them down on a stainless steel deli counter and hope for the best.)
They know. I swear to you, kids know when they’ve pushed you to the absolute brink. THEY JUST KNOW. This is the kind of statement I would think was kooky and ridiculous as a non-parent, but the number of times I am pushed until I think I’m going to burst out of my skin, and then she just shifts into a delightfully easy kid convince me otherwise. It is both crazy and crazy-making, but that seems to be par for the course for this thing.
The hits kept on coming, though, as something kind of annoying and a wee bit tragic and unplanned happened with our house in Florida. (Oh yes, we still own a house in Florida, which is why we rent here in Mass, and I am just catching up the newbies up in this piece!). And the thing is … it’s kind of fine. No, it IS fine. It’s annoying, and it’s something I used to stay up late worrying about, and then it just happened and my general feeling is that it’s … fine. I wish I could put my finger on why this particular bad thing (involving my tenants and floors and maybe a house sale and it’s all so ANNOYING) has made me feel BETTER, but it has. Like, a MILLION times better. I think because it’s something I haven’t worried about lately, and also because it’s something I once fretted about to an extreme and yet the reality of it coming to fruition is … well, it’s really just fine. More than fine.
And then there’s my sister — who is the one having surgery, by the way — who I talk to almost every day, and calms me down by calling me out on my shit, and tells me when I’m going all Bloody Beef, and whom my daughter ADORES, to the point where she is the only person Sam might prefer to me. God, that kid loves her Tee, and screams for her every time she sees her photo, “TEE! TEE! TEE!” (Short for auntie, which we pronounce AHN-tie here in Massachusetts.) My biggest fear about her being in the hospital, aside from the obvious, is visiting her with Sam and seeing my daughter bereft that her beloved Tee can’t pick her up and hold her and tickle her. At least not for a little while.
My sister, who still to this day refuses to believe that she’s the reason I live here — the reason this place has always been my home, as I moved here after college because of her, and to be closer to her. Hell, when I was younger, I wanted to BE her. So yeah, I love her, too. And then I read this, by Laurie White, and I think, well, of course I have to be brave and have a second kid, because THAT. That right there is a gift I want to give my daughter, and myself, if I’m being honest. For the record, I am the younger sister — mine is twelve years older than me, so that resonated on a million levels, mostly on Katie’s (Laurie’s sister). I have been mothered when I should have been sistered, but I have never really thought it could be any other way. Now, I appreciate it so much.
(Aside from that, it’s amazing, and you should read it now.)
Fuck yes, I will be brave and do it again.
So yes, I feel better. Much better. Thank you.
March 23rd, 2011
Today was one of those days when I don’t think I’m cut out for this parenting thing, and the idea of having a second child is so daunting and terrifying, it seems like the worst idea in the world. Then, of course, I feel horribly guilty because of what happened, and then I berate myself for thinking that way, because of course, I want another child, of course.
But today, oh, today. And yesterday, really. We have an exhausted toddler who refuses to nap, either because she’s going through some kind of MIND EXPLOSION or she’s stubborn or … I don’t know what. I’d say she’s giving up naps except that she’s miserable and exhausted for the rest of the day, passes out somewhere inappropriate later, and then pulls the same screaming stunt at bedtime. By the second day of this, I was greeting Adam at the door in tears — something I’ve never done, not even when Sam was a screaming newborn who refused to close her eyes.
This is usually the time when people like to share how THEIR two-year-old gave up naps, and how it’s totally a possibility! And ho! Good luck to you! And usually I can take those kinds of comments, but this week, I’m just not really in a mental place to be able to hack it without going postal. Advance apologies.
I’ve been out of sorts for a little while now, as a close family member is having surgery, and though everything is okay, it’s one of those THINGS that they found by sheer luck, and if they hadn’t found it, things would have been Very Very Bad. As it stands, everything is — and will be — fine, but you know, it’s just … oh, man, I don’t know. My anxiety always comes out in hypochondria, usually by proxy, and it took me a while to nail down exactly why I was feeling so awful these last few days. I hate worrying about people I love, and worse, that just makes me worry about everyone else even more, as though it’s protective.
Poor Adam, in other words. (Sam is immune, saved only by her youth.) By Friday, I’ll have him in the doctor’s for bloodwork, and he’ll be on a special diet by the weekend. Oh, and dentist appointments. Must get the dentist appointments taken care of, because periodontal disease causes heart attacks! Sometimes …
I joke about it, but it’s not that far from the truth. I hate this about myself, and I never really know how to make it better. I do know that staying up late wondering if I have enough life insurance really isn’t the best solution. I am hopeful that once the surgery is successful and over, I will relax a little. Because, man.
Speaking of worst-case scenarios, I have several friends who are newly pregnant right now, and I find myself seized with anxiety for them, too. It manifests itself in a funny way, in that I am constantly worried that they don’t know that really, it could happen to them, so they must be ever-vigilant. This makes no sense, and merely serves to underscore my hypochondria-by-proxy and my general anxiety about everything and everyone. Because, I think, even though I knew it could happen to me, I really didn’t believe that it would.
(Side note: this was reinforced by the fact that I saw the heartbeat and people were crowing, “Dramatically reduced risk!” when in fact, according to my doctor who wrote the book on miscarriage — no really, he did! — that apparently isn’t true until you see the heartbeat after ten weeks. Helpful! Or not, really.)
Not that knowing it would or could would have changed anything about how I felt, but I want to somehow change the outcome for other people, or at least their approach to it. This, like everything of its ilk, is impossible and not helpful at all.
Speaking of pregnancy, I am afraid to try again. I know I said I wasn’t, and on the one hand, I’m not — I could do another miscarriage and get back up again. I could. It’s just that the miscarriage set off a wave of unfortunate events — death! surgery! marriages ending! — to people I love, and I am irrationally afraid of being the tipping point for another tsunami. I know it was just a coincidence and most of it happened before the year of the rabbit anyway (apparently it’s our year!), but I just … well, it’s something I have to get over, clearly.
I know this is all very maudlin, but it helps me a lot to write it out — sometimes, after writing it all down and walking away and/or talking to some of you about it, I feel better immediately. I’m hoping that’s the case here.
I hope you have a great Tuesday.
*Badly Drawn Boy
March 21st, 2011
Our Target is being renovated into a SUPER Target, and though I appreciate the new whisper-soft carts, I do not appreciate the fact that I honestly can’t find anything, as it’s all smooshed up into a smaller store during the expansion. I also don’t appreciate that they rolled out the new carts, which are twice the size of the old carts, while the aisles are half the size of the old aisles, and the entire time I was there today, I kept saying, “SAM! Watch your head! HEAD!” because she was lounging with head all dangly, and my God, Target is so effing HARROWING lately.
Worse, because of all this, I was looking for underwear for me, and here’s where I admit I was basically looking for the worst underwear in the world, because I just wanted those stupid plastic packages of, like, Jockey for Her or Hanes or something, you know? I’m sure you all had this vision of me lying about in a smoking jacket and silk tangas from Victoria’s Secret in between floor steamings, but I’m sorry to say, it’s … well, at least it’s not those giant cotton BRIEFS, is all I’m saying. So anyway, there I am, in Target, and you guys, I CANNOT FIND ANYTHING. The women’s section is all squinched into this wee corner of the store next to some makeshift dressing rooms, and I can’t find the damn underwear to save my life, but I did find a collection of underwear for little girls, and even as I write that, it seems PERVY.
The point is, there aren’t any packages of underwear for grown-ups in a place that is easily located, but that’s no excuse for me stopping a Target employee and stammering, “Where is the underwear? You know, for moms?”
FOR MOMS. BECAUSE MOMS WEAR SPECIAL UNDERWEAR. The whole exchange, honestly, is just grossing me out, because … well, I don’t even KNOW WHY, except that I’m imagining why moms would need special underwear and then my mind went to birth or kangaroo pouches and YOU GUYS, I WANT TO THROW UP.
To the employee’s credit, she just pointed me to grown-up lady underwear and I picked up my Fruit of the Loom in body tones (but not giant over-the-belly briefs, and again, I feel like this is important information), if by body tones they mean an odd shade of rose and some sort of pasty beige that is the color of no one’s skin, pretty much in the history of mankind. Well, except for maybe a special breed of moms.
At any rate, if you need me, I’ll be over here dying a slow death by daylight saving time, because if THAT isn’t the worst invention known to man — NOT INVENTED BY A MOM, UNDERWEAR OR NO — I don’t know what is. We’re sleeping late! Going to bed late! (And by ‘we’ I mean Sam and me.) Waking up at 9:30! And … not napping. I basically want to take cheese graters to my skin and bathe in vinegar. SRSLY.
I’ll leave you with this shot of Sam from last week that Megan took, natch. I love her so, and by her, I mean Megan, although Sam is pretty nifty too. Sam as deep thinker, even if she’s really wondering where Elmo is and how she can make him HERS, ALL HERS.
(Click to embiggen, should you desire.)
*Mates of State
March 17th, 2011
When I can’t fall asleep at night, I find it vaguely soothing to think of things that are complete fantasy, and by “fantasy,” I don’t mean lying about dreaming of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, but about scenarios that will never come to pass. It’s pretty much the only thing that keeps me from worrying, you know? Not that I have a lot to worry about in the grand scheme of things, but when you can’t fall asleep, there’s nothing more niggling than wondering if you paid that stupid water bill, or if you remembered to charge your phone. Minor concerns, yes, but in the dark hour of midnight, they become beyond paramount.
The problem is when the unrealities start keeping me up at night, and that’s where we’re at. As such, I shall pass my vaguely dark fantastical questions along to you, so that you, too, may stay up at night thinking about them. If you’re so inclined, tell me what you would do, and why, so that I can think about what YOU would do when I can’t sleep and wonder if THAT is a better choice.
1) An oldie but goodie. Sam’s favorite Yo Gabba Gabba episode is the Superhero one with Devo, and I’ve seen it no fewer than five hundred times, no exaggeration. Hey! Let’s play! SUPER-HEEROOOES!
OK, so you get a superpower. Just one. What is it?
I choose to freeze time. What CAN’T you do with freezing time? Nothing! You have alibis! You just freeze time, get a nap, finish your deadline, steal funds from Bernie Madoff, rob a bank, whatever! Whatever! Be Robin Hood! IS FULL OF ALL KINDS OF POSSIBILITIES.
Second choice: control the weather like Halle Berry in the X-Men. I like the idea of making it snow with cloudy eyes myself. Will be snowy mystery? Who made that snow? IN JULY? If it can be localized, even better! Make it snow on my NEIGHBOR’S house, not mine, especially since I clean up ten tons of her dog’s shit every day. And if there are forest fires somewhere? FIRE UP THE OLD RAINMAKER.
2) This is less, uhhh, happy, and I don’t mean this to make LIGHT of the situation, but this is where our thought process led us: Adam and I discussed the whole Japan nuclear meltdown possibility, which led to us wondering if a PERSON had to be at the controls to cool everything down, and if it would come down to some Armageddon-like situation (the movie, that is), with the government offering the hero’s family an astronomical sum for him or her to walk in their and have his/her face melted off, but save the world, or at least JAPAN. This led him to say he would consider it, because he’s just like that, and this also led to me clutching his arm all, DON’T LEAVE USSSSSS! and seriously, would ANY of you consider such a thing, because I DO NOT THINK I COULD. I believe I am very selfish and love my family too much, and that’s just if it were ME. Take my husband? I RIP YOUR FACE TO SHREDS! GET AWAY! GET AWAY! I KILL YOU FIRST!
See? Not happy. I’m sure THAT will keep me up at night, if Stephen King’s Bag of Bones doesn’t already. (SO GOOD. SO SCARY.)
Happy Monday! On that, um, happy thought. (THINK ABOUT THE SUPERHERO POWERS INSTEAD!)
March 13th, 2011
So far, having a two-year-old is AWESOME! And if you say that really loudly, with your hands in the air, then you’ve just learned the hot word of the day from said two-year-old. Everything is awesome! Sam, do you like your green beans? AWESOME!
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m, uh, pretty sure she learned this on the Yo Gabba Gabba Super Music Friends Show. Listening and dancing to music IS awesome!
Speaking of Yo Gabba Gabba, we turned it on at playgroup today at the very end, right around the time when all the kids seem to just sort of start coming apart from all the excitement of playing for several hours, and they need a moment to regroup before heading home. Judge away! You will probably judge even more when I tell you that I cannot stop laughing that when the “Boat” episode was rudely interrupted by an emergency broadcast message, all four kids started YELLING like they were just taken out of a trance. Molly yelled, “GABBA! GABBA!” while Lila sadly tried to dance to the ear-splitting tone with her head to her chin, whimpering. Gracie held her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth in abject sadness, and Sam started actually crying.
You know that True Blood scene from season two when the town is at the woodland orgy, and Andy Bellefleur shoots his gun off, leaving all the black-eyed people to go wailing into the woods, lost and disoriented? It was exactly like that, and I’m not even exaggerating a little. I was simultaneously horrified and amused at the power of DJ Lance. I had the same mix of emotions that our first reaction — all of four of the moms — was NOT to be horrified, but to figure out how to get it back on as soon as possible to stop the madness.
My kid makes me strangely sad sometimes, not for any obvious reason, but because she does things that are so naive and endearing that I am, and I can’t put this any other way, embarrassed for her. I mean, I’m not REALLY, but that’s the closest emotion I can put to it. I am weirdly sad for her, because … ah, well, for example, when we pull up to her friends’ houses, and we get out of the car, she starts yelling, “HIII! HIII!” excitedly before anyone can hear her. “HI LILA! HIII! GRACIE! GRACIE!” And I just … oh, baby, no one can hear you, honey. We’re outside and they don’t even know we’re here.
I feel the same twinge when she sees a familiar character on TV and comes racing in to tell me about it, “MAMA! It’s ELMO!” as if I didn’t PUT HIM THERE or (oh my God) she approaches the television when she sees a cat and tries to HUG THE TELEVISION. And — AND! — when she sees said familiar character, sometimes she’ll walk right up to the television and yell, “HII! Hi GoGo! HIII!” (GoGo is Diego, of course.) All because Diego said hi at the beginning in what was meant to be a rhetorical fashion, you know?
Ah, kids. Confusing little monsters that find a way to yank on your heartstrings even when they do something senseless and kind of embarrassing.
Finally, and I don’t think I’m alone here, I have a long list of things I keep MEANING to do, but am starting to doubt if I ever will do. Things like decorating my house like people other than college students live here (seriously, that’s what four years of renting will do to a person), organizing my underwear drawer and finally, oh my lands, finally, getting rid of all the clothes I don’t wear. There is no reason to have two closets stuffed to the gills full of clothes that are never actually placed on a human being’s ass.
You know what else I want to do? Organize our bookshelves by color. Meal plan a month in advance. Start couponing. I DO NOT USE COUPONS. I have no idea where to even START.
Am I ever going to do these things? Am I doomed to have a dresser stuffed full of too-small T-shirts from Target that have holes in the armpits? Will I ever pay less than full price for Ziploc bags?
Seriously. I need to just do ONE of these things, and I think I’d feel better. Instead I’m so tired from all the usual activities of child-rearing, housekeeping, writing/working that by the time I have any extra time, I’m either reading or zoned out in front of Big Love, wondering why I even care anymore, when all I have ever wanted to do is punch Bill Henrickson directly in the junk. Oh, and you, too, Nicolette. And Barb! GET SOME BALLS. RUN FOR THE HILLS.
I hope y’all have a great Wednesday.
Florence + The Machine. Oh, I love her voice and yet, at the same time think she looks to be about forty, when my understanding is that she’s, ah, TWENTY FOUR.
March 8th, 2011
On Sunday, Sam turns two. Two! It seems both impossible to have been so long, and yet it seems like forever. She’s TWO. My baby isn’t a baby anymore — she’s a little person, with definite opinions and thoughts and … well, she was this:
I can’t even believe it, honestly. In retrospect, she wasn’t very exciting. Well, until she started screaming, and then things got VERY exciting, but not in a good way, because it was more like, WHEN WILL SHE STOP? PLEASE HELP US! ANYONE! ANYONE! MAYDAY!
And then there was this, and I didn’t think it could get any better, I really didn’t. She was so much fun.
She didn’t sleep through the night until she was more than 14 months old. Fourteen months! That’s crazytown. And yet, here we are.
She loves the mail — pretend mail, real mail, any kind of mail; Yo Gabba Gabba, cats (stuffed or real), playing in her kitchen and pretending to do whatever I do, which includes taping maxi pads to her nethers and peeing on ovulation sticks. She talks about her friends every minute that she’s not with them, and I feel so lucky that she has them, and that I have their moms.
At the moment, she’s also entering a really unfortunate Dora and Diego phase. Animals are her best friends — there is no kind of animal that doesn’t tickle her fancy. She can muster a remarkable amount of enthusiasm over an earthworm, for God’s sake. Sunny, as one would expect, is the best thing that ever happened to her, and she’s the first thing she asks for when she wakes up. “Sunny? Sunny! SUNNY!” in a voice so desperate that Sunny has no choice but to appear and endure a sloppy array of kisses and hugs. I have never loved Sunny more than seeing her be so patient with Sam, and actually get excited about hanging out with her human, um, sister. (SHUT UP.)
She sleeps like a champion now, usually until at least 8 a.m., and when she gets up any earlier, I am so shocked, it’s as if someone shot a gun over my head. She goes to bed with no fewer than 25 stuffed “buddies,” which means we have to travel with an ungodly amount of them, lest she feel that her temporary digs are anything but conducive to a full night’s sleep. This is what happens when you breed a kid who doesn’t sleep — you end up scarred for life. I’ll be packing those buddies when she goes to college, asking her if she has her Mr. Mouse and kitty, and what about Brobee? DO YOU HAVE BROBEE?
I can honestly say that I have never been so happy as I have the last two years. I loved my life before her — I did — but I love it more now that she’s here. She’s beautiful and funny and smart and I feel ridiculously, stupidly honored to be her mama, and to get to spend every day with her.
Oh, my girl. I love you so. Happy, happy (early) birthday.
(The third photo is courtesy of one of my besties — and the mom of one of Sam’s besties — Megan, owner of MeganJane Photography, and a general photography genius. Hire her, if you’re in the Boston area. If she can take a good picture of my kid poking her in the face, imagine what she can do under different circumstances?)
March 3rd, 2011
Well, I am nothing if not consistent, if by consistent, you mean absent, but the sickopalypse continued, plus I had two work deadlines, and that meant lack of sleep and lack of many things, but sleep! I missed sleep a lot.
What’s crazy is that I cannot figure out WHY I am so pathetically tired on a level I wasn’t before I had Sam. What the EFF, right? I mean, I used to work until well past midnight and then get up for work at 6, but now when I try ANYTHING close to that — getting up at 7 or later, even! — I am DEAD. DEAD. FOR DAYS. WEEKS, EVEN. (And before you mention it, I’m already medicated for my thyroid and other stuff, so it’s not medical, it’s that I’m a wimp. Either that, or my job is much more, um, physical, I guess.)
It’s like the Pussification of Jonna, up close and in the flesh. Just now I whined in Adam’s general direction that he had to set an alarm for 7:15 tomorrow morning because it’ll wake us all up earlier than I’d like. Bear in mind, please, that my preshus offspring usually sleeps until 8, and here I am, most spoiled mother in America. And yet I am exhausted.
I went to the dentist today, and as it turns out, I do NOT have a failed root canal, and Deb was totally right, in that it was referred pain because the tooth is RIGHT under my sinuses, and it was (OMFG) SINUS PAIN. And also, I grind my teeth like a mo’ fo’, and which reminds me, GET THIS: So the dentist is all up in my shit because I’m wearing my teeth down to nubs and then — THEN! — he’s pointing out that my teeth should never touch, which is something I did not know, honestly. Do your teeth touch when you’re just sitting there? Please check and report back. I’ll wait.
Obviously mine do, AND I grind them horribly, but what killed me is that he stared at me as I was doing this and very gravely announced, “Relaxed people do not do this. It’s a stress thing. You really need to relax.”
And I’m like, hey dude, for starters, my day job involves running around after a small person who yells at me constantly, and when she’s not yelling at me, she’s clinging to me like an extra appendage. I never, ever sit by myself. I sit down for five whole seconds, and Sam’s all up in my grill and then Sunny! Sunny has to sit on me, too! I DO NOT SIT ALONE. EVER. I don’t even pee alone. I haven’t peed alone since 2005, because Sunny hasn’t let me pee alone, and now Sam and … oh, man, I forgot what going to the bathroom unwitnessed was even like, because there are FOUR EYEBALLS on me when I pee, OK?
Both of those people need my assistance in some way to poop (shut up, Sunny is people). I wipe someone else’s butt multiple times a day. Then, when I get a reprieve from the small person, I get to go outside and fish dog poopsicles out of the back yard and fold laundry and then when Sam goes to sleep? Then I get to do my other job, and we haven’t even TALKED about the last few months involving death, pregnancy loss and divorce of some of my closest friends, and I’m ALL WHY DON’T YOU RELAX AND HAVE YOUR TEETH NOT TOUCH, BUDDY. WALK A MILE, KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING?
I didn’t say any of that. I laughed awkwardly and agreed, but I just wanted to say it! I wanted to! And I never get all martyrous (kind of not a word), but I do not KNOW, I just think this is what happens when you don’t get enough rest and you find yourself spiraling towards burnout.
(For the record, I have nothing due in the immediate future, so I will recover nicely. PLUS, we are really and truly scheduling a child-free vacation AND this mini-breakdown made me realize I was definitely right in turning down a big project recently, because although I would have secured more regular child care for it, I just … well, I am fried, clearly, can you tell? If not, I can rant more about how HAAARD my privileged little life is, if you want to. I’d want to smack me, if I were you, so if you tell me I’m a spoiled brat, I don’t blame you one whit. First-world whining, FTW!)
Separately, I have five cavities and apparently need TWO cleanings with the hygienist to get shit done in there, and when I defensively mewled, “But I brush! I FLOSS!” he simply responded, “Yes, everyone says they brush, but …” and then he just trailed off.
Do you guys … is he implying that I DO NOT BRUSH MY TEETH?
(I do. I swear I do.)
Back later with less teeth and a lot less whining.
March 1st, 2011