I am reforming.
I, until about two weeks ago, was an avowed critic of Halloween. Since I grew out of school Halloween parties, my parents no longer pay to take me out to dinner on Halloween (a Halloween family tradition) and I don't like candy - there isn't much that really says "celebrate" about Halloween to me.
But Baby Girl has the CUTEST Halloween outfits. Most of them haven't fit up until about a week or so ago. Technically, they are still way too big - but too big in a "I'm just little" kind of way, not in a "my mom is retarded and doesn't know what size I wear" kind of way.
(Well, there is that too - when Himself and I bought a couple of Halloween sleepers in January on clearance, we were clueless in sizing and bought the wrong size - G hasn't worn those to the sitter's yet because I'm too embarrassed to admit why my smaller-than-average 7-week-old is wearing a 3- to 6-month Halloween sleeper, so she has just worn those over the weekend). Of course, the fact that her Halloween outfits are huge, means she'll be wearing them until Christmas - after all, pumpkins are fall too, right?
On top of having cute outfits, both Himself's boss and a neighbor bought her Halloween socks - purple with black spiders. She has worn them every day for the past week. And a friend gave us a package of baby hats as a gift - one of them is green, another one is orange - the kid is festively Halloween from head to toe.
Somehow, by just dressing Baby Girl up in cute Halloween clothing, I've managed to feel sort of, well, holidayish (if I can use that as a word). Festive, really. So festive I made pumpkin bars last night (another family tradition) for Himself and I to take to work and for Baby Girl to take to the sitter's. Of course, G didn't really appreciate this, since their delicate nature required I make two trips to the car this morning - leaving her sitting in her carseat on the living room floor until I could fetch her.
At the sitter's this morning, I was greeted by one of her 3-year-old charges - a girl who will someday rule the world, based on her personality - dressed as a cat. She asked what G was. G was wearing a long-sleeved, orange onesie with "I want candy" embroidered on it with candy corn and her green hat (with, of course, her purple spider socks). "She's a pumpkin," I replied. The sitter commented on her slew of cute Halloween outfits, making me doubly glad that I hadn't schlepped her to the sitter's in a two-sizes-too-big sleeper - she apparently does notice how I dress my child. It is a thought that makes me shiver - I can't match my own clothes (hence the East Coast all-black wardrobe), let alone someone else's.
Himself is really loving my newfound recognition of Halloween as a legitimate holiday. He loves Halloween. He especially loves it because I acquiesced and agreed that we could go out for sushi tonight to celebrate. I have not yet given in to his idea of going dressed up - because the thought of dragging my tired self home only to put on different clothes and make-up (not to mention thinking about what to put on) makes me want to curl up and go into a comatose state (which is what I'd be on if I sat down, as evidenced by how many times in the past two days I've fallen asleep feeding Baby Girl).
No matter. We'll still have fun. It might be the only Halloween in recent history I actually can say I enjoyed. Who knew a 7-week-old would end my almost decade-long apathy for all things Halloween?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
No Picky Eaters Here
(Side note: Himself and I probably BOTH qualify as picky eaters in our own ways, but I will eat anything put in front of me, except baloney and sea urchin, at least once. Himself isn't quite that accommodating).
After last night, I've realized I have high hopes (and reason to believe) Baby Girl (at least while on a completely liquid diet) is not picky in the slightest.
Yesterday's horrible, no good, very bad day continued to slide downhill with alarming speed. Baby Girl puked all over me and her (necessitating a second wardrobe change for both of us - er, rather one of us - she stayed half naked in her diaper from then on) when I went to pick her up from the sitter's. (I stopped myself from thinking that the smile mentioned in yesterday's post was really the "my head is safe" smile and the puking was the "take that mom!" reaction when I showed back up).
No big deal. She ate too much. Baby Girl pukes just like her mother - with great regularity for no apparent reason. Except, she didn't cry more than five minutes for the next 3 hours. And she refused to eat. But she smiled a lot - that little impish grin that has come to mean "You only THINK you have things under control." She was right.
I finally coaxed her to eat (Lesson #473 - having to coax an infant to eat is probably not a good sign). I picked her up to burp her and VOILA! baby puke all over my couch (and I mean ALL OVER - two whole cushions were casualties), all over me (remember the wardrobe changes? Yep, I too ended up in almost nothing), all over her and then all over the towel I grabbed as she deposited the last of any stomach contents on the nearest object.
And I thought my bad Monday was over.
I called the on-call pediatrician, because clearly an infant who has not kept food down in six hours is not a good thing. He was a bit more nonchalant about it than I felt and reassured me that the morning's bump on the head had nothing to do with her throwing up.
On his advice, I sent Himself to the store for Pedialite. Himself gave me a dirty look and protested that he was not dressed to go out. I glared at him and stood very close and stage whispered, "I have put all of my clothes I wore today - all two wardrobe changes - in the washing machine and I STILL smell like sour milk!" He quickly acquiesced, if only to escape whatever might come next.
And this is where I discovered Baby Girl is not picky. She already moves from nursing to bottle and back like a champ. Apparently the fact that grape Pedialite cannot possibly taste like breastmilk didn't even seem to register in her mind. While she wasn't particularly interested in eating period, she didn't even think twice about the yucky purple stuff in the bottle. By the second middle-of-the-night feeding (1 oz. of purple water doesn't stick around in one's tummy very long), she was sucking down COLD purple Pedialite like it was the best thing in the world.
Then she smiled. This time, I'm sure it was of the "You're the greatest mom ever" variety. Right then, in the dim corners of the Hobbit Hole, with Baby Girl snuggled in my fuzzy robe and smelling of something like grape-flavored sour milk, the world was perfect.
Maybe Mondays aren't so bad after all.
After last night, I've realized I have high hopes (and reason to believe) Baby Girl (at least while on a completely liquid diet) is not picky in the slightest.
Yesterday's horrible, no good, very bad day continued to slide downhill with alarming speed. Baby Girl puked all over me and her (necessitating a second wardrobe change for both of us - er, rather one of us - she stayed half naked in her diaper from then on) when I went to pick her up from the sitter's. (I stopped myself from thinking that the smile mentioned in yesterday's post was really the "my head is safe" smile and the puking was the "take that mom!" reaction when I showed back up).
No big deal. She ate too much. Baby Girl pukes just like her mother - with great regularity for no apparent reason. Except, she didn't cry more than five minutes for the next 3 hours. And she refused to eat. But she smiled a lot - that little impish grin that has come to mean "You only THINK you have things under control." She was right.
I finally coaxed her to eat (Lesson #473 - having to coax an infant to eat is probably not a good sign). I picked her up to burp her and VOILA! baby puke all over my couch (and I mean ALL OVER - two whole cushions were casualties), all over me (remember the wardrobe changes? Yep, I too ended up in almost nothing), all over her and then all over the towel I grabbed as she deposited the last of any stomach contents on the nearest object.
And I thought my bad Monday was over.
I called the on-call pediatrician, because clearly an infant who has not kept food down in six hours is not a good thing. He was a bit more nonchalant about it than I felt and reassured me that the morning's bump on the head had nothing to do with her throwing up.
On his advice, I sent Himself to the store for Pedialite. Himself gave me a dirty look and protested that he was not dressed to go out. I glared at him and stood very close and stage whispered, "I have put all of my clothes I wore today - all two wardrobe changes - in the washing machine and I STILL smell like sour milk!" He quickly acquiesced, if only to escape whatever might come next.
And this is where I discovered Baby Girl is not picky. She already moves from nursing to bottle and back like a champ. Apparently the fact that grape Pedialite cannot possibly taste like breastmilk didn't even seem to register in her mind. While she wasn't particularly interested in eating period, she didn't even think twice about the yucky purple stuff in the bottle. By the second middle-of-the-night feeding (1 oz. of purple water doesn't stick around in one's tummy very long), she was sucking down COLD purple Pedialite like it was the best thing in the world.
Then she smiled. This time, I'm sure it was of the "You're the greatest mom ever" variety. Right then, in the dim corners of the Hobbit Hole, with Baby Girl snuggled in my fuzzy robe and smelling of something like grape-flavored sour milk, the world was perfect.
Maybe Mondays aren't so bad after all.
Monday, October 29, 2007
A Petition to End Mondays
It is hereby declared that Mondays shall be banished, effective immediately. The 24 hours allotted to Mondays will be absorbed into weekend days. The workweek will commence with Tuesdays as of today.
The reasons for this are as follows:
*This morning flowed far too smoothly for me to actually pull it off well. In a flurry of activity, I turned a corner too fast into the nursery and bumped Baby Girl's head. For her, it was a minor bump and a bigger scare. For me, it signalled the fact that I am (as I suspected) a horribly inept mother. She cried. I cried, called Himself to confirm I hadn't permanently damaged her, and cried some more. In fact, long after Baby Girl stopped crying, I continued to cry. She smiled at me when I dropped her off at the sitter - I'm not sure if it was a smile of "I really do love you mom, you're forgiven" or "Yes! Someone else is watching me so my little head is safe for the moment." I'm pretending it was the former.
*I was ready to leave the house - on time - when, loaded down with Baby Girl, my laptop case, my pumping bag and my lunch, I discovered that I had not removed my keys from the glove compartment, where I had put them on the drive back from the Great Frozen North yesterday afternoon (Himself drove, I took my keys as backup. I was afraid I would lose them and made a grave error in judgement, putting them where I would forget them). My keys were now LOCKED INSIDE the car, rendering me stuck at home.
No matter. I figured I would call Himself and he could rescue me much like I rescued him two weeks ago when he locked his keys in his car at work. Except Himself is the only one in the lab this week and can't leave. He reminded me that our car has roadside assistance. I called. They wanted the VIN#. Wouldn't you know, in the stack of bills, I couldn't find a single one with anything about my car on it? The lady took pity on my and looked it up.
*While waiting the 90 minutes for the locksmith to show up, I tried to get some work done from home. Baby Girl, who had fallen asleep amidst all the drama, woke up again. While feeding her, I began to feel strangely warm. I looked down. Baby Girl had soaked both me and herself, necessitating a complete wardrobe change for both of us - just as the locksmith showed up.
I finally dropped Baby Girl off at the sitter's and made it to work - nearly 2.5 hours late.
Therefore, we hereby declare that Mondays no longer exist, due to rising tensions, excessive stress and unhealthy levels of dread.
The reasons for this are as follows:
*This morning flowed far too smoothly for me to actually pull it off well. In a flurry of activity, I turned a corner too fast into the nursery and bumped Baby Girl's head. For her, it was a minor bump and a bigger scare. For me, it signalled the fact that I am (as I suspected) a horribly inept mother. She cried. I cried, called Himself to confirm I hadn't permanently damaged her, and cried some more. In fact, long after Baby Girl stopped crying, I continued to cry. She smiled at me when I dropped her off at the sitter - I'm not sure if it was a smile of "I really do love you mom, you're forgiven" or "Yes! Someone else is watching me so my little head is safe for the moment." I'm pretending it was the former.
*I was ready to leave the house - on time - when, loaded down with Baby Girl, my laptop case, my pumping bag and my lunch, I discovered that I had not removed my keys from the glove compartment, where I had put them on the drive back from the Great Frozen North yesterday afternoon (Himself drove, I took my keys as backup. I was afraid I would lose them and made a grave error in judgement, putting them where I would forget them). My keys were now LOCKED INSIDE the car, rendering me stuck at home.
No matter. I figured I would call Himself and he could rescue me much like I rescued him two weeks ago when he locked his keys in his car at work. Except Himself is the only one in the lab this week and can't leave. He reminded me that our car has roadside assistance. I called. They wanted the VIN#. Wouldn't you know, in the stack of bills, I couldn't find a single one with anything about my car on it? The lady took pity on my and looked it up.
*While waiting the 90 minutes for the locksmith to show up, I tried to get some work done from home. Baby Girl, who had fallen asleep amidst all the drama, woke up again. While feeding her, I began to feel strangely warm. I looked down. Baby Girl had soaked both me and herself, necessitating a complete wardrobe change for both of us - just as the locksmith showed up.
I finally dropped Baby Girl off at the sitter's and made it to work - nearly 2.5 hours late.
Therefore, we hereby declare that Mondays no longer exist, due to rising tensions, excessive stress and unhealthy levels of dread.
File This Under Ridiculous
FEMA, struggling to recover from the black eye it gave itself two years ago over the handling of Hurricane Katrina, faked its own news conference - by filling the journalists' seats with federal employees.
As someone who has organized and attended press conferences, I'm still trying to decide why they thought faking a press conference would be a good idea.
FEMA was once one of my clients - during my short stint working for a PR firm in downtown DC. They were ridiculous then, but that was 7+ years ago. Their recent antics make their issues when I was their bottom-of-the-totem-pole PR girl look like nothing.
If I was Mr. Widomski, I think I'd be packing for an extended stay at someone's remote Italian villa about now.
"We had been getting mobbed with phone calls from reporters, and this was thrown together at the last minute," said deputy director Mike Widomski, of FEMA's public affairs.
As someone who has organized and attended press conferences, I'm still trying to decide why they thought faking a press conference would be a good idea.
FEMA was once one of my clients - during my short stint working for a PR firm in downtown DC. They were ridiculous then, but that was 7+ years ago. Their recent antics make their issues when I was their bottom-of-the-totem-pole PR girl look like nothing.
If I was Mr. Widomski, I think I'd be packing for an extended stay at someone's remote Italian villa about now.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Service Included
I love food.
This does not mean I necessarily love eating. I have to be in the right mood to eat, a problem given my current milking status. But I love food in all of its incantations.
I love cooking.
I love selecting produce (and meats) - though I hate grocery shopping.
I love farmer's markets.
I love cookbooks.
I love the Food Network (especially anything with Alton Brown).
I love trying new food (not the same as eating).
I love festivals with food.
I love talking about food with anyone who also likes it - one of the reasons Himself and I get along so well - we sit and dissect the potential ingredients of anything new we eat and play amateur critic at every new restaurant we visit.
Most of all, I love reading about food.
Because food is a growing obsession, there are more and more books out about food - especially narrative nonfictions - one of my favorite genres to read. Favorites include: Julie & Julia a dialogue about a woman who sets out to cook and eat every recipe in Julia Child's The Joy of French Cooking in her tiny New York apartment, Garlic & Sapphires - the delightful tale of Ruth Reichl's misadventures and split personalities she creates as the New York Times restaurant critic, and Kitchen Confidential - Anthony Bourdain's behind-the-scenes look at the underbelly of the culinary world.
This weekend, I gleefully picked up a new narrative - Service Included from the library - the very first patron to check it out. I read the entire thing on the drive to and from visiting Himself's family in The Great Frozen North. It was, as Anthony Bourdain would have referred to it (and as the author commented on), "Food Porn." I was in absolute drooling heaven as I read the author's narrative about her 18-month stint as a captain at Per Se, the NYC offspring of Napa Valley's The French Laundry.
More than my love of reading about a 4-star restaurant from the waitstaff's point of view, was my vibrant memories of my one (and probably only) dining experience at a similar restaurant - Maestro at the Tysons Corner Ritz Carlton. As she described the food, the philosophies, the adventures, the setting, I replaced it all in my mind with my own 4-star experience. Chef Keller became Chef Trabocchi. Laura, the manager, became Emile. NYC became Tysons Corner. The food - American with a French influence became regional Italian with an American influence.
Last Halloween, Himself and I took advantage of a complimentary dinner at Maestro as guests of the chef and manager. I had hired the entire back-of-house restaurant staff for an event earlier in the month and was rewarded with the most exquisite dining experience of my entire life.
We, as guests of the chef, were given no menu - instead we were asked if the chef could cook for us (of course!) and how many courses we would prefer (Himself, starving, answered that the suggested 7 courses was fine). What we didn't realize is that, as guests of the chef, we would also get several extra courses - resulting in an 11-course, 3.5-hour dinner that stuffed us so full we didn't eat for another 24 hours. It was absolutely divine.
For 3.5 hours we were the only people in the universe, it felt. A cast of waitstaff swirled around us, anticipating our every need before we even knew we needed it. We sat, entranced, watching our food prepared in the open kitchen - like watching a silent ballet. We enjoyed the 50+ bite-sized dishes (tasting again - my favorite way to eat). We tried not to look like a couple of "wanna bes" and tried to limit our amazement and drooling to after everything was said and done.
Had we paid for the meal, we would have been out $400+, not including tax and tip. It cost us the extra $40 I put toward the 20% gratuity the house picked up for us (a startling revelation - I never expected the house to also comp our tip!). We left, feeling uncomfortably full and completely satiated, vowing to never forget the experience.
It made reading Service Included even better because I had lived, even if only for a few hours, a 4-star life, and I could easily picture everything she described - the sites, the sounds, the indescribable flavor of black and white truffles, the feeling of being the only people in the room - the most important people in that split second.
It made the red curry we had for dinner last night very dull indeed.
This does not mean I necessarily love eating. I have to be in the right mood to eat, a problem given my current milking status. But I love food in all of its incantations.
I love cooking.
I love selecting produce (and meats) - though I hate grocery shopping.
I love farmer's markets.
I love cookbooks.
I love the Food Network (especially anything with Alton Brown).
I love trying new food (not the same as eating).
I love festivals with food.
I love talking about food with anyone who also likes it - one of the reasons Himself and I get along so well - we sit and dissect the potential ingredients of anything new we eat and play amateur critic at every new restaurant we visit.
Most of all, I love reading about food.
Because food is a growing obsession, there are more and more books out about food - especially narrative nonfictions - one of my favorite genres to read. Favorites include: Julie & Julia a dialogue about a woman who sets out to cook and eat every recipe in Julia Child's The Joy of French Cooking in her tiny New York apartment, Garlic & Sapphires - the delightful tale of Ruth Reichl's misadventures and split personalities she creates as the New York Times restaurant critic, and Kitchen Confidential - Anthony Bourdain's behind-the-scenes look at the underbelly of the culinary world.
This weekend, I gleefully picked up a new narrative - Service Included from the library - the very first patron to check it out. I read the entire thing on the drive to and from visiting Himself's family in The Great Frozen North. It was, as Anthony Bourdain would have referred to it (and as the author commented on), "Food Porn." I was in absolute drooling heaven as I read the author's narrative about her 18-month stint as a captain at Per Se, the NYC offspring of Napa Valley's The French Laundry.
More than my love of reading about a 4-star restaurant from the waitstaff's point of view, was my vibrant memories of my one (and probably only) dining experience at a similar restaurant - Maestro at the Tysons Corner Ritz Carlton. As she described the food, the philosophies, the adventures, the setting, I replaced it all in my mind with my own 4-star experience. Chef Keller became Chef Trabocchi. Laura, the manager, became Emile. NYC became Tysons Corner. The food - American with a French influence became regional Italian with an American influence.
Last Halloween, Himself and I took advantage of a complimentary dinner at Maestro as guests of the chef and manager. I had hired the entire back-of-house restaurant staff for an event earlier in the month and was rewarded with the most exquisite dining experience of my entire life.
We, as guests of the chef, were given no menu - instead we were asked if the chef could cook for us (of course!) and how many courses we would prefer (Himself, starving, answered that the suggested 7 courses was fine). What we didn't realize is that, as guests of the chef, we would also get several extra courses - resulting in an 11-course, 3.5-hour dinner that stuffed us so full we didn't eat for another 24 hours. It was absolutely divine.
For 3.5 hours we were the only people in the universe, it felt. A cast of waitstaff swirled around us, anticipating our every need before we even knew we needed it. We sat, entranced, watching our food prepared in the open kitchen - like watching a silent ballet. We enjoyed the 50+ bite-sized dishes (tasting again - my favorite way to eat). We tried not to look like a couple of "wanna bes" and tried to limit our amazement and drooling to after everything was said and done.
Had we paid for the meal, we would have been out $400+, not including tax and tip. It cost us the extra $40 I put toward the 20% gratuity the house picked up for us (a startling revelation - I never expected the house to also comp our tip!). We left, feeling uncomfortably full and completely satiated, vowing to never forget the experience.
It made reading Service Included even better because I had lived, even if only for a few hours, a 4-star life, and I could easily picture everything she described - the sites, the sounds, the indescribable flavor of black and white truffles, the feeling of being the only people in the room - the most important people in that split second.
It made the red curry we had for dinner last night very dull indeed.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Stalked by a Vampire
I have a pretty high tolerance for stupidity, lack of common sense and plain old annyoing behaviors. For me, there is quite a distance between aggravating me and leaving me flat out furious.
The Red Cross has found, and crossed, that line.
Three years ago, in the spirit of helping out the daughter of a friend, I succombed to my fear of donating blood and sat with a needle in my arm for several minutes. I am not afraid of needles. Quite the contrary. I'm afraid of passing out. I have very low blood pressure and very low blood sugar - if you take a large amount of blood out of me, I wobble. But, I gritted my teeth and did it.
Turns out, I have O+ blood - I am a universal donor.
Guess what that means?
Yep. The Red Cross calls me ALL THE TIME.
It wouldn't be so bad - I didn't pass out that time, I enjoyed the juice and cookies, I didn't break out in hives from the bandage they used (I'm allergic to adhesives - go figure). However, nearly a year later I was diagnosed with a condition that now prohibits me from donating blood.
I have explained this, quite patiently, to the Red Cross in subsequent calls. Each time I have to re-explain it and asked to be removed from their list, I get an assurance it will happen. It never does.
Several months ago, the gentleman on the other end admitted there are SEVERAL lists - how I ended up on all of them, I'm not sure. I pictured the Red Cross gleefully sending my phone number and blood time to every call center they have, with a note that said, "Call her! She's got perfect blood!" (Of course, in my mind, the Red Cross is looking more and more like Count von Count on Sesame Street - maybe it's the season).
It was aggravating. This month, they crossed the line to furious.
For days I had been receiving calls coming up as "unavailable" on my caller ID. I didn't answer, figuring if they really wanted to reach me (they called only during the day, during which I would theoretically be at work) they would leave a message. They never did. I started charting the calls. I was getting 4-5 calls a day, some within just minutes of each other.
I finally answered. Silence. They use one of those auto dialers that only connects when you pick up. I waited. Still nothing. I hung up. They called back 10 minutes later. I didn't answer. No message. An hour later, they called again. I answered.
"Hello?"
"This is the American Red Cross calling for Sara"
At this point I am considering banging my head on the nearest solid object. I explain that I can no longer give blood and to PLEASE stop calling me. She again confessed there are more than one list. I explained that I have probably spoken with the Red Cross at least once a month for the past 2 1/2 years - that's approximately 30 times I've actually SPOKEN to them. How many more lists could their be?! She didn't know. Of course not. She is making $6 an hour at a call center in Timbuktu, far removed from the acutal Red Cross.
I won't boycott the Red Cross - I think they do good work. But I am searching for somewhere I can contact to stop them from stalking me.
I feel bad, I really do. But it makes me want to yell, "Watch out if you donate blood - you will be stalked by a vampire for the rest of your natural life," to anyone who is considering donating blood. Really. Could they limit their calling to once a day? That, at least, would be approaching something close to reasonable.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
And This is the Other Reason(s) I Moved...
We're sleeping with the windows open, to keep our bedroom cooler than the rest of the house. The Frontier has rabbit brush, sage brush and grass. Three things to which I am highly allergic, which pollenate in the fall.
It has been a great reminder of one good thing about pregnancy - I had zero allergy or asthma issues, which is great since I couldn't take any of my normal meds (still can't, since I'm nursing, but that's another rant).
Even worse, however, the past three weekends in The Frontier have been C-R-U-M-M-Y. Snow, wind, rain and freezing temps.
Of course, our cold-weather clothes are still in the various boxes that haven't been unpacked. *sigh* I had forgotten how long winter is in this place and how dark, gray and gloomy it is when it really storms. The mountains seem to block every bit of light that might seep through the heavy cloud cover. It is during winter that the mountains make me feel closterphobic.
I turned to Himself a couple of days ago and said, "And now I remember the OTHER reason I left this place ..."
I hate winter.
I hate inversion.
I hate driving in snow.
Give me ridiculous people freaking out over forecasted snow, snow days and the wide open horizons of a Northern Virginia winter any day.
It's only October, and I already feel like hibernating ...
It has been a great reminder of one good thing about pregnancy - I had zero allergy or asthma issues, which is great since I couldn't take any of my normal meds (still can't, since I'm nursing, but that's another rant).
Even worse, however, the past three weekends in The Frontier have been C-R-U-M-M-Y. Snow, wind, rain and freezing temps.
Of course, our cold-weather clothes are still in the various boxes that haven't been unpacked. *sigh* I had forgotten how long winter is in this place and how dark, gray and gloomy it is when it really storms. The mountains seem to block every bit of light that might seep through the heavy cloud cover. It is during winter that the mountains make me feel closterphobic.
I turned to Himself a couple of days ago and said, "And now I remember the OTHER reason I left this place ..."
I hate winter.
I hate inversion.
I hate driving in snow.
Give me ridiculous people freaking out over forecasted snow, snow days and the wide open horizons of a Northern Virginia winter any day.
It's only October, and I already feel like hibernating ...
Monday, October 22, 2007
To Have and To Hold
Nothing can adequately describe the incredible range of emotions I have felt over the last 6 weeks, but this photo, taken last week, comes pretty close:
Baby Girl is growing, but still tiny. While nearly longer than most just-born babies, she has yet to reach the birth weight of any of the babies born to my friends over the past two months. Last week, she began smiling when smiled at during her happy periods right after being fed and having her diaper changed. Tummy time is limited since she is so wiggly - she always ends up on her side or her back. "Back to Sleep" is no longer, as she learned to turn onto her side at Day 4 and, while I still put her down on her back, she steadfastly refuses to stay that way any longer than 30 seconds. She loves nothing more than to hang out over a shoulder - content to watch the world from up high. She is just beginning to discover texture - fingering everything with which she comes into contact.
I've grown to love the feeding times I once dreaded - to indulge in holding her and watching her tiny hands grab onto anything within reach. Himself and I fight over who gets to hold her when we're cold - as Baby Girl has inherited her father's ability to radiate startling amounts of heat.
She is starting to coo and make happy baby noises that one could interpret for a slightly more two-sided conversation. When faced with a new scene or a different angle, Baby Girl turns and twists and stares, trying to take it all in. She delighted the entire back row of Sunday School yesterday (her first foray to church) by smiling and craning her neck to take everything in.
My heart is full of perfect love I didn't know existed.
And my heart aches because on Wednesday I will have to drop her off at Miss Jan's and try not to smear my make up as I cry all the way to work.
It's been six weeks and already she is growing up way too fast.
Baby Girl is growing, but still tiny. While nearly longer than most just-born babies, she has yet to reach the birth weight of any of the babies born to my friends over the past two months. Last week, she began smiling when smiled at during her happy periods right after being fed and having her diaper changed. Tummy time is limited since she is so wiggly - she always ends up on her side or her back. "Back to Sleep" is no longer, as she learned to turn onto her side at Day 4 and, while I still put her down on her back, she steadfastly refuses to stay that way any longer than 30 seconds. She loves nothing more than to hang out over a shoulder - content to watch the world from up high. She is just beginning to discover texture - fingering everything with which she comes into contact.
I've grown to love the feeding times I once dreaded - to indulge in holding her and watching her tiny hands grab onto anything within reach. Himself and I fight over who gets to hold her when we're cold - as Baby Girl has inherited her father's ability to radiate startling amounts of heat.
She is starting to coo and make happy baby noises that one could interpret for a slightly more two-sided conversation. When faced with a new scene or a different angle, Baby Girl turns and twists and stares, trying to take it all in. She delighted the entire back row of Sunday School yesterday (her first foray to church) by smiling and craning her neck to take everything in.
My heart is full of perfect love I didn't know existed.
And my heart aches because on Wednesday I will have to drop her off at Miss Jan's and try not to smear my make up as I cry all the way to work.
It's been six weeks and already she is growing up way too fast.
Domestic Hijinks
4 bushels of apples
1 bushel of green tomatoes
1/2 bushel of ripe, red tomatoes
8 lbs. of ground elk
1 blind guy
1 incredibly domestic diva
1 domestic flunkie
2 infant girls
Somehow, while at my parents' house last week, my dad, sister and I managed to create a 2-day marathon involving food, countless dishes, all four burners on the kitchen stove, plus the two burners on the gas stove outside, the oven, the neighbor's steamer, the food dehydrator, the Vita Mix, the juicer, some funky fruit/vegetable puree machine, every pot my mother owns and a surprising amount of fun.
I've never been so exhausted.
On my way down to my parents' house, I stopped by an orchard and picked up 4 bushels of apples, adding them to the tomatoes I was bringing down. The produce, added to one retired blind guy (my father) and myself, turned into a kitchen marathon not seen in my mother's kitchen in a decade. My sister (domestic goddess that she is) was recruited to help supervise and to lend a hand, thereby increasing the number of projects we could have going at one time.
The kitchen hummed along. At one point, both girls (Baby Girl and my niece) were in their seats on the counter - involved in the action. At another point, my sister had my niece strapped to her in a Snugli and I was peeling apples with Baby G swaddled and over my shoulder.
My mom made the mistake of coming home for lunch on Day 1 - and turning right back around and fleeing back to work at the first opportunity. When she came home that night she hid in the den until shouts of "All Clear" eminated from the kitchen. She was afraid. Very afraid. Who wouldn't be with such a hodge-podge wrecking crew inhabiting her kitchen?
But no one complained at the results.
Day 1 Produced:
*32 pints of applesauce
*Enough juice for 32 half pints of apple jelly (the apple jelly would have been made and canned as well, except no one could find the recipe and everyone was too scared to call mom, lest she go completely nuts and run away until all signs of Dad's "project" had abated.
*2 apple pies
*1 pan of Danish Apple Bars
*10 pints of green tomato (chalupa) sauce - (this in addition to the 16 pints' worth I had made for myself before my trip down south to visit the parents)
*And a pork roast to go with the green tomato sauce for dinner
Day 2 Produced:
*22 pints of applesauce
*Enough juice for another 32 half pints of apple jelly
*Elk jerky
*8 pints of homemade tomato bisque
*And a pan of homemade chicken and dumplings for dinner
With the help of a neighbor, Google and some information in Mom's pantry, we taught ourselves to can - with startling success. We peeled, cut, simmered, sirred, measured, juiced, sauced, bottled, sealed, froze, dehydrated and cleaned for the entire two days, all the while regaling each other with funny memories of other kitchen marathons from childhood ('Remember when mom used to circle the bottle to mark the worms that accidentally got in the peaches because dad couldn't see them?", "Remember S using a plastic knife to help since he was too little for a real one?" "Remember the 25 dozen cookies we made for Dad's fire crew?" and on and on).
The kitchen was a cacophony of timer bells, knives chopping, hot water hissing and shouts of "hooray!"" each time a bottle of applesauce sealed and popped - accompanied by the occassional fussy baby noises. When we were done, we dined on the fruits of our labors.
When Mom finally dared ask about the results of the domestic endeavors, Dad proudly proclaimed, "This canning stuff is fun! I'm going to have to do it more often." When she reminded Dad that the produce season was almost over, he exlaimed, "That's okay! I'm going to teach myself to bake bread next."
Mom just sighed.
I hope that heaven is as wonderful as those two days.
1 bushel of green tomatoes
1/2 bushel of ripe, red tomatoes
8 lbs. of ground elk
1 blind guy
1 incredibly domestic diva
1 domestic flunkie
2 infant girls
Somehow, while at my parents' house last week, my dad, sister and I managed to create a 2-day marathon involving food, countless dishes, all four burners on the kitchen stove, plus the two burners on the gas stove outside, the oven, the neighbor's steamer, the food dehydrator, the Vita Mix, the juicer, some funky fruit/vegetable puree machine, every pot my mother owns and a surprising amount of fun.
I've never been so exhausted.
On my way down to my parents' house, I stopped by an orchard and picked up 4 bushels of apples, adding them to the tomatoes I was bringing down. The produce, added to one retired blind guy (my father) and myself, turned into a kitchen marathon not seen in my mother's kitchen in a decade. My sister (domestic goddess that she is) was recruited to help supervise and to lend a hand, thereby increasing the number of projects we could have going at one time.
The kitchen hummed along. At one point, both girls (Baby Girl and my niece) were in their seats on the counter - involved in the action. At another point, my sister had my niece strapped to her in a Snugli and I was peeling apples with Baby G swaddled and over my shoulder.
My mom made the mistake of coming home for lunch on Day 1 - and turning right back around and fleeing back to work at the first opportunity. When she came home that night she hid in the den until shouts of "All Clear" eminated from the kitchen. She was afraid. Very afraid. Who wouldn't be with such a hodge-podge wrecking crew inhabiting her kitchen?
But no one complained at the results.
Day 1 Produced:
*32 pints of applesauce
*Enough juice for 32 half pints of apple jelly (the apple jelly would have been made and canned as well, except no one could find the recipe and everyone was too scared to call mom, lest she go completely nuts and run away until all signs of Dad's "project" had abated.
*2 apple pies
*1 pan of Danish Apple Bars
*10 pints of green tomato (chalupa) sauce - (this in addition to the 16 pints' worth I had made for myself before my trip down south to visit the parents)
*And a pork roast to go with the green tomato sauce for dinner
Day 2 Produced:
*22 pints of applesauce
*Enough juice for another 32 half pints of apple jelly
*Elk jerky
*8 pints of homemade tomato bisque
*And a pan of homemade chicken and dumplings for dinner
With the help of a neighbor, Google and some information in Mom's pantry, we taught ourselves to can - with startling success. We peeled, cut, simmered, sirred, measured, juiced, sauced, bottled, sealed, froze, dehydrated and cleaned for the entire two days, all the while regaling each other with funny memories of other kitchen marathons from childhood ('Remember when mom used to circle the bottle to mark the worms that accidentally got in the peaches because dad couldn't see them?", "Remember S using a plastic knife to help since he was too little for a real one?" "Remember the 25 dozen cookies we made for Dad's fire crew?" and on and on).
The kitchen was a cacophony of timer bells, knives chopping, hot water hissing and shouts of "hooray!"" each time a bottle of applesauce sealed and popped - accompanied by the occassional fussy baby noises. When we were done, we dined on the fruits of our labors.
When Mom finally dared ask about the results of the domestic endeavors, Dad proudly proclaimed, "This canning stuff is fun! I'm going to have to do it more often." When she reminded Dad that the produce season was almost over, he exlaimed, "That's okay! I'm going to teach myself to bake bread next."
Mom just sighed.
I hope that heaven is as wonderful as those two days.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Nannying for the Nanny
My dad is my sister's nanny.
This in and of itself is humorous, but becomes more so when one realizes that he is legally blind and hasn't held an infant since my youngest brother was born almost a quarter century ago.
My niece is 5 1/2 months old and the family entertainer. She is at the age where she mimics everything from facial guestures to sounds - including the sound of her male relatives on her father's side spitting (imagine a 13-pound little girl sounding like she's trying to cough up phlegm - amusing, to say the least). "Papa" has come up with unique childcare techniques, including pushing the baby around in the stroller inside the house when she's fussy, entertaining her (supervised, of course) using common household objects like paperplates, a plastic egg seperator and a Tupperware melon baller, and outdoor stroller adventures in to visit the dog and hang the laundry in the backyard or longer rides to visit the horses several blocks away.
I am visiting this week, which means my parents' house looks like a baby depot and Dad and I hang out with the two little girls all day. In other words, a five-ring circus minus the clowns. Today, Dad had to visit the dentist. I, in a fit of what was probably complete insanity, volunteered to watch both girls - while I was on a conference call for work.
Baby G was sleeping (easy enough) and my niece was in the swing, happily slobbering on anything in a two-foot radius. As the conference call began to wind down, my niece got fussy. In a fit of desperation, I stuck my foot, clad in an oddly stripped fuzzy house sock, on her tray and began to make puppet motions with my toes. She smiled, then gurgled, then began to laugh a belly laugh I didn't know a baby could produce. She squealed with delight. My boss, on the other end of the phone said, "That can't possibly be your baby."
I confessed that I was babysitting while trying to discuss the merits of having a corporate philanthropy page on a client's website. Then I thought about what I must look like, clad in an oversized sweatshirt covered in drool and spit up, sitting at the dining room table on my laptop with my fuzzy-sock-clad foot propped up on the swing, toes waggling wildly, with one eye on Baby G who slept nearby. At least the babies didn't have snot coming out of their noses, thereby leaving me just shy of being the unkempt housewife with dirty, screaming kids.
The call ended. It was time to feed Baby G. I sat my niece by my side (she sits if she can lean on something) and occupied her with an assortment of Papa's household objects while I fed Baby G. Then the phone rang. It was for me. Then my cell rang. My mom arrived home about the time both phones were ringing and I had reintroduced the fuzzy sock foot puppet along with the household objects and paperplate into the niece entertainment division - all while Baby G munched happily away - oblivious to the world.
For some odd reason, even amidst the chaos, I was asked to sit for a few minutes again tonight, while everyone shuffled to and from their evening engagements.
I was nothing short of surprised.
This in and of itself is humorous, but becomes more so when one realizes that he is legally blind and hasn't held an infant since my youngest brother was born almost a quarter century ago.
My niece is 5 1/2 months old and the family entertainer. She is at the age where she mimics everything from facial guestures to sounds - including the sound of her male relatives on her father's side spitting (imagine a 13-pound little girl sounding like she's trying to cough up phlegm - amusing, to say the least). "Papa" has come up with unique childcare techniques, including pushing the baby around in the stroller inside the house when she's fussy, entertaining her (supervised, of course) using common household objects like paperplates, a plastic egg seperator and a Tupperware melon baller, and outdoor stroller adventures in to visit the dog and hang the laundry in the backyard or longer rides to visit the horses several blocks away.
I am visiting this week, which means my parents' house looks like a baby depot and Dad and I hang out with the two little girls all day. In other words, a five-ring circus minus the clowns. Today, Dad had to visit the dentist. I, in a fit of what was probably complete insanity, volunteered to watch both girls - while I was on a conference call for work.
Baby G was sleeping (easy enough) and my niece was in the swing, happily slobbering on anything in a two-foot radius. As the conference call began to wind down, my niece got fussy. In a fit of desperation, I stuck my foot, clad in an oddly stripped fuzzy house sock, on her tray and began to make puppet motions with my toes. She smiled, then gurgled, then began to laugh a belly laugh I didn't know a baby could produce. She squealed with delight. My boss, on the other end of the phone said, "That can't possibly be your baby."
I confessed that I was babysitting while trying to discuss the merits of having a corporate philanthropy page on a client's website. Then I thought about what I must look like, clad in an oversized sweatshirt covered in drool and spit up, sitting at the dining room table on my laptop with my fuzzy-sock-clad foot propped up on the swing, toes waggling wildly, with one eye on Baby G who slept nearby. At least the babies didn't have snot coming out of their noses, thereby leaving me just shy of being the unkempt housewife with dirty, screaming kids.
The call ended. It was time to feed Baby G. I sat my niece by my side (she sits if she can lean on something) and occupied her with an assortment of Papa's household objects while I fed Baby G. Then the phone rang. It was for me. Then my cell rang. My mom arrived home about the time both phones were ringing and I had reintroduced the fuzzy sock foot puppet along with the household objects and paperplate into the niece entertainment division - all while Baby G munched happily away - oblivious to the world.
For some odd reason, even amidst the chaos, I was asked to sit for a few minutes again tonight, while everyone shuffled to and from their evening engagements.
I was nothing short of surprised.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
SAHM = Save A Harried Mother
Okay, not really. But I think that even with one child, a small apartment and modern technology, I now know that I was right in thinking I will never be June Cleaver or Donna Reed.
This weekend was a rough weekend, with the first signs of winter giving me a preview of yet another reason why I fled Happy Valley and The Frontier the first (and second) time. I decided this week, with it's sunny 60-70-degree glory, was going to be better. I was going to tackle one room a day, so by the end of the week I wasn't looking at disasters that were better suited for a bachelor pad.
Monday started with both Baby G and I all discombobulated because we had to be out of the house by 9:30 in order to make a 10:15 appointment in the suburbs. Never in my life (since freshman year at USU when I had stayed out all night) have I, the self-proclaimed morning person, had such an ordeal making it out of the house by 9:30. Somehow, when I have to be somehwere, it suddenly takes three times as long to feed, diaper and dress Baby G. Somehow, I've forgotten how to look cute and my clothes don't fit, so it took me three times as long to get ready.
The insanity continued when Himself called to see if we'd pay him a visit at work so he could show Baby G off. No problem - except he works on the opposite end of the valley in a lab that is not close to any visitor parking. I drove to the hospital, parked in the visitor garage and lugged Baby G in her carseat (cursing the fact that Himself took the stroller out of the trunk) through the emergency entrance, up to the main lobby, across the sky bridge, up to the medical school labs, through the nephrology department into Himself's lab. At that point I was praying lenghthy prayers of gratitude that Baby G doesn't even weigh as much as her carseat yet.
We arrived home in time to feed G and for me to sort out a near-disaster at work. Then it was time to make dinner. Somehow, I managed to throw together Balti Chicken and Veggies between running in to save Baby G from whatever disaster was causing her to melt down in gut-wrenching sobs (it was usually the pesky pacifier falling out that was the culprit).
Tuesday actually went almost as planned. Baby G actually slept, which meant I managed to do several batches of laundry. I also re-discovered my coffee table for the first time in a month. The vacuum even made an appearance. I got some work done and the dishwasher loaded and run. Unfortunately, the laundry didn't actually get folded or put away - instead it took up what seems like semi-permanent residence in my armchair. I didn't mind - I got dressed for no reason, made Spanish chicken and rice and paid a visit to a potential sitter for Baby G. So what if the laundry didn't get done? I could fold it tomorrow, after which I'd tackle the bathroom.
Except Wednesday came and it was just as insane as Monday, because Baby G refused to nap and somehow the kitchen had become a massive disaster overnight. So, the laundry remained. I strapped Baby G to my chest in her Snugli and set to work unloading and loading the dishwasher and finding the countertops. Then we went up the canyon. I managed to make tacos, only because the world stood still just long enough to fry up ground beef and throw the other fixings out on the counter.
No matter - I could do some work and straighten up after Baby G went to bed. Except, Baby G never went to bed. She slept, but only fitfully, and only in my arms, which meant I spent most of the night on the couch trying to read by the light of the nightlight so I didn't disturb Baby G anymore than she already was.
Today I didn't have to be anywhere - the perfect day to try to tackle another room and the growing pile of laundry (I had, after all, accomplished another batch yesterday, since Baby G insists on never leaving the hamper standing empty). Unfortunately, Baby G's persistent tummy troubles remained and she didn't sleep. I managed to get in a batch of pumpkin bars (barely) requested by Himself, to take to visit a friend tonight. Never before has a simple recipe manifested itself into a three-ring circus as I tried to talk on the phone, eat the chicken noodle soup my mom brought when she was up, talk on the phone and carry Baby G around in her Snugli, since she's still on the "I'm not sleeping unless half of me is draped across or next to some body part of mommy's" kick. Somehow, amongst all the chaos, I didn't hear the timer go off. Luckily I thought, "this has been the longest 20 minutes of my life," and lo and behold a half hour had gone by. Apparently one cannot burn pumpkin bars merely by overcooking them for 10 minutes. We won't tell Himself.
So, the week draws to a close tomorrow and the only thing I've actually accomplished is finding the coffee table. Even that is doubtful, as it now harbors several stray things that weren't there on Tuesday. The laundry still taunts me from its armchair throne, the bathroom still looks like the aftermath of a wartorn country, Baby G's room looks like the dumping ground for all things lost and misplaced (thanks to the menfolk assembling her new crib last weekend without actually making room for it first) and our room looks like someone is contemplating running away, due to the clothing strewn from here to there and the half-empty suitcase on the floor from last week's visit to The Parents' house.
So much for ambition.
This weekend was a rough weekend, with the first signs of winter giving me a preview of yet another reason why I fled Happy Valley and The Frontier the first (and second) time. I decided this week, with it's sunny 60-70-degree glory, was going to be better. I was going to tackle one room a day, so by the end of the week I wasn't looking at disasters that were better suited for a bachelor pad.
Monday started with both Baby G and I all discombobulated because we had to be out of the house by 9:30 in order to make a 10:15 appointment in the suburbs. Never in my life (since freshman year at USU when I had stayed out all night) have I, the self-proclaimed morning person, had such an ordeal making it out of the house by 9:30. Somehow, when I have to be somehwere, it suddenly takes three times as long to feed, diaper and dress Baby G. Somehow, I've forgotten how to look cute and my clothes don't fit, so it took me three times as long to get ready.
The insanity continued when Himself called to see if we'd pay him a visit at work so he could show Baby G off. No problem - except he works on the opposite end of the valley in a lab that is not close to any visitor parking. I drove to the hospital, parked in the visitor garage and lugged Baby G in her carseat (cursing the fact that Himself took the stroller out of the trunk) through the emergency entrance, up to the main lobby, across the sky bridge, up to the medical school labs, through the nephrology department into Himself's lab. At that point I was praying lenghthy prayers of gratitude that Baby G doesn't even weigh as much as her carseat yet.
We arrived home in time to feed G and for me to sort out a near-disaster at work. Then it was time to make dinner. Somehow, I managed to throw together Balti Chicken and Veggies between running in to save Baby G from whatever disaster was causing her to melt down in gut-wrenching sobs (it was usually the pesky pacifier falling out that was the culprit).
Tuesday actually went almost as planned. Baby G actually slept, which meant I managed to do several batches of laundry. I also re-discovered my coffee table for the first time in a month. The vacuum even made an appearance. I got some work done and the dishwasher loaded and run. Unfortunately, the laundry didn't actually get folded or put away - instead it took up what seems like semi-permanent residence in my armchair. I didn't mind - I got dressed for no reason, made Spanish chicken and rice and paid a visit to a potential sitter for Baby G. So what if the laundry didn't get done? I could fold it tomorrow, after which I'd tackle the bathroom.
Except Wednesday came and it was just as insane as Monday, because Baby G refused to nap and somehow the kitchen had become a massive disaster overnight. So, the laundry remained. I strapped Baby G to my chest in her Snugli and set to work unloading and loading the dishwasher and finding the countertops. Then we went up the canyon. I managed to make tacos, only because the world stood still just long enough to fry up ground beef and throw the other fixings out on the counter.
No matter - I could do some work and straighten up after Baby G went to bed. Except, Baby G never went to bed. She slept, but only fitfully, and only in my arms, which meant I spent most of the night on the couch trying to read by the light of the nightlight so I didn't disturb Baby G anymore than she already was.
Today I didn't have to be anywhere - the perfect day to try to tackle another room and the growing pile of laundry (I had, after all, accomplished another batch yesterday, since Baby G insists on never leaving the hamper standing empty). Unfortunately, Baby G's persistent tummy troubles remained and she didn't sleep. I managed to get in a batch of pumpkin bars (barely) requested by Himself, to take to visit a friend tonight. Never before has a simple recipe manifested itself into a three-ring circus as I tried to talk on the phone, eat the chicken noodle soup my mom brought when she was up, talk on the phone and carry Baby G around in her Snugli, since she's still on the "I'm not sleeping unless half of me is draped across or next to some body part of mommy's" kick. Somehow, amongst all the chaos, I didn't hear the timer go off. Luckily I thought, "this has been the longest 20 minutes of my life," and lo and behold a half hour had gone by. Apparently one cannot burn pumpkin bars merely by overcooking them for 10 minutes. We won't tell Himself.
So, the week draws to a close tomorrow and the only thing I've actually accomplished is finding the coffee table. Even that is doubtful, as it now harbors several stray things that weren't there on Tuesday. The laundry still taunts me from its armchair throne, the bathroom still looks like the aftermath of a wartorn country, Baby G's room looks like the dumping ground for all things lost and misplaced (thanks to the menfolk assembling her new crib last weekend without actually making room for it first) and our room looks like someone is contemplating running away, due to the clothing strewn from here to there and the half-empty suitcase on the floor from last week's visit to The Parents' house.
So much for ambition.
Postsecret
This week, a new addition of Postsecret came out, titled, Postsecret: A Lifetime of Secrets, it inspired me to visit the website/blog that the author keeps with some of the postcard secrets.
It made me wonder what my secret would be if I mailed one in?
It made me wonder what my secret would be if I mailed one in?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
One October Sunday
Nine years ago this week, I met someone who radically altered the course of my life.
I was living in the Washington, DC, area and nearing the end of what was supposed to be a short-term internship. I met Shaliece on a Sunday. The Friday before, I had been offered a promotion and an extension - as the Resident Advisor and Lead Intern Coordinator. I loved DC, but wasn't sure I wanted to venture that far out of my comfort zone - staying for a year.
Shaliece and I attended the same church congregation for young adults. We met at an after-church potluck social that had some ridiculously comedic name. It was her first Sunday. I knew very few people, as I primarily let my Pilot-personality roommate (see here for more about the Pilot/Wingman personality theory) do the socializing for me. It so happened we were the only two people who didn't know anyone else (my roommate, for some reason, wasn't there), so we naturally gravitated to one another.
I went home that night and realized that I really wanted to stay, because I now had a friend that hadn't come courtesy of my roommate. That, combined with my lifelong fascination with all things DC, resulted in me accpeting the position and staying.
Every single thing that has happened in my life since the fall of 1998 resulted from that decision, made primarily because I found a friend in Shaliece and somehow knew the two of us would become inseparable.
Shaliece and I have gone through a lot together. Looking for, finding and losing love, divorce, betrayal, heartache, dark lonely days and days filled with sunshine and laughter. Wild adventures and middle-of-the-night talks. Job issues, moves, boyfriends, fiances, husbands, children. We adventured all over DC, went on road trips and became the laughing stock of the church volleyball team because we cared more about talking than playing. It seemed everything could be endured if the two of us tackled it together. Nothing seemed too outlandish. One particularly memorable trip found us in rurual western Virginia staying in the dorm room of two girls we'd never met. A trip to NYC landed us in a hotel I refused to describe to my parents until years later. She convinced me to buy a real wedding dress, dragging me to bridal stores galore while I was on a business trip to Maryland. She took our engagement photos. I flew to South Carolina for her baby shower - representing all the out-of-town friends who weren't able to make it. We window-shopped for antiques in Savannah, celebrated my birthday in Baltimore with s'mores and a sleepover the weekend before 9/11 and played an elaborate game of pretend in Manhattan. I have boxes of photos of one of our adventures or another.
She is one of the reasons Himself and I ended up together - and was half of the couple with whom we double dated the first six weeks Himself and I started hanging out. We never lived in the same place again after I left to return to school the following summer, but we continued to be close friends - stopping in whenever one of us would be in close proximity to the other.
We both know some of each other's darkest secrets - things not revealed to almost anyone else. We both knew each other at the most difficult points of our lives - and somehow managed to escape them to celebrate the happiest days of our lives that were waiting around the next bend.
Today I drove up the canyon to one of the ski resorts to visit Shaliece. She has been in town visiting relatives, and it presented the perfect opportunity for Baby G and I to adventure up to visit them. She oohed and awed over Baby G, while I marveled at her 6-month-old little boy and commented on how much her almost-3-year-old has grown up since I saw her last summer.
The hours slipped by until it was time for me to head for home. We talked children and life and pondered on how astounding it was that we'd known each other for nine years. I thought about it a lot on the drive home. I thought about how much our lives have changed from that weekend nine years ago when we met. Neither of us, at that point, could have possibily predicted where we would end up nearly a decade later - she the wife of a Naval officer and mother of two in the Pacific Northwest, me married to Himself and the new mother of an infant living in The Frontier.
It was a beautiful afternoon to spend with an old friend - very much like the crisp fall afternoon on which we met, neither of us knowing how completely our life course was about to be altered.
It was a happy moment to introduce Baby G to one of my dearest friends. I hope one day she is just as lucky.
I was living in the Washington, DC, area and nearing the end of what was supposed to be a short-term internship. I met Shaliece on a Sunday. The Friday before, I had been offered a promotion and an extension - as the Resident Advisor and Lead Intern Coordinator. I loved DC, but wasn't sure I wanted to venture that far out of my comfort zone - staying for a year.
Shaliece and I attended the same church congregation for young adults. We met at an after-church potluck social that had some ridiculously comedic name. It was her first Sunday. I knew very few people, as I primarily let my Pilot-personality roommate (see here for more about the Pilot/Wingman personality theory) do the socializing for me. It so happened we were the only two people who didn't know anyone else (my roommate, for some reason, wasn't there), so we naturally gravitated to one another.
I went home that night and realized that I really wanted to stay, because I now had a friend that hadn't come courtesy of my roommate. That, combined with my lifelong fascination with all things DC, resulted in me accpeting the position and staying.
Every single thing that has happened in my life since the fall of 1998 resulted from that decision, made primarily because I found a friend in Shaliece and somehow knew the two of us would become inseparable.
Shaliece and I have gone through a lot together. Looking for, finding and losing love, divorce, betrayal, heartache, dark lonely days and days filled with sunshine and laughter. Wild adventures and middle-of-the-night talks. Job issues, moves, boyfriends, fiances, husbands, children. We adventured all over DC, went on road trips and became the laughing stock of the church volleyball team because we cared more about talking than playing. It seemed everything could be endured if the two of us tackled it together. Nothing seemed too outlandish. One particularly memorable trip found us in rurual western Virginia staying in the dorm room of two girls we'd never met. A trip to NYC landed us in a hotel I refused to describe to my parents until years later. She convinced me to buy a real wedding dress, dragging me to bridal stores galore while I was on a business trip to Maryland. She took our engagement photos. I flew to South Carolina for her baby shower - representing all the out-of-town friends who weren't able to make it. We window-shopped for antiques in Savannah, celebrated my birthday in Baltimore with s'mores and a sleepover the weekend before 9/11 and played an elaborate game of pretend in Manhattan. I have boxes of photos of one of our adventures or another.
She is one of the reasons Himself and I ended up together - and was half of the couple with whom we double dated the first six weeks Himself and I started hanging out. We never lived in the same place again after I left to return to school the following summer, but we continued to be close friends - stopping in whenever one of us would be in close proximity to the other.
We both know some of each other's darkest secrets - things not revealed to almost anyone else. We both knew each other at the most difficult points of our lives - and somehow managed to escape them to celebrate the happiest days of our lives that were waiting around the next bend.
Today I drove up the canyon to one of the ski resorts to visit Shaliece. She has been in town visiting relatives, and it presented the perfect opportunity for Baby G and I to adventure up to visit them. She oohed and awed over Baby G, while I marveled at her 6-month-old little boy and commented on how much her almost-3-year-old has grown up since I saw her last summer.
The hours slipped by until it was time for me to head for home. We talked children and life and pondered on how astounding it was that we'd known each other for nine years. I thought about it a lot on the drive home. I thought about how much our lives have changed from that weekend nine years ago when we met. Neither of us, at that point, could have possibily predicted where we would end up nearly a decade later - she the wife of a Naval officer and mother of two in the Pacific Northwest, me married to Himself and the new mother of an infant living in The Frontier.
It was a beautiful afternoon to spend with an old friend - very much like the crisp fall afternoon on which we met, neither of us knowing how completely our life course was about to be altered.
It was a happy moment to introduce Baby G to one of my dearest friends. I hope one day she is just as lucky.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
The Rest of the Story...
Today, Baby G is a month old. It hardly seems like it's been that long. In honor of her one-month birthday, I finally finished The Rest of the Story, continued from this.
First, you have to read the other side of the rest of the story: here and here.
I was three weeks shy of my 17th birthday when I almost died. It is an experience I will not soon forget, the harrowing panic that streamed through me is etched upon my soul forever.
I didn’t realize then that how the events of that day would profoundly affect my life – often in ways unknown to others. Always high-strung and anxious, I began having minor panic attacks. These attacks, which diminished in frequency, increased in intensity, as I grew older. I required more control over details of my life – any situation in which I felt out of control would produce sheer panic. Sometimes it would lead to migraines, hyperventilation and a complete meltdown.
It was then that my greatest fear manifested itself.
While we were dating, I confessed to Himself one night what my greatest fear in life was – a fear I had never vocalized. I was mortally terrified of childbirth, and the complete surrender of all control that I felt was requisite.
It was not something I dwelled on; preferring to bury it in the dark recesses of my mind, rather than stare it in the face. It grew dusty, covered in mental cobwebs, like a forgotten box in the back corner of an aged, dim attic.
It didn’t help that I had never heard one good labor and delivery story. I heard horror stories, mediocre stories and stories that either began or ended with, "I would do it differently next time,” or “I felt like I had no choice.”
When I found out we were going to have a baby, I had relatively few opinions on labor and delivery other than the fact that I didn’t want to go through it. I was forced to reach back in the dark corners and dust off my paralyzing fear – being in a situation in which I would seemingly have very little control. Over the course of my pregnancy through research, reading, speaking to friends and professionals, I began to slowly craft a vision of what I wanted Baby Girl's birth experience to be like. Still, it seemed I was probably crazy for doing so - no one I had spoken to had a birth experience that seemed to go the way they wanted it to. Nature, in all her capriciousness, seemed to dole out experiences at random. I continued to panic, fear gripping me in the sleepless hours of early morning.
After we moved to The Frontier, Heidi made an offer - to attend Baby Girl's birth, if I needed a shoulder to lean on. While closer to family than we were in Virginia, I was still far enough away to feel isolated. Through the course of my research and reading, I had determined that labor is best shared with a woman. It was at that point I took Heidi up on her offer.
As noted, I arrived at the hospital COMPLETELY overwhelmed and unprepared physically, emotionally and mentally for labor. My arrival wasn't at all how I had envisioned it, which is ridiculous because I was overdue. There wasn’t a single reason for me not to be ready to give birth.
I was a nightmare of a patient. I questioned everything. I asked hundreds of questions. I took agonizing minutes, in one case, hours, to make decisions. I paced the halls of the hospital in my backless nightie and fuzzy socks. I purposely avoided anything to do with Labor and Delivery during my excursion, afraid I would be apprehended, stuck with a needle and strapped down to a bed until Baby G arrived.
I steadfastly refused to be in bed. I paced, sat on, leaned over and draped myself on an exercise ball. I tried to run the hospital out of hot water in the shower. I held a running conversation with myself and anyone else present – hoping that the sound of my voice would drown out the pounding reality that I had arrived at the point most feared since that fateful day 12 years ago.
I don’t remember everything I babbled about – to Heidi, to my nurse, to Himself, after he returned to the hospital. What I do know, is that I felt a powerful sense of calm, a beautiful sense of clarity and peace.
Through all this, I managed to maintain the mental control I needed to stare down my greatest fear – my 20 questions about every drug, every procedure, every suggestion helped. Truly, I only made it because of two remarkable women and Himself: a miraculous nurse who approved of my feisty refusal to be conventional, a friend who that night became family and the man I shared my little girl and my heart with.
When it came time for Baby G to arrive, I was anxious to meet her. The first glimpse of her beautiful, blonde hair, made me want to work even harder to bring her into the world.
The moment she arrived will be engraved on my soul forever – just like the day 12 years before when I thought I had died. At that moment, time stood still, the world faded away and all I could see through my tears was Himself, his tears and a glimpse of our tiny little daughter.
But something was wrong. I didn’t realize then, like everyone else, that the cord had been wrapped around her neck. What I did know was that there was an airbag, there was no baby on my chest and she wasn’t crying. My tears of absolute joy and relief turned to tears of fear as I begged to know what was going on.
Repeatedly assured that she was all right, I refused to believe it, because the growing silence and efficiency of the hospital room pounded a message in my brain, “Not crying. Needs air. Not quite right.”
In the end, everything was fine, as I knew, deep down, it would be. The little girl with blond hair and enormous blue eyes that shown with remarkable intelligence, snuggled into my arms. Her daddy sported her footprint on his forearm and a subtle grin on his face. I had made it. We had made it. More than that, I had made it with memories I could take out and cherish once in awhile – memories that would brighten my day and replace the forgotten box in the dark corners of the attic. My greatest fear had become my greatest joy.
Our little family felt, for the moment, complete.
First, you have to read the other side of the rest of the story: here and here.
I was three weeks shy of my 17th birthday when I almost died. It is an experience I will not soon forget, the harrowing panic that streamed through me is etched upon my soul forever.
I didn’t realize then that how the events of that day would profoundly affect my life – often in ways unknown to others. Always high-strung and anxious, I began having minor panic attacks. These attacks, which diminished in frequency, increased in intensity, as I grew older. I required more control over details of my life – any situation in which I felt out of control would produce sheer panic. Sometimes it would lead to migraines, hyperventilation and a complete meltdown.
It was then that my greatest fear manifested itself.
While we were dating, I confessed to Himself one night what my greatest fear in life was – a fear I had never vocalized. I was mortally terrified of childbirth, and the complete surrender of all control that I felt was requisite.
It was not something I dwelled on; preferring to bury it in the dark recesses of my mind, rather than stare it in the face. It grew dusty, covered in mental cobwebs, like a forgotten box in the back corner of an aged, dim attic.
It didn’t help that I had never heard one good labor and delivery story. I heard horror stories, mediocre stories and stories that either began or ended with, "I would do it differently next time,” or “I felt like I had no choice.”
When I found out we were going to have a baby, I had relatively few opinions on labor and delivery other than the fact that I didn’t want to go through it. I was forced to reach back in the dark corners and dust off my paralyzing fear – being in a situation in which I would seemingly have very little control. Over the course of my pregnancy through research, reading, speaking to friends and professionals, I began to slowly craft a vision of what I wanted Baby Girl's birth experience to be like. Still, it seemed I was probably crazy for doing so - no one I had spoken to had a birth experience that seemed to go the way they wanted it to. Nature, in all her capriciousness, seemed to dole out experiences at random. I continued to panic, fear gripping me in the sleepless hours of early morning.
After we moved to The Frontier, Heidi made an offer - to attend Baby Girl's birth, if I needed a shoulder to lean on. While closer to family than we were in Virginia, I was still far enough away to feel isolated. Through the course of my research and reading, I had determined that labor is best shared with a woman. It was at that point I took Heidi up on her offer.
As noted, I arrived at the hospital COMPLETELY overwhelmed and unprepared physically, emotionally and mentally for labor. My arrival wasn't at all how I had envisioned it, which is ridiculous because I was overdue. There wasn’t a single reason for me not to be ready to give birth.
I was a nightmare of a patient. I questioned everything. I asked hundreds of questions. I took agonizing minutes, in one case, hours, to make decisions. I paced the halls of the hospital in my backless nightie and fuzzy socks. I purposely avoided anything to do with Labor and Delivery during my excursion, afraid I would be apprehended, stuck with a needle and strapped down to a bed until Baby G arrived.
I steadfastly refused to be in bed. I paced, sat on, leaned over and draped myself on an exercise ball. I tried to run the hospital out of hot water in the shower. I held a running conversation with myself and anyone else present – hoping that the sound of my voice would drown out the pounding reality that I had arrived at the point most feared since that fateful day 12 years ago.
I don’t remember everything I babbled about – to Heidi, to my nurse, to Himself, after he returned to the hospital. What I do know, is that I felt a powerful sense of calm, a beautiful sense of clarity and peace.
Through all this, I managed to maintain the mental control I needed to stare down my greatest fear – my 20 questions about every drug, every procedure, every suggestion helped. Truly, I only made it because of two remarkable women and Himself: a miraculous nurse who approved of my feisty refusal to be conventional, a friend who that night became family and the man I shared my little girl and my heart with.
When it came time for Baby G to arrive, I was anxious to meet her. The first glimpse of her beautiful, blonde hair, made me want to work even harder to bring her into the world.
The moment she arrived will be engraved on my soul forever – just like the day 12 years before when I thought I had died. At that moment, time stood still, the world faded away and all I could see through my tears was Himself, his tears and a glimpse of our tiny little daughter.
But something was wrong. I didn’t realize then, like everyone else, that the cord had been wrapped around her neck. What I did know was that there was an airbag, there was no baby on my chest and she wasn’t crying. My tears of absolute joy and relief turned to tears of fear as I begged to know what was going on.
Repeatedly assured that she was all right, I refused to believe it, because the growing silence and efficiency of the hospital room pounded a message in my brain, “Not crying. Needs air. Not quite right.”
In the end, everything was fine, as I knew, deep down, it would be. The little girl with blond hair and enormous blue eyes that shown with remarkable intelligence, snuggled into my arms. Her daddy sported her footprint on his forearm and a subtle grin on his face. I had made it. We had made it. More than that, I had made it with memories I could take out and cherish once in awhile – memories that would brighten my day and replace the forgotten box in the dark corners of the attic. My greatest fear had become my greatest joy.
Our little family felt, for the moment, complete.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Target Practice
I feel like a real mommy today.
Baby G successfully covered me in bodily fluids of all sorts. I lost my pants this afternoon after I felt an alarmingly warm, wet spot spread across my lap. (No, not from me - though I did wonder for a second!)
Later, Baby G threw up and shared half the wealth with me. During the next feeding, she missed the burp rag and spit up down my arm. (And I still haven't managed a shower, making me smell, not just feel, like a milk cow).
Thirty minutes ago, she had her once-a-day blowout. In transit to her room to change her, the contents oozed down the other arm.
At this rate, I will be washing my clothes as much as I wash hers, my cashmere sweaters won't be unpacked until they are no longer fashionable and my perfume will be Eau de Baby.
I gave up changing both of our clothes, so she is happily dining away in her birthday suit and a diaper.
It's a good thing she is so cute.
Baby G successfully covered me in bodily fluids of all sorts. I lost my pants this afternoon after I felt an alarmingly warm, wet spot spread across my lap. (No, not from me - though I did wonder for a second!)
Later, Baby G threw up and shared half the wealth with me. During the next feeding, she missed the burp rag and spit up down my arm. (And I still haven't managed a shower, making me smell, not just feel, like a milk cow).
Thirty minutes ago, she had her once-a-day blowout. In transit to her room to change her, the contents oozed down the other arm.
At this rate, I will be washing my clothes as much as I wash hers, my cashmere sweaters won't be unpacked until they are no longer fashionable and my perfume will be Eau de Baby.
I gave up changing both of our clothes, so she is happily dining away in her birthday suit and a diaper.
It's a good thing she is so cute.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Sunlight and Rain
The week I spent at my parents' house was warm, sunny and filled with people, laughter and relaxation.
Their home was filled with babies - Baby G and her 5-month-old cousin, good food (as always, mom made my all-time favorite beef dish - Dilled Short Ribs), moments of hysteria (when Dad and I and both babies spent one napless day together as the phone rang off the hook and chaos reigned), moments of great love as I listened to my father comment on how the two girls' personalities were going to develop, moments of relaxation as doting family members took care of Baby G, moments of serenity as I sat in a well-kept home, bathed in sunlight.
Contrast that with coming home. I arrived back at The Frontier, tired and exhausted, at the end of the week, in the middle of a heavy, cold rainstorm. I entered the Hobbit Hole, quiet, dark and chaotic. An overwhelming sense of loneliness and exhaustion and a long list of "tasks needing doing" flooded over me. Everything felt out of place, dirty, dim and empty.
The weekend has been gloomy, wet and cold. The silence that reverberates through our little home contrasts starkly with the effervescent, sunny feeling of my parents' home.
They warned me that I would have dark days. They warned me that this would be hard. But I don't think I realized quite the isolated feeling of aloneness I would feel, as I cared for my daughter, longing to share my days with someone else.
I keep trying to find reasons to migrate south again before I have to settle back into routine - looking to find reasons to flee back into the loving arms, the sunny days, the freedom from every task but loving my little family.
Their home was filled with babies - Baby G and her 5-month-old cousin, good food (as always, mom made my all-time favorite beef dish - Dilled Short Ribs), moments of hysteria (when Dad and I and both babies spent one napless day together as the phone rang off the hook and chaos reigned), moments of great love as I listened to my father comment on how the two girls' personalities were going to develop, moments of relaxation as doting family members took care of Baby G, moments of serenity as I sat in a well-kept home, bathed in sunlight.
Contrast that with coming home. I arrived back at The Frontier, tired and exhausted, at the end of the week, in the middle of a heavy, cold rainstorm. I entered the Hobbit Hole, quiet, dark and chaotic. An overwhelming sense of loneliness and exhaustion and a long list of "tasks needing doing" flooded over me. Everything felt out of place, dirty, dim and empty.
The weekend has been gloomy, wet and cold. The silence that reverberates through our little home contrasts starkly with the effervescent, sunny feeling of my parents' home.
They warned me that I would have dark days. They warned me that this would be hard. But I don't think I realized quite the isolated feeling of aloneness I would feel, as I cared for my daughter, longing to share my days with someone else.
I keep trying to find reasons to migrate south again before I have to settle back into routine - looking to find reasons to flee back into the loving arms, the sunny days, the freedom from every task but loving my little family.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Progress
This week, while staying at my parents' house, I've availed myself of the warm, sunny, dry weather of the Southern Frontier and my sister's stroller. Baby G loves to be outside in the stroller, and being outside keeps me from going insane quickly.
My first day out, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my parents' neighborhood is now stroller-friendly. Growing up, my parents lived on an unpaved, dead-end road on the western outskirts of town. Somehow, in the 23 years since my parents moved into their home, their neighborhood has become the heart of downtown (and has boasted a paved street for 15 years). Where there was once one way out of the neighborhood, there are now three. Where there are homes there used to be fields of allergy-inducing alfalfa. There is a grocery store, gas station, McDonalds, Wendys, lumber store, post office, city office, two banks, a Dairy Queen and a smattering of odd shops in a couple of strip malls within four blocks of my parents' house.
Each day, as we have set out on our daily adventure, I have been hit with memories. Not since I got my driver's license some 13 years ago have I had reason to walk through the neighborhood of my childhood. Baby G and I wandered the new subdivision next door - I pictured the old pecan trees that used to grow among a field populated by various animals and antique farm machinery. In its place now resides paved streets, sidewalks (heretofore not seen in the neighborhood), utility connections and a handful of homes. We continued over to the next street. As a child, the street led to four things - an orchard; the home of Mrs. Carol, an elderly woman whom my siblings and I used to visit, always leaving with some trinket or treat; the home of an elderly couple who observed no holidays as Jehovah's Witnesses, to whom we would deliver "Have a Nice Day" treats on major holidays; and the power transformer on the hill at the end of the road.
Only Mrs. Carol's house and the transformer still remain. As I pushed the stroller through the subdivision that now resides where the orchard once grew, I was hit with even more memories - the summer adventures and picnics that meant hiking around and playing on the volcanic hill that now provides a backdrop for the subdivision; horseback riding through the orchard on a friend's horse; riding my bike up and down the one paved street in the neighborhood. There were few cars then and even fewer houses. There were horses and fields and elderly couples. Now the neighborhood bustles with traffic, children play in the yards and only one decrepit farm outbuilding still remains.
Progress made it possible for Baby G and I to explore and adventure. Progress has made it possible to run one's errands in mere minutes. Progress has raised the value of my parents' home.
As I walked, I found myself telling Baby G (sleeping peacefully in the stroller) of all the changes that had taken place - my one-sided conversation liberally sprinkled with, "I remember when ..."
Progress made me feel old.
My first day out, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my parents' neighborhood is now stroller-friendly. Growing up, my parents lived on an unpaved, dead-end road on the western outskirts of town. Somehow, in the 23 years since my parents moved into their home, their neighborhood has become the heart of downtown (and has boasted a paved street for 15 years). Where there was once one way out of the neighborhood, there are now three. Where there are homes there used to be fields of allergy-inducing alfalfa. There is a grocery store, gas station, McDonalds, Wendys, lumber store, post office, city office, two banks, a Dairy Queen and a smattering of odd shops in a couple of strip malls within four blocks of my parents' house.
Each day, as we have set out on our daily adventure, I have been hit with memories. Not since I got my driver's license some 13 years ago have I had reason to walk through the neighborhood of my childhood. Baby G and I wandered the new subdivision next door - I pictured the old pecan trees that used to grow among a field populated by various animals and antique farm machinery. In its place now resides paved streets, sidewalks (heretofore not seen in the neighborhood), utility connections and a handful of homes. We continued over to the next street. As a child, the street led to four things - an orchard; the home of Mrs. Carol, an elderly woman whom my siblings and I used to visit, always leaving with some trinket or treat; the home of an elderly couple who observed no holidays as Jehovah's Witnesses, to whom we would deliver "Have a Nice Day" treats on major holidays; and the power transformer on the hill at the end of the road.
Only Mrs. Carol's house and the transformer still remain. As I pushed the stroller through the subdivision that now resides where the orchard once grew, I was hit with even more memories - the summer adventures and picnics that meant hiking around and playing on the volcanic hill that now provides a backdrop for the subdivision; horseback riding through the orchard on a friend's horse; riding my bike up and down the one paved street in the neighborhood. There were few cars then and even fewer houses. There were horses and fields and elderly couples. Now the neighborhood bustles with traffic, children play in the yards and only one decrepit farm outbuilding still remains.
Progress made it possible for Baby G and I to explore and adventure. Progress has made it possible to run one's errands in mere minutes. Progress has raised the value of my parents' home.
As I walked, I found myself telling Baby G (sleeping peacefully in the stroller) of all the changes that had taken place - my one-sided conversation liberally sprinkled with, "I remember when ..."
Progress made me feel old.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Loved
Early this morning, I held my little girl in my arms as she steadfastly refused to eat, then, an hour later, I held her as her little body convulsed she threw up the prior feeding - all over me, all over her, all over my bed.
For the next five minutes, I sat, held her close, and cried, great tears falling down my cheeks. Scared that something was very wrong, I gathered her up and took her upstairs, where my parents were beginning to get ready for the day.
My mom questioned my appearance, knowing that, sleep-deprived, I try and stretch the night out as long as possible. I walked into the hallway, tears still caressing my cheeks, and said, "She's sick."
Mom gently took Baby G and lovingly changed her out of her soiled pajamas, so that I could clean up. I placed a call to the pediatrician. Then I sat in the kitchen and just held her, my heart aching, as she clearly displayed signs of not feeling well.
For the first time, I was powerless to help her. For the first time, I began to understand the burden of love and pain that my parents have borne for me. As I sat gently rocking my infant daughter, I thought of how helpless and scared my parents must have felt when I was rushed to the hospital at age 8 with a serious viral infection; the dread that must have settled over them when I suffered a life-threatening surgical complication at age 16; the terror that must have sat like lead in their hearts when they were escorted out of my hospital room as I went into post-surgical respiratory arrest at age 18; the fear that seeped into my mother's voice as I told her of my upcoming appendectomy 18 months ago; and hundreds of other times when, through choice or circumstance, I had caused my parents pain.
I have never been more grateful to be in my parents' care than I was today. I have never been more appreciative of their love for me, as I conferred with them over my baby's obvious discomfort. I have never appreciated my mother more than when she gently lifted Baby G from my arms to care for her, so I could care for myself.
I can't imagine what I would have done, had she grown ill while I was in my own home. Surely, the tears would have flowed much longer, the feeling of utter helplessness settled much deeper, had I not been able to turn to my parents to share my burden.
As I cared for Baby G the rest of the day, patting her to sleep slung over my shoulder (the only positon which seemed to provide her with some relief), I realized, for the first time, the burden of love and pain my parents bore for me had now settled on my shoulders. I'll never truly know how much my parents love me, but in the quiet stillness this morning, I began to glimpse the enormity of it.
Baby G now sits, propped on my lap, fast asleep - her ailments momentarily pushed aside by fatigue. I realize, as I watch her sleep in perfect contentment, I am truly blessed to have someone love me so much, but even more blessed to experience that great love for someone else.
Sleep well, Baby G.
For the next five minutes, I sat, held her close, and cried, great tears falling down my cheeks. Scared that something was very wrong, I gathered her up and took her upstairs, where my parents were beginning to get ready for the day.
My mom questioned my appearance, knowing that, sleep-deprived, I try and stretch the night out as long as possible. I walked into the hallway, tears still caressing my cheeks, and said, "She's sick."
Mom gently took Baby G and lovingly changed her out of her soiled pajamas, so that I could clean up. I placed a call to the pediatrician. Then I sat in the kitchen and just held her, my heart aching, as she clearly displayed signs of not feeling well.
For the first time, I was powerless to help her. For the first time, I began to understand the burden of love and pain that my parents have borne for me. As I sat gently rocking my infant daughter, I thought of how helpless and scared my parents must have felt when I was rushed to the hospital at age 8 with a serious viral infection; the dread that must have settled over them when I suffered a life-threatening surgical complication at age 16; the terror that must have sat like lead in their hearts when they were escorted out of my hospital room as I went into post-surgical respiratory arrest at age 18; the fear that seeped into my mother's voice as I told her of my upcoming appendectomy 18 months ago; and hundreds of other times when, through choice or circumstance, I had caused my parents pain.
I have never been more grateful to be in my parents' care than I was today. I have never been more appreciative of their love for me, as I conferred with them over my baby's obvious discomfort. I have never appreciated my mother more than when she gently lifted Baby G from my arms to care for her, so I could care for myself.
I can't imagine what I would have done, had she grown ill while I was in my own home. Surely, the tears would have flowed much longer, the feeling of utter helplessness settled much deeper, had I not been able to turn to my parents to share my burden.
As I cared for Baby G the rest of the day, patting her to sleep slung over my shoulder (the only positon which seemed to provide her with some relief), I realized, for the first time, the burden of love and pain my parents bore for me had now settled on my shoulders. I'll never truly know how much my parents love me, but in the quiet stillness this morning, I began to glimpse the enormity of it.
Baby G now sits, propped on my lap, fast asleep - her ailments momentarily pushed aside by fatigue. I realize, as I watch her sleep in perfect contentment, I am truly blessed to have someone love me so much, but even more blessed to experience that great love for someone else.
Sleep well, Baby G.
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