DADDY! - noun. Used to describe anything that Baby Girl is happy about - Himself, me, photos of herself, etc. Usually said at top volume full of glee.
Mama - noun. Usually repeated over and over (as in "mamamamama") when she isn't happy about something - lately the antibiotic eye drops I have to give her (do they seriously think that eye drops in a 10.5-month-old baby is actually going to do any good when said child screws up her eyes so tight it just runs down her face?). She is also saying "Mama" with greater frequency to mean just me. I want to know how Himself gets the "shout for glee" DADDY! and I get the "my world is screwed up" Mama label.
Tu-dle - noun. Used to mean all bath toys, most of which actually are turtles. Claps after saying it.
Uh oh - expression. Usully uttered when Baby Girl takes something, sticks her arm out over the edge of whatever she's sitting/standing on and drops said object to the floor. She then peers over the edge and exclaims, "UH OH!" loudly. If object is not retrieved in a speedy manner, she then grunts to get our attention and then repeats "uh oh!". Repeat indefinitely.
Tit-ty - noun. Used to describe any animal that moves. Miss Jan has a kitty. I'm assuming that is where she picked that up.
Hi - Used, occassionally, to say "hello" - but generally only when prompted. Always includes the "elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist" princess wave.
Ba Ba - "Bye Bye" - always accompanied by the wave describe above and sometimes, if you are Miss Jan or Daddy, also includes blowing kisses (occasionally complete with smacking noise). Not always said in context. For instance, Baby Girl will stop eating, start waving both hands and saying "ba ba" and blowing kisses mid-meal. I'm convinced she does it for attention, as she typically claps afterward, thanking her subjects for their response to her performance.
She will also sign "More" - which usually means she wants attention more than actual food, but one of these days we'll get there. I've just realized that she has her own version of the sign for "milk," which only slightly resembles the hand sign I've been using for the past four months. No wonder it is usually follwed by sharp grunting yells!
I wish I could unlock the babbling she does - she'll chatter nonstop while standing at the sliding glass door, watching the birds (she'll be getting a bird feeder for her birthday, as she's totally mesmerized by the them). When she wakes up, she'll stand in her crib and yell happy noises - like she's trying to have a conversation with someone in the next room.
If she is in a chatty mood and you talk to her, she'll answer back - in some undecipherable string of babbles and hand guestures and smiles.
Makes me wonder what is going on in her head.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Big One
I didn't sleep well last night. I bolted out of bed as a result of some half-real dream no fewer than three times. I tossed and turned and grilled Himself around 3 a.m. on why he'd left the door open (I don't sleep well with the door open).
During all of this limb-flapping and pillow-shoving and grunting, I manage to turn my alarm clock on. Needless to say, neither Himself nor I were particularly ecstatic when the alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
When I finally opened my eyes to greet the day around 7 a.m., I immediately felt like my head was caught in a vice grip. Perplexed, I briefly pondered whether or not I was still in a half-real dream state.
I wasn't.
The migraine was very, very real. As was the company upstairs. As was the fact that it was Sunday and I was supposed to be teaching 6 to 8 teenagers. I did what any reasonably responsible adult with a migraine would do - I buried my head under the pillow.
Sometime later, Himself brought Baby Girl in to nurse. She was more interested in my scriptures and lesson manual that I was reviewing than eating. I was more interested in getting my head to stop the pounding than anything. I gave up nursing. I gave up my lesson. I stumbled upstairs and called my co-teacher.
"I can't make it today," I said. "I have a migraine and I can't even read straight." She said she would make brownies and do some sort of scripture quiz. Somewhere beneath the fog and light/noise sensitivity of my migraine, I felt bad that my class wouldn't be getting one of the most beautiful discourses on faith the scriptures have. For about 2.7 seconds, until the next wave of pounding began.
It didn't get better. It morphed into body aches, a sore throat and an increasingly awful feeling of malaise. Bad enough I didn't feel guilty for not attending church or teaching my lesson once.
Bad enough I drank a Mountain Dew, as it was the only caffeinated beverage in the house. Anyone who knows me knows that I LOATHE Mountain Dew and generally steer far away from caffeine unless I have a migraine.
All the caffeine in the world couldn't help ... but it did ensure tonight will be another one of those "not sleeping well" nights.
During all of this limb-flapping and pillow-shoving and grunting, I manage to turn my alarm clock on. Needless to say, neither Himself nor I were particularly ecstatic when the alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
When I finally opened my eyes to greet the day around 7 a.m., I immediately felt like my head was caught in a vice grip. Perplexed, I briefly pondered whether or not I was still in a half-real dream state.
I wasn't.
The migraine was very, very real. As was the company upstairs. As was the fact that it was Sunday and I was supposed to be teaching 6 to 8 teenagers. I did what any reasonably responsible adult with a migraine would do - I buried my head under the pillow.
Sometime later, Himself brought Baby Girl in to nurse. She was more interested in my scriptures and lesson manual that I was reviewing than eating. I was more interested in getting my head to stop the pounding than anything. I gave up nursing. I gave up my lesson. I stumbled upstairs and called my co-teacher.
"I can't make it today," I said. "I have a migraine and I can't even read straight." She said she would make brownies and do some sort of scripture quiz. Somewhere beneath the fog and light/noise sensitivity of my migraine, I felt bad that my class wouldn't be getting one of the most beautiful discourses on faith the scriptures have. For about 2.7 seconds, until the next wave of pounding began.
It didn't get better. It morphed into body aches, a sore throat and an increasingly awful feeling of malaise. Bad enough I didn't feel guilty for not attending church or teaching my lesson once.
Bad enough I drank a Mountain Dew, as it was the only caffeinated beverage in the house. Anyone who knows me knows that I LOATHE Mountain Dew and generally steer far away from caffeine unless I have a migraine.
All the caffeine in the world couldn't help ... but it did ensure tonight will be another one of those "not sleeping well" nights.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Shiny New Life
I am known, for better or worse, to surround myself with drama - typically not of my own creation, though sometimes when it gets really dull, people wonder.
Through the last six months of "head shrinking" - I've realized that I am an adrenaline junkie. I don't know how to function in a mode that is not the physiological equivalent of "fight or flight." I have done a fair amount of reading about the "chronic state of phsyiological stress" lately. In short, something has to change.
In the past several months, I've made strides to begin healing the frenzied anxiety-black velvet curtain of depression nonsense. I've worked at not caring so much about some things. I've tried to assuage the guilt of not saying "yes" every time - or doing everything I should be - because "should" is subjective.
And the drama continues.
* I was forced/chose to change jobs ... it was a good decision, but has come with a month's worth of continued drama, lawyers, legal advice, covering my rear end, analyzing and discovering that much of what I thought wasn't actually true.
* In an attempt to gain control and reduce the anxiety, we moved. The Hobbit Hole was up for sale. I couldn't continue to focus on healing and reducing the almost-daily panic attacks when I was worried about what parts of myself were exposed when people came through the house or how clean it was. But moving in and of itself, even just next door, was enough frenzied nonsense to send me into orbit. Especially since it happened CONCURRENTLY with the job drama (timing was not planned that way).
* Son came for the summer. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a pleasant experience. But he came the day after I quit my job, two weeks before moving day. One can only imagine the insanity.
With the maelstrom of changes, I haven't done so well at focusing on those things I need to be focusing on. There is no routine, no settled contentment. Little things turn into bigger mini-dramas overnight.
We set up the washer/dryer yesterday. The washer was a breeze compared to last year's set-up. The dryer, however, required an unplanned trip to Home Depot, 2 hours and a fair amount of "what the hell were we thinking" conversations between Himself and I - the two people least equipped to be involved in any kind of appliance anything on earth.
This morning, Baby Girl woke up with diarrhea of epic proportion. I could smell the result halfway down the hall, before I even entered her room. It was 5:45 a.m. I finished the batch of laundry I'd started before bed, picked her up (no way even she could sleep through that stench), cleaned her, changed her and dumped her back into bed with Himself. I embarked on another three loads of laundry - because, of course, the soiled pajamas, changing pad and towel were not even close to being able to be washed together.
And ... a batch of jam. JAM?! On a work day? When Baby Girl has caused an additional mess to clean and there is laundry in various stages of "done"?
But I wanted to learn and do new things this summer. Canning was part of it. A perfect storm of house capable of providing off-season storage space for the massive water-bath canner and free fruit provide the opportunity. Still, jam on a work day morning was out of the question - except yesterday's drama prevented me from doing anything with the two boxes of apricots taking up the microscopic amount of floor space in the kitchen ... and the top ones, from the top of the tree, were rapidly ripening beyond the point of no return.
I had no choice.
New job. New house. Annual visit from Son. Baby Girl's first encounter with diarrhea. Canning. Picking. Installing appliance(s). Packing. Unpacking. Waiting a very long time for a paycheck. Full-time work after a three-week hiatus. Five loads of laundry in 12 hours. Preparation for next week's camping trip. And on and on and on.
Even the shiny new life is wearing me out.
Through the last six months of "head shrinking" - I've realized that I am an adrenaline junkie. I don't know how to function in a mode that is not the physiological equivalent of "fight or flight." I have done a fair amount of reading about the "chronic state of phsyiological stress" lately. In short, something has to change.
In the past several months, I've made strides to begin healing the frenzied anxiety-black velvet curtain of depression nonsense. I've worked at not caring so much about some things. I've tried to assuage the guilt of not saying "yes" every time - or doing everything I should be - because "should" is subjective.
And the drama continues.
* I was forced/chose to change jobs ... it was a good decision, but has come with a month's worth of continued drama, lawyers, legal advice, covering my rear end, analyzing and discovering that much of what I thought wasn't actually true.
* In an attempt to gain control and reduce the anxiety, we moved. The Hobbit Hole was up for sale. I couldn't continue to focus on healing and reducing the almost-daily panic attacks when I was worried about what parts of myself were exposed when people came through the house or how clean it was. But moving in and of itself, even just next door, was enough frenzied nonsense to send me into orbit. Especially since it happened CONCURRENTLY with the job drama (timing was not planned that way).
* Son came for the summer. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a pleasant experience. But he came the day after I quit my job, two weeks before moving day. One can only imagine the insanity.
With the maelstrom of changes, I haven't done so well at focusing on those things I need to be focusing on. There is no routine, no settled contentment. Little things turn into bigger mini-dramas overnight.
We set up the washer/dryer yesterday. The washer was a breeze compared to last year's set-up. The dryer, however, required an unplanned trip to Home Depot, 2 hours and a fair amount of "what the hell were we thinking" conversations between Himself and I - the two people least equipped to be involved in any kind of appliance anything on earth.
This morning, Baby Girl woke up with diarrhea of epic proportion. I could smell the result halfway down the hall, before I even entered her room. It was 5:45 a.m. I finished the batch of laundry I'd started before bed, picked her up (no way even she could sleep through that stench), cleaned her, changed her and dumped her back into bed with Himself. I embarked on another three loads of laundry - because, of course, the soiled pajamas, changing pad and towel were not even close to being able to be washed together.
And ... a batch of jam. JAM?! On a work day? When Baby Girl has caused an additional mess to clean and there is laundry in various stages of "done"?
But I wanted to learn and do new things this summer. Canning was part of it. A perfect storm of house capable of providing off-season storage space for the massive water-bath canner and free fruit provide the opportunity. Still, jam on a work day morning was out of the question - except yesterday's drama prevented me from doing anything with the two boxes of apricots taking up the microscopic amount of floor space in the kitchen ... and the top ones, from the top of the tree, were rapidly ripening beyond the point of no return.
I had no choice.
New job. New house. Annual visit from Son. Baby Girl's first encounter with diarrhea. Canning. Picking. Installing appliance(s). Packing. Unpacking. Waiting a very long time for a paycheck. Full-time work after a three-week hiatus. Five loads of laundry in 12 hours. Preparation for next week's camping trip. And on and on and on.
Even the shiny new life is wearing me out.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Somebody Stop Me, Please
This domestic stuff is getting to be a little insane.
So you already know about the water bath canner (which arrived yesterday!) ... but the new (to us) house is, well, doing things to me ... as in making me think of things my domestically challenged (and loving it) self normally shudders about.
This morning found me out picking apricots off the tree that is half in the Hobbit Hole's yard and half in our new yard. Our former landlords very generously offered whatever apricots we wanted. I'm not going to argue. After all, apricots are food - food that I NEVER buy in the store, as they are ridiculously overpriced.
Not only that, but Himself was out mowing the lawn at the same time. I stood, bathed in the warm sun, trying not to die of grass fumes (grass = asthma issues) and thought, "we're turning into quite the domestic palace these days."
Of course, the thought of how odd Himself looked mowing the lawn also made me laugh. In nearly 9 1/2 years I've known Himself, I've never seen him mow a lawn. Mostly because we didn't have one to mow. To be fair, Himself has never seen me mow a lawn either, but I am highly allergic to grass, so he's likely to NEVER see me mow a lawn.
I went back inside and thought about all the little "extras" I needed to organize the new space.
Things are getting weird around here.
So you already know about the water bath canner (which arrived yesterday!) ... but the new (to us) house is, well, doing things to me ... as in making me think of things my domestically challenged (and loving it) self normally shudders about.
This morning found me out picking apricots off the tree that is half in the Hobbit Hole's yard and half in our new yard. Our former landlords very generously offered whatever apricots we wanted. I'm not going to argue. After all, apricots are food - food that I NEVER buy in the store, as they are ridiculously overpriced.
Not only that, but Himself was out mowing the lawn at the same time. I stood, bathed in the warm sun, trying not to die of grass fumes (grass = asthma issues) and thought, "we're turning into quite the domestic palace these days."
Of course, the thought of how odd Himself looked mowing the lawn also made me laugh. In nearly 9 1/2 years I've known Himself, I've never seen him mow a lawn. Mostly because we didn't have one to mow. To be fair, Himself has never seen me mow a lawn either, but I am highly allergic to grass, so he's likely to NEVER see me mow a lawn.
I went back inside and thought about all the little "extras" I needed to organize the new space.
Things are getting weird around here.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Things You Never Thought You Would Hear Me Say ...
I bought a water-bath canner this morning.
As in something to can fruit in Mason or Ball jars and put on shelves.
As in something ... domestic. Not only that, but something domestic that conjures up images of the small town, monochromatic mentality I've run from my entire life.
Except, it has to do with food, so one shouldn't really be too surprised.
Blame it on my dad. When I went to visit while on maternity leave last fall, I brought down a carload of apples. Dad, my sister and I spent our days making applesauce, apple juice and apple jelly.
None of us had canned before. We had "peeled, cut and stuffed," but Mom always did the "work." Since his retirement, however, Dad has become quite the domestic diva that none of us ever quite achieved ... canning, pickling, dry packing, making bread ... and signing Mom and himself up for a preserving class.
I think I was in a post-partum delirum, because I found myself thinking, "this is fun!"
Now to figure out how to recruit Dad to come visit when the canner arrives. After all, I'm not so domesticated as to slave away in a hot kitchen mid-summer with an apron on all by myself.
Not yet, anyway.
As in something to can fruit in Mason or Ball jars and put on shelves.
As in something ... domestic. Not only that, but something domestic that conjures up images of the small town, monochromatic mentality I've run from my entire life.
Except, it has to do with food, so one shouldn't really be too surprised.
Blame it on my dad. When I went to visit while on maternity leave last fall, I brought down a carload of apples. Dad, my sister and I spent our days making applesauce, apple juice and apple jelly.
None of us had canned before. We had "peeled, cut and stuffed," but Mom always did the "work." Since his retirement, however, Dad has become quite the domestic diva that none of us ever quite achieved ... canning, pickling, dry packing, making bread ... and signing Mom and himself up for a preserving class.
I think I was in a post-partum delirum, because I found myself thinking, "this is fun!"
Now to figure out how to recruit Dad to come visit when the canner arrives. After all, I'm not so domesticated as to slave away in a hot kitchen mid-summer with an apron on all by myself.
Not yet, anyway.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Because Someday I'm Going to Run Out of Underwear
There are times when I wish that we were a little handier.
Sara: Himself, we need to get the washer/dryer hooked up no later than Monday night.
Himself: I work late all week.
Sara: Um, not a good excuse.
Himself: What's the rush?
Sara: Baby Girl is on her last clean pair of pajamas. She has also ensured that nothing I have worn in the last week can be worn again, by marking her territory with snot. And someday I'm going to run out of clean underwear. (Not to mention the fact that the move has meant I have gone through rags and dishcloths like 5-year-olds go through toilet paper).
Himself: Oh.
Is it just Himself or do men not think about the ramifications of not having a washing machine, especially when one's house is inhabited by an infant and a pre-teen boy? Seriously.
To Himself's credit - he got out of setting up the washer/dryer last year, but he heard about all the horror stories, so he's a little worried. Then again, last year the washer/dryer was set up by a blind guy and a pregnant woman. The washer is 250 pounds and involves small parts. You have to give us some credit.
Wish us luck.
Sara: Himself, we need to get the washer/dryer hooked up no later than Monday night.
Himself: I work late all week.
Sara: Um, not a good excuse.
Himself: What's the rush?
Sara: Baby Girl is on her last clean pair of pajamas. She has also ensured that nothing I have worn in the last week can be worn again, by marking her territory with snot. And someday I'm going to run out of clean underwear. (Not to mention the fact that the move has meant I have gone through rags and dishcloths like 5-year-olds go through toilet paper).
Himself: Oh.
Is it just Himself or do men not think about the ramifications of not having a washing machine, especially when one's house is inhabited by an infant and a pre-teen boy? Seriously.
To Himself's credit - he got out of setting up the washer/dryer last year, but he heard about all the horror stories, so he's a little worried. Then again, last year the washer/dryer was set up by a blind guy and a pregnant woman. The washer is 250 pounds and involves small parts. You have to give us some credit.
Wish us luck.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Attack of the Mormon Woman Isanities
No secret, we started moving last Saturday. And by started, I really mean STARTED, as in I've spent at least 2 hours every day since (usually 3-4) dragging more stuff from the Hobbit Hole over to the new house and cleaning. The kitchen floor alone took me 45 minutes to mop this morning - not because it was dirty-gross or huge, but because nothing I do makes the bluish linoleum look clean. Ever.
While my kitchen is more or less unpacked (More=all the spices, baking goods, pots-n-pans, utinsels are put away in their proper place; Less=the salad plates, all the bowls, some knives and plastic containers and all the pantry items remain to be found), it is still a contortionist's dream come true, as there are boxes and bags and random things (chains for the car's tires in the kitchen? Really)EVERYWHERE. It's what happens when you move with mostly male help.
At the same time, a woman I have a great deal of respect for is on bedrest with a touch-and-go pregnancy. Being a Mormon Woman, I am a firm believer in the necessity of meals brought in. Even if one has a husband who can cook. Especially when one has a child. So, I volunteered, with the caveat that I had to actually FIND the kitchen first, which would take me until today at least.
There is just one problem: I hadn't gone grocery shopping in a month (other than sending Himself to buy the occassional gallon of milk). So last night, I dragged Himself to the store. He moaned and spent his time adding boxes of rice pudding, maple syrup and other things not on the list as "surprises" (which was definitely a "surprise" when the total bill was $15 more than I had calculated in my head.
This morning, I cut up the veggies and steamed them, so they'd be ready to toss into the sauce for the main dish when I got home. I stuck the can (yes, unopened - no time to look for the can opener) of mandarin oranges in the fridge to chill for the salad. I gave Himself the chicken breasts to grill so they would be ready for me to heat with the sauce this evening.
Then I went to start the cupcakes. All was well until I realized that I buy eggs at Costco. I haven't been to Costco in a month either. I have no eggs. Rather than use my mom's nifty substitute of Knox gelatin and water for eggs and end up ruining the good chocolate going into the cupcakes, I abandoned that project and vowed to make a mad dash by the store on the way home from work.
So now dinner is in varying states of preparation, my kitchen is in varying states of situational distress and I am in varying states of insanity.
Why do I do this to myself?
For those curious, tonight's menu includes:
Penne in a tomato cream sauce (with grilled chicken)- thanks to Diana & Pedro for the recipe and the first introduction to this dish!
Mandarin Spinach Salad with Poppyseed Dressing
Chocolate Cream Cheese Cupcakes
While my kitchen is more or less unpacked (More=all the spices, baking goods, pots-n-pans, utinsels are put away in their proper place; Less=the salad plates, all the bowls, some knives and plastic containers and all the pantry items remain to be found), it is still a contortionist's dream come true, as there are boxes and bags and random things (chains for the car's tires in the kitchen? Really)EVERYWHERE. It's what happens when you move with mostly male help.
At the same time, a woman I have a great deal of respect for is on bedrest with a touch-and-go pregnancy. Being a Mormon Woman, I am a firm believer in the necessity of meals brought in. Even if one has a husband who can cook. Especially when one has a child. So, I volunteered, with the caveat that I had to actually FIND the kitchen first, which would take me until today at least.
There is just one problem: I hadn't gone grocery shopping in a month (other than sending Himself to buy the occassional gallon of milk). So last night, I dragged Himself to the store. He moaned and spent his time adding boxes of rice pudding, maple syrup and other things not on the list as "surprises" (which was definitely a "surprise" when the total bill was $15 more than I had calculated in my head.
This morning, I cut up the veggies and steamed them, so they'd be ready to toss into the sauce for the main dish when I got home. I stuck the can (yes, unopened - no time to look for the can opener) of mandarin oranges in the fridge to chill for the salad. I gave Himself the chicken breasts to grill so they would be ready for me to heat with the sauce this evening.
Then I went to start the cupcakes. All was well until I realized that I buy eggs at Costco. I haven't been to Costco in a month either. I have no eggs. Rather than use my mom's nifty substitute of Knox gelatin and water for eggs and end up ruining the good chocolate going into the cupcakes, I abandoned that project and vowed to make a mad dash by the store on the way home from work.
So now dinner is in varying states of preparation, my kitchen is in varying states of situational distress and I am in varying states of insanity.
Why do I do this to myself?
For those curious, tonight's menu includes:
Penne in a tomato cream sauce (with grilled chicken)- thanks to Diana & Pedro for the recipe and the first introduction to this dish!
Mandarin Spinach Salad with Poppyseed Dressing
Chocolate Cream Cheese Cupcakes
Thursday, July 17, 2008
S-P-A-C-E
Seven years ago, I moved into a 900 sf one-bedroom apartment. It was perfect for a single, living-alone person. When Himself moved in, it was still okay. It had a dining room and a cute balcony and was 1/2 mile from work.>
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The next apartment was a 1,200 sf three-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom apartment. We actually lived there for free because two of Himself's Navy buddies wanted a) to collect BAH (housing allowance) and b) a place to keep their stuff while they were out to sea. Since one cannot collect housing allowance without having a house, even though they paid $400/month to rent, they ended up with an extra $300/month in their pockets. Thank you, Uncle Sam.
Anyway, said apartment, even though it was on very grand-sounding "Malibu Palms Dr." was the closet thing to a ghetto I hope I ever live in. Seriously. It had NO good things about it. The worst things were a bathroom with no outlets and 18" of counter space in the kitchen.
Then there came The Palace, a brand-new, 1,000 sf, 2-bed, 2-bath heaven of two-tone walls, crown molding, 6' windows, 9' ceilings, a soaking tub, the greatest apartment kitchen ever, fitness center, pool ... I loved it. It drove me crazy the living space was all one room, but after the ghetto, not such a bad deal. Of course, it was more than twice what we'd paid for any other dwelling ever. But it wasn't quite in Outer Darkness, the commute wasn't horrible, and I did get a discount.You can imagine, then, the Hobbit Hole's glory - 7' ceilings (5'10" where there was a bulkhead involved), no linen closet and oh, in a basement. But it had some redeeming qualities - a great storage room, a decent (if eccentric) kitchen and a great backyard.
Yet for all of these places, there have been two things I've always longed for - enough space to not have to look at the Christmas decor year-round and space for guests.
My anxiety goes into overdrive when we have overnight guests - because everywhere we've ever lived since my apartment 7 years ago has a single living space - and "open" floor plan, where everyone in the house must pileontopofeachotherlikethis. Everyone is in the way. The TV blares, people in another corner talk over it. Any kids involved go nuts.
Not very condusive to someone who needs a 4' radius of personal space at any given time.
But THIS move, a 1,500 sf 2-level duplex has space. A single-car garage (which I will never park in for fear of not being able to get OUT of the car), a basement storage room. Decent closets. A family room. A dining room. A SEPARATE living room. A backyard. A guest bedroom/bath.
Himself would tell you that the cabinets are suspect (read: Brady Bunch-era) and the windows are cheap (same deal). There is no pantry. But I am in awe as I unpack. There are spaces to store things logically. Skis, Christmas, outgrown baby gear in one place. Board games (all 30+ of them) in another. Food storage in another.
And separate gathering spaces - for kids, adults, whoever. Just in time for gas to be at record highs and too expensive for anyone to come visit.
Figures.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Martian Mariachi
I woke up this morning - at 5:15 a.m. - to mariachi music. Not only that, but staticky mariachi music.
It wasn't terribly loud - just loud enough (and staticky enough) that, combined with the rising sun, made me wake up 45 minutes earlier than I normally do. It was just annyoing enough to make me want to bury my head under my pillow and think of grumpy words.
I thought for sure someone was out working in the yard and listening to the radio. I got up to investigate. I'm not sure why I thought I could see anything, given the fact that our room is in the basement.
What I discovered was even more bizarre. The mariachi music was coming from ... the baby monitor.
I crept into Baby Girl's room, where she slept blissfully in a warm, steamy silence. No mariachi music. No music at all, in fact. The only noise was the purr of her humidifier.
Puzzled, I walked back into our room. The music was still playing over the baby monitor.
Himself wanted to know what on earth I was doing (especially after yesterday's closet incident). I told him about the Martian Mariachi music over the monitor. He just rolled his eyes.
--
On a related side note, some months ago I heard a baby crying over the monitor. I rushed to check on Baby Girl, who was sound asleep. Thinking it was odd that she would fall back to sleep so immediately after such choking sobs, I returned to my task at the other end of the house only to discover ... there was still a baby crying over the monitor.
Someone ELSE's baby was crying on MY monitor.
Curiouser and curiouser.
It wasn't terribly loud - just loud enough (and staticky enough) that, combined with the rising sun, made me wake up 45 minutes earlier than I normally do. It was just annyoing enough to make me want to bury my head under my pillow and think of grumpy words.
I thought for sure someone was out working in the yard and listening to the radio. I got up to investigate. I'm not sure why I thought I could see anything, given the fact that our room is in the basement.
What I discovered was even more bizarre. The mariachi music was coming from ... the baby monitor.
I crept into Baby Girl's room, where she slept blissfully in a warm, steamy silence. No mariachi music. No music at all, in fact. The only noise was the purr of her humidifier.
Puzzled, I walked back into our room. The music was still playing over the baby monitor.
Himself wanted to know what on earth I was doing (especially after yesterday's closet incident). I told him about the Martian Mariachi music over the monitor. He just rolled his eyes.
--
On a related side note, some months ago I heard a baby crying over the monitor. I rushed to check on Baby Girl, who was sound asleep. Thinking it was odd that she would fall back to sleep so immediately after such choking sobs, I returned to my task at the other end of the house only to discover ... there was still a baby crying over the monitor.
Someone ELSE's baby was crying on MY monitor.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Yes, Mr. Postman, There Really is a 2 at the End
There are some definite advantages to moving next door versus anywhere else:
* The move was (is) virtually free, other than the $40 in takeout we've spent because we haven't been organized enough to find everything to cobble together a meal, including cold cereal (since rectified last night by putting away 85% of the kitchen "stuff" at 11 p.m.)
* One only has to carry things once. No loading, then unloading the truck with large, heavy, bulky or multiple items. Just lugging them across the lawn is enough.
I've discovered recently, however, one big disadvantage:
* The post office fails to recognize a one-digit change in address and continues to deliver mail addressed to our new address to the mail box next door at the Hobbit Hole's address.
At the moment, it is nothing more than a general annoyance, because we're still technically paying for (and cleaning and schlepping stuff out of) the Hobbit Hole. However, upon the arrival of new tenants, my general annoyance will likely grow into massive consternation.
The Hobbit Hole's address ends in -50. Our new address ends in -52. Apparently the dear postman feels he's doing us a favor by delivering mail to the Hobbit Hole that was mistakenly misaddressed. (Just like he's doing us a favor by delivering our mail to the upstairs neighbors or vice versa, or delivering all mail to former occupants to our box to deal with).
Yesterday I went to the post office and asked that they please make a note that indeed we have requested our mail to be forwarded. No, it is not a typo. Yes, we really did move next door. Yes, I relize it's easy to confuse one digit. No, after a year of mail issues, I'd rather not wait and let this "sort itself out."
Until then, if you want to reach us, send us an e-mail.
* The move was (is) virtually free, other than the $40 in takeout we've spent because we haven't been organized enough to find everything to cobble together a meal, including cold cereal (since rectified last night by putting away 85% of the kitchen "stuff" at 11 p.m.)
* One only has to carry things once. No loading, then unloading the truck with large, heavy, bulky or multiple items. Just lugging them across the lawn is enough.
I've discovered recently, however, one big disadvantage:
* The post office fails to recognize a one-digit change in address and continues to deliver mail addressed to our new address to the mail box next door at the Hobbit Hole's address.
At the moment, it is nothing more than a general annoyance, because we're still technically paying for (and cleaning and schlepping stuff out of) the Hobbit Hole. However, upon the arrival of new tenants, my general annoyance will likely grow into massive consternation.
The Hobbit Hole's address ends in -50. Our new address ends in -52. Apparently the dear postman feels he's doing us a favor by delivering mail to the Hobbit Hole that was mistakenly misaddressed. (Just like he's doing us a favor by delivering our mail to the upstairs neighbors or vice versa, or delivering all mail to former occupants to our box to deal with).
Yesterday I went to the post office and asked that they please make a note that indeed we have requested our mail to be forwarded. No, it is not a typo. Yes, we really did move next door. Yes, I relize it's easy to confuse one digit. No, after a year of mail issues, I'd rather not wait and let this "sort itself out."
Until then, if you want to reach us, send us an e-mail.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Even Seventy Times Seven
I don't get angry as a general rule. I get annoyed, frustrated and irritated, I vent and it all blows over like a desert thunderstorm in July.
I don't hold grudges. More because I'm too lazy to hang on to hurtful emotions more than any indication of pending sainthood.
I don't believe in revenge. I believe it poisons the person seeking it more than it harms the person who (in all likelihood) might deserve it. (I did however, find delight in plotting comedic revenge on the practical-joking-neighbors in college, but that is neither here nor there).
I believe that life is not fair, nor was it meant to be. I believe that sometimes the good do die young, the bad guy wins, someone gets more or less than she deserves and once in awhile all sense of goodness seems to have evaporated.
I believe that there is some good in everyone. More good in some than others, but that's not the point of this statement at the moment.
I don't believe in retribution, and most of my opinion on litigation law would be categorized under "people unwilling to take responsibility for their actions."
I believe that sometimes no one is at fault - bad things just happen, sometimes bad things happen that no one can control. I think very often pointing fingers does nothing but create chaos that reduces the ability to solve the original problem.
With that said, I AM ANGRY. Angry enough to spit nails. Angry enough to not feel anything but the searing, white-hot emotional furnace of not caring about anything else but being angry.
It has been brewing for a month. It has been a month-long drama of hurt, betrayal, miscommunication, lies and shattered trust. I have remained reasonably emotionally sane, but today I hit a wall. A 1,000-foot-high-cement-wall-with-razor-wire-and-broken-glass.
And Sunday's sermon was on forgiveness. Delivered, incidentally, by a recently returned missionary who helped me move on Saturday.
As mad as I am, I am grateful for the reminder to forgive "even seventy times seven" (Even if you subscribe to the literal meaning, Christ must have realized that forgiving the same person 490 times would do more to prepare one for salvation than anything else, just by the sheer virtue of how much patience it would require). I have seen people destroyed by bitter anger and hurt. I have seen the inability to forgive poison people, families and generations.
I'm not willing to go that far over a few thousand dollars. My creditors might think otherwise, but at this point, while I will protect myself from further damage, I am praying to remember "even seventy times seven."
I don't hold grudges. More because I'm too lazy to hang on to hurtful emotions more than any indication of pending sainthood.
I don't believe in revenge. I believe it poisons the person seeking it more than it harms the person who (in all likelihood) might deserve it. (I did however, find delight in plotting comedic revenge on the practical-joking-neighbors in college, but that is neither here nor there).
I believe that life is not fair, nor was it meant to be. I believe that sometimes the good do die young, the bad guy wins, someone gets more or less than she deserves and once in awhile all sense of goodness seems to have evaporated.
I believe that there is some good in everyone. More good in some than others, but that's not the point of this statement at the moment.
I don't believe in retribution, and most of my opinion on litigation law would be categorized under "people unwilling to take responsibility for their actions."
I believe that sometimes no one is at fault - bad things just happen, sometimes bad things happen that no one can control. I think very often pointing fingers does nothing but create chaos that reduces the ability to solve the original problem.
With that said, I AM ANGRY. Angry enough to spit nails. Angry enough to not feel anything but the searing, white-hot emotional furnace of not caring about anything else but being angry.
It has been brewing for a month. It has been a month-long drama of hurt, betrayal, miscommunication, lies and shattered trust. I have remained reasonably emotionally sane, but today I hit a wall. A 1,000-foot-high-cement-wall-with-razor-wire-and-broken-glass.
And Sunday's sermon was on forgiveness. Delivered, incidentally, by a recently returned missionary who helped me move on Saturday.
As mad as I am, I am grateful for the reminder to forgive "even seventy times seven" (Even if you subscribe to the literal meaning, Christ must have realized that forgiving the same person 490 times would do more to prepare one for salvation than anything else, just by the sheer virtue of how much patience it would require). I have seen people destroyed by bitter anger and hurt. I have seen the inability to forgive poison people, families and generations.
I'm not willing to go that far over a few thousand dollars. My creditors might think otherwise, but at this point, while I will protect myself from further damage, I am praying to remember "even seventy times seven."
The Great Bedroom Escape
Sleeping in a new place is always difficult for me. I don't sleep well as a general rule, but I sleep even worse if I am in someone else's bed or someone else's house. That includes the first few nights in a new home.
However, either the new house has good karma or I am suffering from sheer exhaustion over the drama of the last month, because I have slept blissfully well all three nights I have spent in the new house (new being a very relative term, of course, it's 30 years old).
Additionally, while Baby Girl has her bedroom on the same level as ours, she is back in the far corner - so we had to drag out the baby monitor. I have grown unaccustomed to hearing her cries so loudly over the monitor on the rare occasion she wakes up in the night.
Last night I went from a dead sleep to a frenzied stupor in 0.7 seconds when Baby Girl let out a series of wails from her room. It shocked me so completely, I forgot to just wait it out to see if she would rescue her binky and drift back to sleep, and I launched myself out of bed in a mess of bedding, flailing limbs and grunts. Completely disoriented, I stumbled around in the blackness of our bedroom until I found the door. I opened it, and walked out.
Strange, I thought. I would have thought there would be at least some ambient light from the window in the family room. I was unable to find the banister in the dark, which indicates the necessary place to turn toward Baby Girl's room. Instead, I ran into a wall.
Still in a state of heavy delirium, I stumbled back into the bedroom and fished for my cell phone to use the LED display and brighten up my path to Baby Girl's room a little.
Imagine my surprise when my cell phone illuminated the room just enough to reveal my "adventure" had been in our completely empty walk-in closet. The door out of the bedroom wasn't even on the same wall.
By the time I found my way out of the bedroom, Baby Girl had given up and gone back to sleep. Funny how easy it is to feel so dumb at 3 a.m., even when no one is around to witness it.
However, either the new house has good karma or I am suffering from sheer exhaustion over the drama of the last month, because I have slept blissfully well all three nights I have spent in the new house (new being a very relative term, of course, it's 30 years old).
Additionally, while Baby Girl has her bedroom on the same level as ours, she is back in the far corner - so we had to drag out the baby monitor. I have grown unaccustomed to hearing her cries so loudly over the monitor on the rare occasion she wakes up in the night.
Last night I went from a dead sleep to a frenzied stupor in 0.7 seconds when Baby Girl let out a series of wails from her room. It shocked me so completely, I forgot to just wait it out to see if she would rescue her binky and drift back to sleep, and I launched myself out of bed in a mess of bedding, flailing limbs and grunts. Completely disoriented, I stumbled around in the blackness of our bedroom until I found the door. I opened it, and walked out.
Strange, I thought. I would have thought there would be at least some ambient light from the window in the family room. I was unable to find the banister in the dark, which indicates the necessary place to turn toward Baby Girl's room. Instead, I ran into a wall.
Still in a state of heavy delirium, I stumbled back into the bedroom and fished for my cell phone to use the LED display and brighten up my path to Baby Girl's room a little.
Imagine my surprise when my cell phone illuminated the room just enough to reveal my "adventure" had been in our completely empty walk-in closet. The door out of the bedroom wasn't even on the same wall.
By the time I found my way out of the bedroom, Baby Girl had given up and gone back to sleep. Funny how easy it is to feel so dumb at 3 a.m., even when no one is around to witness it.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Adieu, Hobbit Hole
As of Wednesday, the Hobbit Hole will belong to someone else. I have the annoying bits of odds-and-ends to cart out (and about half of the kitchen), then a deep cleaning, and we'll close the door on our first year in The Frontier forever.
I'm surprisingly nostalgic about the Hobbit Hole - perhaps because it was Baby Girl's first home. Perhaps because of the lush backyard. Perhaps because I cannot yet locate the salt and pepper.
To listen to Himself, however, one would think the Hobbit Hole was a palace. Um, what?! Remember last year? When Himself spent days moaning about the low-ceilinged luxury digs (complete with 8-legged house guests) I conjured up for us while he was still in VA?
Fast-forward 12 months. Now he is moaning about the move to the house next door. Never mind the fact he forgot to tell work were moving on Saturday the 12th fate would have it, they scheduled him to work his once-a-month Saturday shift on ... you guessed it, Saturday the 12th. We are grateful for the mattress, box springs, bed frame and box of damp laundry (we had to move the dryer before the last batch of laundry was dry Saturday morning)he managed to move over.
Saturday morning brought a parade of comedic proportions. Enter Sara, with Baby Girl in the backpack on her back hauling boxes from one house to the other, Son lugging some odd-shaped box or another, and five neighbors - three of whom were under the age of 22 - all parading back and forth from The Hobbit Hole to the new house. The parade was so successful we wore a path in the patch of grass separating the two houses. Hopefully the new occupants of the Hobbit Hole are friendly, since we've already created a shortcut between the two houses.
Sunday morning brought more comedy as we discovered that the breakfast cereal was at the new place (it has yet to be christened with a name), but the milk, bowls and silverware were at the old place. All of Baby Girl's things were at the new place, but most of our clothes were still in the Hobbit Hole's closets. All personal hygiene products were at the new place, but my makeup was at the Hobbit Hole.
You get the idea. Today, it was slightly better. I only had to run over to the Hobbit Hole for the loaf of bread and the trashcans, as I was getting tired of the pile of Baby Girl's diapers in the corner of the dining room. The rule is now, if you return to the Hobbit Hole, for any reason, you MUST return with a laundry basket full of items.
At this rate, we might be out of the Hobbit Hole by sometime mid-winter.
I'm surprisingly nostalgic about the Hobbit Hole - perhaps because it was Baby Girl's first home. Perhaps because of the lush backyard. Perhaps because I cannot yet locate the salt and pepper.
To listen to Himself, however, one would think the Hobbit Hole was a palace. Um, what?! Remember last year? When Himself spent days moaning about the low-ceilinged luxury digs (complete with 8-legged house guests) I conjured up for us while he was still in VA?
Fast-forward 12 months. Now he is moaning about the move to the house next door. Never mind the fact he forgot to tell work were moving on Saturday the 12th fate would have it, they scheduled him to work his once-a-month Saturday shift on ... you guessed it, Saturday the 12th. We are grateful for the mattress, box springs, bed frame and box of damp laundry (we had to move the dryer before the last batch of laundry was dry Saturday morning)he managed to move over.
Saturday morning brought a parade of comedic proportions. Enter Sara, with Baby Girl in the backpack on her back hauling boxes from one house to the other, Son lugging some odd-shaped box or another, and five neighbors - three of whom were under the age of 22 - all parading back and forth from The Hobbit Hole to the new house. The parade was so successful we wore a path in the patch of grass separating the two houses. Hopefully the new occupants of the Hobbit Hole are friendly, since we've already created a shortcut between the two houses.
Sunday morning brought more comedy as we discovered that the breakfast cereal was at the new place (it has yet to be christened with a name), but the milk, bowls and silverware were at the old place. All of Baby Girl's things were at the new place, but most of our clothes were still in the Hobbit Hole's closets. All personal hygiene products were at the new place, but my makeup was at the Hobbit Hole.
You get the idea. Today, it was slightly better. I only had to run over to the Hobbit Hole for the loaf of bread and the trashcans, as I was getting tired of the pile of Baby Girl's diapers in the corner of the dining room. The rule is now, if you return to the Hobbit Hole, for any reason, you MUST return with a laundry basket full of items.
At this rate, we might be out of the Hobbit Hole by sometime mid-winter.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Something Wrong With This Picture
(if I had a picture, anyway).
Everyone said we were crazy.
Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.
We tried to go camping.
Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.
The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.
The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.
Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.
Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.
After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.
Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.
I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.
Everyone said we were crazy.
Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.
We tried to go camping.
Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.
The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.
The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.
Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.
Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.
After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.
Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.
I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.
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