Posts filed under 'Beeber McSteebs'
Last week mostly sucked. I wish I could be more eloquent than that, but man, it just wasn’t a great week. Between the jackhammering of our foundation (OMFG), a napless kid thanks to said foundation hammering and the fact that I realized A-HA! I was supposed to have a BABY this week! … it was, um, unpleasant. I was in a mood the likes of which I haven’t seen in months and months. It wasn’t until I stormed away from the construction workers muttering, “Are you fucking KIDDING ME?” only to come inside and — oh, I can barely type it without cringing — throw a head of cauliflower so hard on the counter that it shattered in a jillion florets that I realized, HM. Perhaps I am not being myself here. You know, because I’m sobbing into my sleeve amongst the cauliflower shrapnel while my daughter– my poor, sweet daughter — asks, “Are you okay, Mommy?”
(I picked up the florets and roasted them anyway. Do you think less of me?)
(Genuine, turnaround-quality bright spot: A delightful day at Davis Farmland with Maureen and her perfect children. I love her. And them.)
The good news is that my ClearBlue Easy fertility monitor sticks are somewhere in Cleveland, thus, giving me the perfect excuse to hold off for another month before getting back on the Train of Potential Conception, although I have to tell you, I feel kind of ready for another baby, and that’s something I couldn’t say a month ago. One of my best friends is pregnant, and her due date is coming soon (November!) and I can’t wait! I can’t WAIT! I want to hold the tiny baby! I want to SEE the tiny baby, and I want to see her daughter, Lila, with a little brother, although I think Sam is going to be pretty pissed off, because Megan is her favorite. She already gets the scraps from Lila, and when there’s a baby in Meg’s lap, HAAAA, rage.
Plus, you know, Sam starts school in a few weeks, and I’m seriously acting like she’s headed off to college. Tonight, I asked Adam if Sam is still going to like me, or if she’s going to want to live at school. I wasn’t even being a little jokey about it, because what if she hates me? What if this is the end, and she’s all done with me and just wants to hang out with her friends? What if she stops holding my face in her hands and saying, “MOMMY! I love you…”? THEN WHAT?
I will burn down the preschool, that’s what.
Speaking of babies, we up and left our precious child with a (great, new, reader of this blog) babysitter on Saturday night to see Harry Potter at the Imax and eat sushi. And you GUYS. Yes, the movie was great, blah blah, and yes, we go to an Imax theater that is, mysteriously, inside a furniture store (I don’t know, either, but those Jordan stores are like MINI DISNEYLAND), but the thing is, Harry Potter is a loud movie, right? And add the Imax experience, which includes “butt-kickers,” which vibrate the seats during explosive-type scenes, and … well, you get the idea.
The thing is, so there’s Harry Potter, one of the loudest movies EVER — I mean Deathly Hallows is basically one big battle scene, and I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by saying so — and near the beginning of the movie, there was this BIG! EXPLOSIVE! sound and then … silence.
Which is precisely when the man next to me farted. Very loudly.
YOU GUYS. In a twisted way, I felt HORRIBLE for him, because MY GOD, the movie was SO LOUD, and WHAT ARE THE CHANCES that he’s going to let one rip JUST as the SILENCE FILLS A CROWDED THEATER?
But the worst part — the WORST! — is that Adam was wholly convinced it was me, and he was GLARING at me, like *I* was the asshole who FARTED IN A CROWDED THEATER. By that point, I just lost it, and I was snickering uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face, and OH GOD, I had just made the Harry Potter Farter feel even worse, because how do you not know that’s why I’m laughing? How do you NOT think that the lady next to you is wheeze-laughing because you ripped it in the movie theater? HOW?
Ah. Anyway. It was a great night, I loved the movie, with the exception of the VERY end, which was … poorly executed, although I don’t want to give it away. I just … CHILDREN SHOULD NOT HAVE CHILDREN, is all I’m saying, and there was a bad casting call there.
This is wrapping up awkwardly, but three things:
1) I tried raw oysters during said night out when we made a last-minute restaurant change. I … don’t get it. This isn’t some, “oh, check me out, I wrote something somewhere else!”, but a, NO SERIOUSLY, what am I missing? I need to know what you think, because I do NOT get it, and this seems like something I SHOULD get, but when I read reviews of food critics eating raw oysters and describing their nuanced flavors with wine-type language, I’m like, wait, what? I TASTED TABASCO. But also, I didn’t find them remotely repulsive, I just found them TREMENDOUSLY BORING.
2) I have essentially stopped washing my kid’s hair because it’s getting TOO DAMN ANNOYING. She acts like I’m dumping hydrochloric acid on her head, and GOD. I know this is not good, but there you have it. CONFESSION TIME.
3) I started using the library request system, and you guys, it’s like, FREE BOOKS THAT YOU ACTUALLY WANT, instead of picking through the shelves. What a revolutionary idea! And one that is actually preventing MANY MELTDOWNS from Sam, because she is so desperate to go downstairs to see Fred the turtle that she cannot bear the three minutes it takes me to find the book I want. Linger, you shall be mine. OH YES, YOU SHALL.
Happy Tuesday!
*Depeche Mode. And you know, I am REALLY GLAD I didn’t get the giant cross with “DM” tattooed on my leg back in high school. OMFG.
August 15th, 2011
We went away for our anniversary this weekend (Portsmouth, NH and Ogunquit, ME) WITH our small offspring, and though we were smart enough to get a two-room suite this time, lest anyone forget LAST year’s getaway, which involved a baby who woke up at 2:30 a.m. FOR THE DAY*, I tell you, vacationing with a two-year-old is rather, um, rigorous. This is particularly true when it’s a last-minute weekend trip and you’re in a hotel rather than a rented house-type property and HOTELS ARE NOT FOR FAMILIES WITH SMALL CHILDREN, is all I’m saying. She woke up at 5:30, perky as all get-out, and though we tried to do our usual switch-off on the sleeping in thing, there are, you know, only two small rooms, so we were ALL up at 5:30, which is a VERY EARLY TIME TO START THE DAY, if you didn’t know, and it turns out, walking to Starbucks and plying her with donuts only takes up, like, an hour and you guys, IT IS STILL ONLY SIX-THIRTY. WHICH IS ALSO EARLY.
*Yes, she woke up for the day at 2:30 a.m. on the Cape last year. And just to refresh y’all’s memory about how it all went down, we were SUPPOSED to have a two-room suite, but for reasons that don’t matter now, DID NOT, but we didn’t realize that until we arrived. Our child CANNOT sleep in the same room as us without … not sleeping. And waking up early. And whatever, YOU GUYS WE SLEPT IN THE CAR ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD. LIKE VAGABONDS.
Next year, we’re planning ahead and renting a house. Which brings me to …
Maine. You guys. I’ve lived here off and on for years — YEARS — and every time I go to Maine, I am struck anew about how beautiful it is. Meredith described Nantucket as being one of those places that just fits her, and man, Maine is that for me. Yes, here. It’s cold and harsh in the winter, and although I bitch about the snow here, you know, that’s just the price you pay to live near someplace so beautiful. Besides, I am a four seasons gal and BESIDES, besides, have you guys ever been to Maine on a hot summer’s day?
The shoreline is rocky, as you would expect from a Maine beach, but oh, the water is perfectly crystal clear and such a deep turquoise, you almost think you’re in the Caribbean. I mean, until it rains and drops 30 degrees in fifteen minutes, that is.
And Portsmouth! So close, but hell if you don’t feel like you’ve been transported to a quaint seafaring town in another COUNTRY, for God’s sake.
We went on a long cliffside walk on Marginal Way, wandered around the towns and beaches, ate lobster rolls, took Sam for ice cream and then, you know, passed out at 9:30 p.m. after grabbing take-out due to an overtired toddler, but you know what? Still magical. I want to go back next year for an entire week, and hell if I’m not spending every free second looking at properties, because I WILL NOT BE CAUGHT UNAWARES NEXT YEAR, SUMMER VACATION!
(Yes, it’s true I’ve had, like, ELEVEN VACATIONS this year, what with Las Vegas and North Carolina and Nantucket and plenty of beach visits and water parks and HA HA I AM SPOILED I KNOW. It’s just that Adam was along for exactly zero of those non-Vegas trips, so we had to do SOMEthing, and next year, we’ll plan better so he can, you know, have a family vacation too.) (Oops.)
Anyway, the whole thing beat the pants off of BlogHer, is all I’m saying. It’s not that I didn’t love BlogHer last year, or that I think the conference isn’t great (it is!), it’s just that if I’m not going for business (and I do, sometimes, go to those things for business — in fact, I was a hair’s breadth away from being a booth babe this year in San Diego), but if I’m going just for the socialization, I’m totally doing something like The Blathering, because, well, I like smaller groups and 3,000 people makes me twitchy, and I’m not really into the sessions for my own personal interest AND AND AND, so whatever, I went to Maine this year and I loved it and am now campaigning to MOVE TO MAINE.
(Not really.)
Man, I hope you’re having a great summer, too. It’s going so FAST and in three weeks — THREE WEEKS! — Sam goes to preschool, and though I am excited for two! glorious! hours! to do exciting things like work and clean the house, I am SO IMMEASURABLY SAD about it, as though I am driving her to college and leaving her in a dorm room.
For, you know, a whopping five and a half hours a week. OMFGGGGGG.
Have a great Tuesday.
*Snow Patrol. Whatever, cheesy title, WHATEVER. I AM ON VACATION. (Not really.)
August 8th, 2011
Having a two year old is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. I know, GROUNDBREAKING. But honestly, it is. They’re absurd, irrational little beings. Yesterday, for example, we had plans to go to the beach. Sam LOVES the beach. Loves it. “Babing suit? BABING SUIT?” is a common refrain around here. The day after we came back from North Carolina, she threw a giant tantrum because she couldn’t walk to the beach in ten minutes or less.
However, yesterday — the ONE DAY out of the hundred days this summer that she’s ASKED to go to the beach when we are ACTUALLY GOING TO THE BEACH — she announced, while buck naked on the couch, “I don’t WANNA go to the beach!” (This was obviously preceded by, “I don’t WANNA put on a diaper!” OKAY THEN. HOW ABOUT YOU NOT PEE ON THE COUCH?)
As for the beach, you know, fine, kid, but we are GOING TO THE BEACH. Except HAAA, we didn’t, because her beach partner and BFF fell and scraped her knee on the way to the car, refused to leave the couch HERSELF because she needed her boo-boo to feel better, and nothing would cure that except sitting with a warm Elmo ice pack on her knee and watching Mickey’s Clubhouse. So, you know, beach plan aborted, and they ran around screaming for two hours inside. Boo-boo was obviously cured.
This morning, she threw a tank-size tantrum because I wouldn’t let her drink my iced coffee. The GIANT ONE from Dunkin’ Donuts. Yes, child, let me load you with 3,000 milligrams of caffeine, ensuring that you refuse to sleep until the second grade.
And quirks! HER QUIRKS. You guys, she is obsessed with her frog boots, but for some reason she only associates them with a bowl of strawberries and blueberries. It’s … weird. “Mommy, berries, please!” Beat. “I NEED MAH BOOTS!” And there she is, booted and berried and completely happy. The reverse, for the record, is also true. “I wanna wear my boots!” *runs off, puts boots on* “MOMMY! I NEED MAH BERRIES!”
Ridiculous. I told you. RIDICULOUS.
But then — oh, then — she is the sweetest. It’s like mood swing central up in here. She loves to be tickled and snuggled and will say, “Mommy!” so softly and with such affection, I could die happy right there on the spot. Physical affection is her game, and I love it. I LOVE it. All down time is spent against me with as little space between us as possible. “Sit with me?” she asks on an hourly basis at least. “Sit with ME, Mommy!” And DUH, I DO. Moments later, she’s wiggling into position, moving my arm to the exact location she prefers it (on her hip) and sticking her foot in my face. “Rub mah foot? FOOT?” And like some kind of slave, I do. Always.
Tonight, oh holy God, she sat with Adam and told him how much she missed him today. Later, she took my face in her hands and said, “Oh, MOMMY. I love you.” I am typing this from beyond the grave, because that moment killed me. KILLED ME.
Five minutes later, she’s refusing to go to bed until she has “JUICE! SNACK! JUICEEEEE! SNACCCCCCK! NO NIGHT-NIGHT!” and hurling herself dangerously off the couch in frustration. When night-night did finally commence, she was asleep in approximately three seconds. The harder they protest, the harder they fall, those little contrarian crazy people.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bury myself in a 28-ounce glass of wine.
(That’s my kid! She’s so beautiful, isn’t she? I KNOW, THIS WHOLE ENTRY WAS SO INDULGENT. Photo taken by the mom of the aforementioned be-boo-boo’d toddler and one of Sam’s BFFs, the woman I mention ALL THE DAMN TIME, but come on, how talented is she? Megan, of Megan Jane Photography.)
Have a great weekend!
*Andrew Bird. So … has he ever been known to date anyone? Is he married? JUST ASKING, FOR MAYBE FANTASY PURPOSES.
August 3rd, 2011
I’ve been sleeping like absolute crap lately because — oh God — I’m too lazy to get up to pee in the middle of the night. I AM TOO LAZY TO PEE, ergo I wake up at 5, unable to contain it any longer and then I am UNABLE to go back to sleep, so hello, I’m rising at 5. This would be fine if I went to bed at 9 or 10, but I RARELY have the presence of mind to do that, so there I am, going to bed at midnight and getting up at 5, which, at the risk of sounding like a total princess, is just not enough for me unless I’ve got a newborn, and even then, I’m counting on a shitload of adrenaline to get me through.
Oh, first-world sleep problems, how you torment. The real kicker is that I’m on this mad HYDRATION! kick since being completely flattened by a surprise migraine last Thursday. I think surprise migraines are the best kind, don’t you? The kind that give you a fever, make you think you have the flu and then, BADOW! 101 degree fever! Searing pain! An urge to lie down in a dark room and ban electronic devices from existence!
Ah, well.
One of the things that kicks me the most about parenting — and I’m not pretending this is a NEW thought, by any stretch — is that you never really know if you’re doing a good job. I mean, you don’t. There are no performance reviews, unless they are measured in minutes between tantrums, and even then, there are too many variables to determine if you had any hand in the tantrum-free time, or if that was just because they were sick/tired/cranky on tantrum day or vice versa.
I’m self-aware enough to realize that I’m making this entirely about me, when that’s the last thing parenting is really about, but I would be lying if I said I had no idea what I can and can’t take credit for, you know? Sam is a pretty compliant kid. She’s a sweet kid. Yes, she pulls attitude and GOD, SHE HAS HER MOMENTS, and I KNOW she’s only two, and my God, it’s going to get a thousand times worse, but I have no idea what aspects of her behavior have anything to do with MY behavior. Is she generally a good kid because of something I’ve done, so that I can repeat it? Is it something I HAVEN’T done, so I don’t do it in the future? Is it just HOW SHE WAS BORN?
Gah, there is NO WAY TO KNOW. I know plenty of people who are good people — and I’m guessing, good parents — with kids of all ages who are, um, DIFFICULT. And these are good people! Who are good parents! So it’s like, what DO YOU EVEN DO? Is it just dumb-shit luck with the kid’s personality that’s inborn? Do you just sit back and throw your hands in the air and declare yourself impotent?
And as a parent, do you EVER feel like you did a good job? I like to think that my parents are at least breathing a small sigh of relief that I turned out okay, if that can be measured in happiness and a reasonable modicum of success, totally obnoxious Twitter gaffes notwithstanding.
(Seriously, is there a medium that’s gotten me in MORE trouble? Is it really wise to tweet every thought unfiltered from my mouth, when nine times out of ten, I don’t mean it as Judgy McJudgerson as it sounds? Like, here, let me judge YOUR debt issues, even though you have clearly illustrated to me that you are responsible, but SHIT HAPPENS. Even when I FULLY KNOW people who have such debt who are not idiots and come by it honestly, and yes, I’m still self-flagellating over that, because the people I AM judging are not EVERYONE in that situation, so WHO EXACTLY DO I THINK I AM? See also: the economy. Let me say it again: Mea culpa. I’m sorry.)
(You may be free to judge me for my horrific housing woes, if you like, for they are a legion of unsavory miseries full of salacious, discomfiting details.)
ANYWAY, even NOW, with me being happy and married to a great guy with a sweet kid, are my parents still worried about me? Oh yes, I’m sure they are, but worry does not equal worry that they failed me, you know? I hope they’re at least taking SOME credit for having done a good job, because they did.
I can’t believe I’m about to reference something so EXTREME, but there was this crazy-ass murder in Adam’s hometown (he’s obsessed, feel free to ask him about it) — a kid who just graduated from high school killed his girlfriend in a fit of rage. They were both freshly minted 18-year-olds. How horrible is THAT?
And you know, on paper, the murderer’s family looks PERFECT, so it’s not like I can sit there and blame them, because again, THEY SEEM LIKE LOVELY PEOPLE. Wayland is a nice community! With nice parents! And only TWO murders in the last TWENTY YEARS. I hate to think that everyone is blaming THE PARENTS for the crazy shortcomings and, um, MURDER at the hands of this 18-year-old kid.
(Yes, I just went from pondering if I’m raising a kind person to fearing I will raise a MURDERER.) (Just call me Arlene.)
(Also, I seem to have moved from parental responsibility to taking responsibility for one’s actions as an adult, but while YES, I recognize that 18 is adult, he still lived at home, had JUST graduated high school, and HE MURDERED HIS GIRLFRIEND, HOW CRAZY IS THAT?)
And then what about the great kids who had AWFUL parents? WHAT ABOUT THEM? Again, should we just THROW IN THE TOWEL, toss our kids in a playpen and give up on bothering with quality time and time-outs? IS ANY OF THIS STICKING?
It’s like this whole parenting this is just A HOT FAT MESS, and NO ONE HAS ANY IDEA what they’re doing, I’m sorry, they don’t. Well, my friend Amanda does, but this is because she’s the best mom I’ve ever witnessed in person, ever. HER kids will turn out perfectly, and all because of her. I’m certain my real-life friends who are in the same circle are not offended by this, because this is the kind of dirty salacious gossip we say behind her back: She’s a great mom who puts me to shame, dude. (Hi, Amanda!)
But seriously, I DO wonder: at what point in a well behaved kid do you give the parents credit, assuming there aren’t any obvious issues? Is it luck? Parenting? WHAT? I AM FLYING WITHOUT A NET HERE.
*Muse
July 28th, 2011
I took last week off just to kick back, enjoy summer and catch up on some stuff, if by “stuff,” you mean, oh my God everything. We went to parades! Barbecues! Nantucket!
Yes, we saw Meredith and family last week, and oh, man, I just love them so. Unfortunately, I took jack for photos, so you’re just going to have to view Mer’s, which includes a photo of our children KISSING. Felicity is a dream, and did, quite literally, follow Sam around whisper-yelling, “SHAM! SHAM!” Her little face is this amazing mix of everyone in their family — I could see Joe, Mer’s parents, Meredith. It’s not often that a kid is such a perfect physical reflection of everyone who loves them, but she really is.
It’s a hideous thing when your friends don’t live near you, and I hate that our kids won’t live near each other to grow up and poke each other in the eyes in greeting for as long as they live at home. Meredith, too, as always, makes me feel normal and sane just in being near her for five minutes. And Joe. HA! Joe had Sam wrapped around his finger the moment he picked up and ant, just for her, and let it wind between his fingers while she screamed in excitement, “LOOKIT MOMMY! It’s an ANT!” followed by, “Joe is so cool.”
I am unfortunately (fortunately?) blessed with a child who, like her idol Muno, thinks bugs are the bomb. An hour doesn’t go by in our house where she’s not screeching from her playroom (a converted patio, now a sunroom and its former patio nature attracts more bugs than the rest of the house), “MOMMY! MOMMY! IT’S A SPIDER!” Following this excited declaration, I either sweep up the spider in question to, um, put it down for a nap in night-night (what?) or inform my precious offspring that it’s a fuzzy or a piece of lint. “It’s a FUZZY,” she says with total reverence. “A FUZZY!” As though this stray piece of flurn is a new species of bug, waiting to be discovered and documented.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am enjoying the hell out of this summer with my kid. I really am. We’re spending most days outside, covered in sunscreen, sweat and the mist of whatever water-type attraction is in closest proximity, even if it’s just the $10 baby pool I got at BJ’s (totally a store, not a euphemism). This year, one of the smartest things I did was to get a season pass to Davis Farmland, because we’ve spent at least two days a week there, feeding the goats, cows and sheep that, um, roam free, for serious (“ANIMALSGOATS!” all one word, just like that), hitting the splash pad and getting ice cream before we play in the bubble pit. (There is a bubble pit. I KNOW.) When we’re not there, we’ve been hitting playdates galore, and one of our good friends owns (OWNS!) a near-regulation size bounce house, and there has already been bouncing, and promises to be a lot more.
I tell you something, for as much drama as they bring, two-year-olds are basically advertisements for why people should have children. I’m having so much fun with this kid lately. She’s verbal enough that communication is rarely a source of frustration anymore, super-sweet and affectionate and is at a stage where I am not only her favorite person in the world for things like food and comfort, but conversation and hanging out, too. It’s so obviously fleeting — hell, she’s going to SCHOOL in the fall — but I just want to freeze time and make this summer go on as long as possible.
I’ll see you more this week, but for now, I’ve got to crash. Two parks, a trip to Davis, some pool time and a long walk in the neighborhood (ALL TODAY) tuckered me out, although it barely made a DENT in my child’s energy level, WHAT THE HELL?
Happy Tuesday!
*Jesca Hoop. Usin’ it again!
July 11th, 2011
The weekend kicked off with thunderstorms and a 5 a.m. Sam wake-up, and honestly, if you’d told me years ago that someday I’d consider 7 a.m. to be sleeping in, I, like everyone else, would have laughed in your face! But when Adam got up with her Sunday while I slept in, I eyed him with envy, “You got 7:15!” I accused. “That’s so LUXURIOUS.”
Obviously, she’s no longer sleeping until 8 or later like she used to. Oh, those halcyon days of yore! I DO have a very important Life Tip, however: If you go to bed earlier, the mornings are more pleasant! Free advice from me to you!
I had a few bizarrely disjointed thoughts that wouldn’t leave my head this weekend that seem related, but I … I’m not sure they are, nor am I really positive of any takeaways up in here. But you know, these FEEL like lesson-learning situations, but I’m not sure they actually ARE.
THING THE FIRST
I used to work with a woman who claimed to be “heavy” in high school, and it really shaped who she was. Mind you, her pictures from that era were of a kid who was a size 12 or 14 at most, so it’s not like she was really all that heavy at all. But we’re all different, and I got the impression that for her, her weight really shaped her high school experience. And there was this GUY, you know, That Guy we all have? That guy she was always madly in love with, but was not all that into her, but was that unattainable GUY? The guy she hooked up with a few times, who was on the high school A-list, while she was … not, and oh God, I might as well be explaining that WATER IS WET, because you all know what I mean.
By the time I knew her, she was probably a size 4 sopping wet and honestly, she was (and I’m guessing still is) one of the most beautiful people I’d ever met in person. And she was smart! And funny! And all-around fantastic and a good, pure person and … God, she just had NO IDEA. None. And everywhere we went, these really smart, attractive, accomplished men would fall all over her, and she constantly — constantly! — rebuffed them, not because she wasn’t interested, but because on some level, she believed she wasn’t worthy. After all, she was the Fat Girl, right?
A few years later, who comes sniffing back around? That Guy, who is now so far from A-list, I don’t even know if he’s still in the alphabet. He was unemployed, overweight, generally as douchey as ever, but OH GOD, if things didn’t end up going in such a way that she MARRIED HIM, COULD YOU DIE? They’re married. It still makes me want to take boiled forks to my eyelids.
THING THE SECOND
I was listening to Kiss 108 — the allegedly hip, young-people’s station for you non-Bostonians — and Jennifer Lopez came on the radio (ON THE FLOOR OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP) and I realized that I could never be a pop star like her, because GOD, it means taking yourself seriously enough that you have to practice looking Serious and Sexy in the mirror, and these are things I could not do with a straight face. I love me some JLo on American Idol, and that song sure is, um, catchy, but if you watch her in ANY video, she’s always so GODDAMNED SERIOUS, with the Cheekbone Face and the whole thing, and … yeah.
Ke$ha, on the other hand, does NOT take herself seriously, and is painfully endearing in the process. However, she is also one concert away from peeing in her pants a la Fergie, because, well, she’s taken the whole “don’t be serious” thing just a SMIDGE too far. I don’t know about your world, but Ke$ha’s seems to include a lot more glitter than mine does, unless it’s of the craft variety.
I just completely lack the ability to take myself seriously. Completely.
And now that I’ve written it all down, wow, there is really nothing deep to take away from either of those things, except that you — well, we all, really — need to strike the perfect balance between taking yourself seriously enough and having the confidence to NOT marry the asshole, but not SO seriously/overconfident that you find yourself making JLo cheekbone faces in the mirror, right?
I DO think, however, that I have a tendency to do what my colleague did, which is to see myself ONE way, and one way only, and I often wonder how many opportunities I’m missing out on by not looking at other angles. I certainly don’t mean in the husband way — I did quite well there, thank you — but in OTHER ways. I have a tendency to dismiss things as “not me” or lack the guts to try something simply because I don’t think I deserve it, or because that’s not the way things have gone in the past. I think I’m often so afraid of going all JLo’s cheekbones on people that I don’t try for things outside of my comfort zone that might seem incongruous with who I thought I was.
But honestly, you guys, you KNOW Jennifer Lopez, like, PRACTICES HER FACES IN THE MIRROR and shit, and I just … come on.
Thus ends the disjointed weekend deep thoughts that are so absurdly disjointed and ridiculous that I am embarrassed for myself. But have a great Tuesday!
*Kesha. Yes, I am not kidding, I … I love her.
June 27th, 2011
Well! As it turns out, my tubes ‘n utes are all clear. Or at least, they are now. I got the old song and dance about how I’m getting an extra fertility boost, thanks to tubes that are freshly flushed! And then I had to explain that no, really, GETTING pregnant is not my problem, man, so even if my tubes are lubed up with an entire gallon of baby sauce, it’s KEEPING THEM that seems to be an issue. Or isn’t. Oh, I don’t even know anymore. Two miscarriages could mean DOOM! and BAD THINGS! or it could just be dumb-shit luck. You don’t know.
What I DO know is that despite Julie’s terrifying warning to me that the HSG was the single most painful gynecological procedure she’s ever had (AND THIS IS JULIE, PEOPLE), it … well, it was pretty much not that bad. I thought the whole washing of the cervix (with special soap and a … brush?) was going to be painful, along with the insertion of a balloon (YES REALLY) and a catheter (NOT THAT KIND) was going to hurt like a bitch, but instead, I felt nothing. “You’re done?” I chirped hopefully. “Uhhh, not at all,” came the reply.
It was a crazy surreal experience — and one that I now CLEARLY remember having before, albeit in a much different setting — having dye shot through my uterus and tubes and watching it go sliding on in as I, um, felt it, in the form of creepy, awful cramping. Not super-painful, necessarily, just CREEPY, knowing that there was this bright-orange iodine solution causing my discomfort and I could actually WITNESS IT. I suppose it’s why I never wanted to stick my hand down there while I was in labor, nor did I have any interest in the mirror. I’m cool with pain, so long as I don’t actually see where it’s coming from. Because EW.
What turned out to be much more miserable was the recurrent loss blood work-up I had done a full two hours later, which involved so much blood that they treated me like I was a donor. Juice, cookies, the whole nine yards. It was … kind of absurd, woozy-making and resulted in a butterfly-shaped bruise and a sore arm. Dye through the utes? Painless. Bloodwork? HOURS OF AGONY. WTF.
I might find out what, if anything, is going on as soon as tomorrow — at least part of the story, anyway — and I’m both nervous and excited and a little freaked out overall. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I have no idea if I’m 100% ready to get back into this circus. I know that I’ll wait at least a few months before hopping on the train, because you guys, I’ve been pregnant, or recovering from being pregnant, since last November. It’s JUNE. That’s eight months of my body going through a shit-ton of roller coasters, both physically and emotionally, and it’s … well, it’s a ride I am ready for the RESULTS of, but not the actual RIDING THEREOF. What I would like to do is be put into a coma during any future pregnancies — oh, and put Sam on ice, too — and then wake up and resume my life with two children, unaware of the process of getting there entirely.
Also, let’s be honest, I’ve just lost thirteen pounds through some serious blood, sweat and sinuses. I’m down a pants size. Am I all that jazzed about getting into a pair with a waistband that can only be described as VOLUMINOUS?
(Well, kind of. MAN.)
I tell you what this whole thing has cured me of: any desire whatsoever to have a third child. Once I have a second, God willing? DONE. DONE. DONE. So hilariously finished, I can’t even tell you. I don’t have the stomach for this. I cannot imagine doing this a third time. I can’t. Once was worth it, OBVIOUSLY. Twice is something I believe strongly in and want desperately. I know I can’t guarantee how I’ll feel a third time, but after this? HAAAAA NO. I am somewhat grateful that I feel this way, because I think two is an appropriate limit for me, time-wise and finance-wise, and yet honestly, I love being a mom so goddamned much that I would legitimately consider having an entire basketball team of them if it were remotely practical for us. And you know, if I’d started procreating at 23 instead of 33.
The other thing is, dude, the babysitter. I love her, Sam loved her, she emptied my dishwasher (?!) and it was perfect. I COULD GET HOOKED ON THIS. I find myself wanting to push Adam to get a major promotion so that we can hire someone more often without requiring me to work! I could have a nanny AND be a stay-at-home mom! Real Housewives of Boston’s Western Suburbs, here I come! But seriously, she was fantastic. And surprisingly, she did NOT abscond with my daughter! Whaaaaat?
Listen, I hope you have a great weekend. I’ll be catching up on email and reading A Discovery of Witches, which I LOVE.
*Avett Brothers
June 23rd, 2011
First of all, I found your comments FASCINATING re: having a childcare provider bring her own kids to the job. It’s funny, I listened to all of them, and thought of the few ways that I’d be cool with it, and none of them presented themselves to me — i.e., the nannies who had babies and then BROUGHT their babies after they had them (and were well established at the family to begin with)? Well, of course, DUH, I’d be fine with that. A kid at or vaguely around Sam’s age, who would be into keeping a similar schedule who wasn’t, say, a total bully asshole? I could be OK with that, too. See also: if I were in their home and not mine, for the reasons I mentioned in the comments.
There’s something about your own kid in your own house that you can just … relax a little. I mean, of course Sam is always supervised, but I know every corner of this house. I know when her silence means she’s concentrating (i.e., in the back playroom, where her fuzzies and crayons are) and when being quiet means DEFCON 1: GUARD THE SUDAFED because she’s in the bathroom, sifting through the drawers. These are sounds, for better or for worse, you’re trained to listen for in your own house. Someone else’s, not so much.
Anyway. It’s moot, sort of, because I found at least one sitter who’s coming tomorrow (today for most of you reading this) and will be paid an ungodly money for the sole purpose of having my tubes ‘n utes shot through with dye and examined under an … I don’t even know what, as I had this before, I SWEAR, but the thing is, I HAVE NO MEMORY. I have very little memory of the whole pre-Sam shenanigans, and I don’t know why. I hope it’s the same if I get to the second baby portion of our show, that this all becomes kind of … faded.
We’ve been still, ahh, sick at our house, and it all started with Sam and her ridiculous beach-bound illnesses, and then there was me, who was misdiagnosed with a sinus infection (non-contagious! HAA!), who then passed it on to Adam, who is lying beside me right now, wheezing into his Wheat Thins. Both of us will very likely be passed out cold by 10 p.m., which happens in this house, mmm, pretty much never. Good thing I’m on antibiotics, though! I am what’s wrong with pharmacology today, man. I told you.
The flip side of all this is that I am dropping weight like a saddle bag of hot potatoes. This is what happens when you can pretty much taste nothing for two weeks. Food becomes remarkably uninteresting if you can’t taste it! Who knew? Truth is, I’ve been fantasizing about cupcakes and peanut butter bars pretty much non-stop — and I’m a savory gal! — for no other reason that they are the only things I can really remember the flavor of. I can’t smell anything either, so changing diapers, too, is a surprisingly pleasant task.
I thought about marketing this as a weight-loss tool — invite everyone to my house! Give them the disease and then VOILA! Watch the pounds fly off! There’s got to be an infomercial I can make out of this, maybe featuring Suzanne Somers. Sinus Camp 2011: It’s Infectious! I think, is our tagline. Unfortunately, I have moved beyond the contagious phase, and thus, everyone would have to get in close quarters with Adam, instead, and that’s … less appealing than you might think, although I imagined I was about as delicious-looking while I, too, was coughing until I vomited.
I think my revenue options may be limited by the gross-out factor, but I’m not ruling this shit out! WEIGHT LOSS IN A CURABLE DISEASE.
In recent days, however, I’ve been able to taste a little more, and by that, I mean I can taste sriracha, which is why my last three meals have consisted of various noodles and/or sandwiches drenched in more sriracha than a normal person could probably handle, and it burns like FIYAH, but at least I’m ALIVE. This must be why people tattoo their bodies to FEEL THE BURN! Walk on fire! LET US LIVE. GIVE US THE SRIRACHA.
(Side note: there is something depressing about losing 10+ pounds and being acutely aware that you still have, um, FORTY, or so to go. Seriously. FORTY. I am usually pretty chill about my weight/body image, and for the most part, I am — I mean, I’m not really all that consumed by it — but something about feeling my clothes FINALLY fit much looser has given me enough of a taste that I’m all LET’S GO, WEIGHT! BRING ON THE SIZE SIX!)
(HAAAA I SAID SIX. What an ass.)
Anyway, I’ve GOT to tell you that I’ve been watching NOTHING on television. NOTHING. Should I be watching Game of Thrones? I mean, on HBO.com, that is, because I know it’s over. The Killing? Falling Skies? True Blood is back this week, thank GOD (well, Sunday), but that’s … all I’ve got. And I miss TV. A lot. (Already seen FNL, so it’s not NEW.)
Happy Wednesday! Or as it’s known around here, Tubes, Utes and Babysitter Day! Oh, God.
*Mumford & Sons. The Cave being my uterus. OH I KILL ME.
June 21st, 2011
As it turns out, I’ve got a sinus infection, and I’m on the first antibiotic I’ve been on in … decades, I think? I am not particularly hippie-ish about medicine — I mean, I take two big pharma-esque pills a day, and will likely do so for the rest of my life — but you, too, might be squirrelly about antibiotics if you had adolescent bladder infections that rendered you immune to every single one except the ones that cause hallucinations (but conveniently, cure anthrax!). And – AND! – knowing one too many people infected with (OMFG) C diff after antibiotics which causes the MOST unsavory symptoms of anything I have ever dreamed of and I’m terrified of … OMFG HA HA, WHY AM I TALKING ABOUT THIS?
I forget sometimes, like in situations like last week, what a good kid Sam is. I know it will change, and that she’ll eventually (SOON) be punky and Freshy VonFresherson (though she’ll still be a good kid), but for now, she is rarely fresh or willfully defiant, she shares nicely and loves her friends, and hell, I just love the spit out of my sweet girl. There are lots and lots of hugs and kisses – initiated by her — and she’ll hug anyone who asks, and plenty who don’t, sometimes to the surprise of others. Before bedtime, I tell her to “get your lips ready!” and she pouts like Angelina Jolie posing for photographers as she swoops in to kiss everyone in the room.
She’s gentle and kind to plants and animals, has a great sense of humor (I mean, for a two-year-old, let’s be realistic here, it’s not like she’s quoting Seinfeld) and … oh, man. I love her. I say this not to brag, because I recognize that these are things we ALL think about our kids, but it’s more to remind myself, and her, someday, that she’s a great kid whose current failings are purely the circumstance of her age and lapses on my part, not hers. I don’t want her to ever read this and think, wow, my mom thought I was a total pain in the ass. Because oh hell no, kid. You’re fucking awesome.
And hey, do y’all remember the disco kitty shirt? Well, more proof that while my girl might be amazing, personality-wise, she, um, SORELY LACKS in the taste department, and I promise you, I had nothing to do with her latest attachment:
Yes, that’s a boa-wrapped hot-pink fur notebook with a POODLE on it that Adam won her at a corporate outing at — oh, I can barely type it — Dave and Buster’s. “Pink doggie come? Pink notebook? WITHA PEN?” UGH, FINE KID. Here’s your hideous notebook.
In other news, I’m currently interviewing sitters for some (VERY) part-time help while I get some work done and also, uhhh, have my fertility appointments and other sundry items taken care of. Like my HSG which, for the uninitiated, is that test where they shoot dye into your tubes ‘n utes and view all your lady parts via ultrasound to make sure they’re smooth and shiny, and NO ONE, I assure you, wants a two-year-old in that situation. Or you know, at the dentist. Or while trying to conduct a client call with a modicum of professionalism.
What kills me, however, is how stupidly guilty I feel about the whole thing. As though I’m putting her in HARM’S WAY by allowing someone other than me (or Adam or my parents or siblings) to care for her. God, it’s so ABSURD. I don’t feel this way about other people — quite the opposite, in fact — and logically, I KNOW that this is NORMAL and GOOD FOR HER and GOOD FOR ME (and our bank account! And my teeth! And my … uterus?), but there I am, all Cringey McCringerson about having a perfectly capable, kind human being feed my child lunch and put her down for a nap. As though because I am paying them, rather than squeezing their familial obligation out of their pores, that they will somehow fail in an immeasurable, damaging way.
This is one of those cases — like, say, breastfeeding, at least for me — where my emotions cloud my actual, logical judgment of the situation at hand. I was all, I MUST BREASTFEED OR THE WORLD WILL END. And yet, if other people formula fed, I did not assume the world would end, and in fact, admired them for making a totally reasonable choice that worked best for them. Kind of like how I always assume MY plane will crash, although I willingly allow my loved ones to fly without a care in the world. IT IS SO ABSURD. She’s TWO. I CAN GO TO THE DENTIST. PEOPLE PUT THEIR KIDS IN DAYCARE. AND IT WORKS GREAT. GET OVER YOURSELF, JONNA.
What I DO find a little strange, however, is the number of applicants who want to … bring their own child along? Is that strange to anyone else? I feel like I can disassociate the emotional factor from this one enough to suss out the feeling that, a) it would be kind of disruptive to Sam to not only have a new person to get used to, but a new person and their kid? And navigating that dynamic of mother/child and then poor Sam? It’s one thing to leave her at my friends’ house with their kids, but she KNOWS all of them and … and I just … well, is it me?
(It might be.)
(But I still don’t think I’m going to hire anyone who does.)
Hey, have a happy Thursday! Woo!
June 15th, 2011
Aaaand, we’re back. That was … special. Some of that is certainly sarcasm, but some of it is also that it WAS special. Honestly, it was fun. We had fun. Sam had a blast running around with her cousins, and even tried surfing a little, if by surfing, you mean standing on a boogie board while the waves came in and ran over her feet.
“I DID it, Mommy! I did it! Like TOODEE!” Oof, my heart. Kid was so proud of her surfing abilities, and honest to God, she really thought she was doing it. Also, errr, that’s how pervasive her Yo Gabba Gabba obsession runs, friends. There’s ONE episode (“Ride”) where Toodee goes surfing with Foofa’s big brother, Foofle (I cannot make this shit up, people), and Sam was OBSESSED with surfing like Toodee. She even made me sing the damn song while she did it. (“Surfing today, sunny day! Into the water to play!” And hahahahaha, I KNOW THE LYRICS OH MY GOD.)
It was actually quite sad that on our first day back, she woke up and asked to go to the beach. Oh darlin’. It’s not warm enough up here, yet.
The bad was … kind of really awfully bad. Over the course of the two weeks since we left our house, Sam had three (3) separate fevers, a horrid cough/cold (separate from the fevers!) and a – oh I can barely type it – a VAGINAL INFECTION FROM THE SAND-SLASH-SWIM DIAPER. HOLD ME. HOLD ME. All this, plus she slept in two separate hotels, a strange house, followed by a DIFFERENT strange house, along with a FOURTEEN HOUR DRIVE, split over two days. I mean, honestly, the kid was a hot fucking mess, and so was I.
I am not even going to pretend that I handled it well, because I didn’t. I cringe at how touchy I was on Wednesday — which, conveniently, was my day to cook dinner for everyone — and how I was chopping onions, sobbing while my kid sobbed and chased after me, stuck to me like glue. That morning, I’d lost it on my poor dad — AKA the man who requires the least amount of sleep of ANYONE I KNOW, EVER — because he rises at 5:30 or 6 and makes coffee, waking up the first floor. Meanwhile, he acquiesced to my demand to come out a LEETLE BIT later and guess what? Sam continued to wake at 6, exhausted and miserable, ANYWAY. (Note: I don’t mind the 6 a.m. wakings, except when they mean that she hasn’t gotten enough sleep, making our mornings EYE-POKINGLY MISERABLE, because all she wants to do is go back to bed, at like, NINE AM. But she won’t, natch, and besides, it would eff her nap for the day.)
Plus, I was alone. I’m alone a lot, obviously, as the primary at-home parent, but it’s too easy to discount the role that Adam plays at home and on the weekends. He plays with her the second he walks in the door. I get extra sleep on the weekends (we alternate days). I get nights out with my friends as often as I want. He can give her a bath if I’m feeling wiped out or lousy or just having a long, tired day, you know? He’s a great dad, and he does a lot, and GOD I MISSED HIM. All of him, obviously, not just the parts of him that help me out. To be clear.
(PS, he cleaned the WHOLE HOUSE while we were gone. I walked in to a SPOTLESS HOUSE. Who does that? HE DOES.)
(He also bought a new TV. Surprise! Oh, wait … )
I was just … alone. Not that my parents and siblings weren’t willing to help me — they WERE — but my kid was so disoriented and cranky and feeling so lousy that she wouldn’t let them touch her. NO ONE COULD TOUCH HER. For two. weeks. And not only was this sucktacular for me, but it was hardly the bonding experience with the rest of my family that you would expect, you know? I mean, the kid just RAGED any time anyone came near her — and this includes my paternal parents, who are the very same people who kept her for a WEEK without incident while we went to Vegas. Was bizarroland. And also, uhh, kind of sucky for all of us.
Mind you, I’m fully aware that single parents do this day in and day out (I WORSHIP AT YOUR FEET), but I will also say there is a difference between having velcro kid in a strange environment and just having a kid at home, doing her normal routine. It was kind of exhausting, and I kind of handled it pretty badly. I was loose with my emotions, and I kind of felt like everything was just there, bubbling so close to the surface that everything exploded at the slightest provocation.
And I just felt ungrateful and awful and UGHHHHH, I know, I sound like I’m just over here self-flagellating (I AM), but there’s something about parenting my kid at her worst in front of people I don’t normally live with, no matter how much they love me (and they do!), that makes me feel so exposed. Especially if those people are other parents and THEIR kids are acting like near-perfect children with only minor imperfections. Meanwhile, I had a kid with an INFECTED VAGINA, FOR THE LOVE.
This is one of those times where I can’t tell if it’s just the snowball effect of, you know, EVERYTHING, or if it was just, hello, a challenging situation that anyone would have broken down in. I was extra-weepy and I let myself lose it in situations — and in front of people — I normally wouldn’t. I mean, not that I’m afraid of being judged by my own FAMILY, but I guess I do have a thing against appearing weak and/or crazy and BELIEVE ME, FRIENDS, I WAS BOTH. Yet, I like to think it was the latter — that is, it was a normally shitty situation to lose it in — but I’m not entirely sure. One never knows these days.
Honestly about the Other Thing, I do feel better — I feel more ready to tackle what’s to come, and I feel more focused on what’s in front of me — the life part, that is. Honestly, I suppose it’s hard not to, when what’s in front of you is a sick toddler while you YOURSELF are hacking and wheezing, but strangely, I’ve got a lot of OTHER good stuff to focus on. Friends who claim to have missed me terribly (and I, them), new work projects, an entire summer to play in the water with my kid, an assload of books to read and the resurgence of the Book Lushes, which I SWEAR is coming, but HA HA, UNEXPECTED EVENTS have precluded that little project.
And, uhh, fertility work-up stuff. Again. But even that I feel relatively calm about at the moment. Apparently the whole “one day at a time” mantra really seems to be working. Recovery people! They know what they’re talking about.
Hey, have a happy Tuesday.
June 13th, 2011
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