There comes a time in every mother's life where she must risk personal humiliation to provide a stimulating activity for her child. It would do said child a great deal of good to remember this when she believes at the wise old age of 13 that her mother is purposely trying to humiliate her. Turnabout is fair play.
Grover is here for his summer visit. In an attempt to engage both he and Woodstock in an activity suitable for a toddler and a teen (and a pregnant woman), I brought up the idea of venturing to the neighborhood aquatic center for a few hours over the weekend. Both kids loved the idea. Woodstock exclaimed happily over and over "poo! poo! poo!" (not to self: work on pronunciation of the letter "L").
An hour before our departure time on Saturday morning, I began to panic. Taking a teen to the pool is no big deal - at nearly 13 SS is old enough to merely be in the same room, not under constant eyeballing. However, taking a toddler to the pool would require that I myself get into the pool - 8 1/2 month pregnant belly and all.
The first challenge was finding a suitable bathing suit option. Since it is quite likely that I will not venture into a swimming pool more than a handful (if that) times in the next 5 weeks, buying a maternity suit was quite out of the question. Last year's ridiculously ugly tankini was also out, because it looked like Hilda the Hippo was trying to cram herself into someone's itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini. (Not that it was either a bikini, polka-dotted or yellow, but the general effect was the same).
I ended up fishing a two-piece out from the depths of the garage that I bought back in college and wore for years pre-childbirthing/stretchmarks/poochy stomach days. It fit (if you consider "fitting" to mean it stayed on my body without glue, suspenders or looking like it shrunk in the wash). Of course, there was no way on earth I was parading my large, late-pregnancy belly (complete with stretch marks - old and new - and enough heparin bruises to make me look like a bad accident victim) in a two piece to a community pool (I wouldn't even wear it in my fenced-in backyard, after all). I dug deeper into the garage and came out with a long tank that covered everything from my neck to my upper legs.
But, oh, the legs. In my haste to be maternal-figure-of-the-year, I had neglected to think about the fact that there was no way to escape my legs being the object of attention during this venture. They are lily white. As white as Woodstock's, who have never seen the light of day without being slathered in sunscreen repeatedly. And my skin is translucent, which means you can see every vein, scar, spot and ... every single spontaneous heparin bruise. Not to mention I hadn't shaved my legs in recent memory - thanks to the fact that they are stuffed into granny socks for 15ish hours a day.
I set out to rectify the problem, forgetting that I can't even see my legs when I look down, let alone maneuver well enough to get a razor to be effective at all. Not to mention I'm currently mildly phobic about razors, given my propensity to nick my ankles and my current regiment of anti-clotting drugs. After 30 minutes of trying, I gave up. I have no idea what the end result looked like, and at that point, it didn't really matter anyway. What with the ghetto bathing suit get up, the big belly and the white, bungled legs - a little bit of hair on my lower legs certainly couldn't make me look that much worse ... could it?
It was about this point when Grover declared he had a headache and was no longer interested in this mixed-up family outing. I considered calling the whole thing off until Woodstock ramped up her pleas of "poo! poo" which were unsatisfied by her baby pool on the back lawn.
I schlepped us both to the aquatic center, where Woodstock promptly decided the water was better from a distance and clung to me like lint on a sweater for the first 30 minutes. While the water helped buoy up her 25 pound bulk, it did nothing for my image as an uber-cool mom ... standing there in knee-deep water with a toddler suctioned to my right hip, my belly sticking out under a wet tank and my spotted legs available for closer inspection.
About 30 minutes in, Woodstock abruptly changed course and decided that pools were fine as long as she could WALK by herself, sans parental supervision. This would have been fine in the zero-depth entry portion, but she wasn't content to stay where she could actually touch the bottom with reliability. I spent the remainder of the time praying that I would be able to move as fast as my lightening-quick toddler, who suddenly delighted in the "poo" and the water and the other kids and felt she was much too advanced to be tethered to her mother. I'm sure the lifeguard kept her eye on us, just waiting for me to do a belly flop as I dove after Woodstock, wondering what kind of sane pregnant woman dons a bathing suit and takes a toddler to the pool by herself.
I myself was wondering the exact same thing. I'm filing this under "things to think about more thoroughly next time before commencing activity."
Monday, July 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Martyr's Lament
This month's issue of The Atlantic has a "thought-provoking" (stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-pencil-due-to-the-sheer-idiocy-of-the-argument kind of thought-provoking) article on the "outdated institution of marriage." (Side note: why must it always be referred to as an "institution?" - no wonder people are all for its demise. "Institution" sounds like somewhere youd send someone to be strapped to a bed and attended to by men in white lab coats, not something I'd actually wish to participate in.)
It starts by the author confessing to an extramarital affair. It then proceeds to detail her thoughts on how marriage is something best left to the 19th century agrarians where "it was considered to be a kind of trade union for a woman, her protection against the sexually wandering male."
People are entitled to their own opinions, though my brain is still sore from the verbal whiplash I endured as I bounced back and forth between her self-centered diatribe against stability, men in general and that venerable "institution": marriage.
The author, in the end, decides to get divorced, primarily because marriage takes (gasp) work - and while the author spends paragraphs assuring us she knows how to work (and is not afraid of it), alas, "Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance."
Wait a second. So the thing that should be most important above all in your life is being flung by the wayside like a used tissue because you are too tired after being a working mother to rekindle the romantic spark? Clearly she had some time to kindle some kind of romantic spark, given that she's just confessed (to the world, her therapist and her ex-husband) to having a brief extramarital affair.
She then laments: "My domestic evenings have typically revolved around five o’clock mac and cheese under bright lighting and then a slow melt into dishes and SpongeBob … because yet another of my marital failings was that I was never able to commit to a nanny"
I'm confused. So her life would have been better if she had a nanny? (No offense to nannys or those who hire them - I, after all, do my part to keep a sitter employed) But you can't conjure up a better evening than mac-n-cheese and SpongeBob? She goes on to complain about pondering these things in the middle of the night while dodging the elbows of her grade-school-aged girls.
Wait a minute.
She appears to be trying so hard to paint a picture of herself as a martyr that she is inadvertantly painting herself as rather inept at life in general (or so it seems). Not that there is anything wrong with mac-n-cheese (my own kid loves it) or SpongeBob (at least according to Himself) or snuggling with the kiddos, but I see a self-centered woman who overindulges her children because she's too tired (or something) to parent and tosses away her 20-year-marriage over a fling because it's more work than she can cram into her "woe-is-me" working mother schedule.
Here I feel, in some ways, qualified to comment. I'm a working mother. I work 40ish hours a week, in an office. It's hard. It's tiring. It's something I'd rather not do for the rest of my life. But that does NOT absolve me of my responsibilities as a wife, a parent and a citizen of planet Earth. Nor does the sacrifices that being a working mother/wife require earn me martyr status. I am not a single parent, underemployed, working multiple jobs or on public assistance. Neither was the author (until she chose single parenting over the "work" that rebuilding her marriage would take). And her selfish pursuit of excitement, lust and the easy way (over-indulging the children versus having an adult relationship with their father) certainly does not qualify as either sacrifice or martyr status.
I can only imagine the shock and awe that would result from Himself if I waltzed in the house day after day and said, "Oh I can only manage to cook dinner from a box and stick Woodstock in front of the TV, because I can't possibly be expected to do anything more for anyone - I am, after all, a working woman." Never mind the fact that Himself (and the author's husband) are both employed as well.
Which brings me to the next portion of the essay in which the author joins a friend to rail against her friend's spouse (who holds a job, cooks, chauffers the kiddos and generally dazzles all of their friends), because *gasp* he is too "stable."
In one sentance she lauds his goodness: "More accurately, [she is] reheating dinner; the dish is something wonderfully subtle yet complex, like a saffron-infused porcini risotto, that Ian made over the weekend and froze for us, in Tupperware neatly labeled with a Sharpie, because this is the sort of thoughtful thing he does." Several paragraphs later, she gleefully skewers him for his faults, while at the same time absolving her friend's faults because she "She sees herself as a failed mother, and is depressed and chronically overworked at her $120,000-a-year job (which she must cling to for the benefits because Ian freelances). At night, horny and sleepless, she paces the exquisite kitchen, gobbling mini Dove bars. The main breadwinner, Rachel is really the Traditional Dad, but instead of being handed her pipe and slippers at six, she appears to be marooned in a sexless remodeling project with a passive-aggressive Competitive Wife."
As I see it, women have created (by and large) their own monster. We have begged, pleaded, groveled, yelled and demanded to be treated not as mere equals to men but AS MEN. In the process, we emasculate men, demand that they take on everything we can't possibly handle as "poor working mothers," and then whine because they turn into "passive-aggressive Competitive Wi[ves]" - who are probably leaving their partners without intimacy because they are TOO DARN TIRED TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT after a day of working, whipping up healthy meals and shuttling the kids to and from everything. Sure, they should focus on the relationship too, but if we're too busy crying "martyr!" and shoving everything into their laps, we hardly have room to complain.
Now, to be clear, I'm all for equal division of labor ESPECIALLY because I work. I want a partner in parenting, in household tasks and in life - in addition to someone who is also a romantic partner. But I'm not going to get that if I insist on whining about how rough my life is to be the main breadwinner, so therefore I cannot possibly be asked to do anything else. Isn't that the whole 1950s "Man gets home, gets pipe and newspaper ignores family" scenario that we as women have been campaigning against for some 50 years, only with the gender roles reversed?"
I want to know what is wrong with the "stable men" she rails against in her article. What's so wrong with being stable? Stable doesn't have to mean boring, and if it does, maybe she'd best look at herself as she critizes everyone else ... look where it got her ... at least now she can play the "woe is me, SINGLE working mom" card.
The problem is, she seems to confuse Love with Lust - which even a scientist would tell you are two completely different things - from a cellular level right on through your marital vows. That is never more clear than in her last paragraph, in which she states:
It starts by the author confessing to an extramarital affair. It then proceeds to detail her thoughts on how marriage is something best left to the 19th century agrarians where "it was considered to be a kind of trade union for a woman, her protection against the sexually wandering male."
People are entitled to their own opinions, though my brain is still sore from the verbal whiplash I endured as I bounced back and forth between her self-centered diatribe against stability, men in general and that venerable "institution": marriage.
The author, in the end, decides to get divorced, primarily because marriage takes (gasp) work - and while the author spends paragraphs assuring us she knows how to work (and is not afraid of it), alas, "Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance."
Wait a second. So the thing that should be most important above all in your life is being flung by the wayside like a used tissue because you are too tired after being a working mother to rekindle the romantic spark? Clearly she had some time to kindle some kind of romantic spark, given that she's just confessed (to the world, her therapist and her ex-husband) to having a brief extramarital affair.
She then laments: "My domestic evenings have typically revolved around five o’clock mac and cheese under bright lighting and then a slow melt into dishes and SpongeBob … because yet another of my marital failings was that I was never able to commit to a nanny"
I'm confused. So her life would have been better if she had a nanny? (No offense to nannys or those who hire them - I, after all, do my part to keep a sitter employed) But you can't conjure up a better evening than mac-n-cheese and SpongeBob? She goes on to complain about pondering these things in the middle of the night while dodging the elbows of her grade-school-aged girls.
Wait a minute.
She appears to be trying so hard to paint a picture of herself as a martyr that she is inadvertantly painting herself as rather inept at life in general (or so it seems). Not that there is anything wrong with mac-n-cheese (my own kid loves it) or SpongeBob (at least according to Himself) or snuggling with the kiddos, but I see a self-centered woman who overindulges her children because she's too tired (or something) to parent and tosses away her 20-year-marriage over a fling because it's more work than she can cram into her "woe-is-me" working mother schedule.
Here I feel, in some ways, qualified to comment. I'm a working mother. I work 40ish hours a week, in an office. It's hard. It's tiring. It's something I'd rather not do for the rest of my life. But that does NOT absolve me of my responsibilities as a wife, a parent and a citizen of planet Earth. Nor does the sacrifices that being a working mother/wife require earn me martyr status. I am not a single parent, underemployed, working multiple jobs or on public assistance. Neither was the author (until she chose single parenting over the "work" that rebuilding her marriage would take). And her selfish pursuit of excitement, lust and the easy way (over-indulging the children versus having an adult relationship with their father) certainly does not qualify as either sacrifice or martyr status.
I can only imagine the shock and awe that would result from Himself if I waltzed in the house day after day and said, "Oh I can only manage to cook dinner from a box and stick Woodstock in front of the TV, because I can't possibly be expected to do anything more for anyone - I am, after all, a working woman." Never mind the fact that Himself (and the author's husband) are both employed as well.
Which brings me to the next portion of the essay in which the author joins a friend to rail against her friend's spouse (who holds a job, cooks, chauffers the kiddos and generally dazzles all of their friends), because *gasp* he is too "stable."
In one sentance she lauds his goodness: "More accurately, [she is] reheating dinner; the dish is something wonderfully subtle yet complex, like a saffron-infused porcini risotto, that Ian made over the weekend and froze for us, in Tupperware neatly labeled with a Sharpie, because this is the sort of thoughtful thing he does." Several paragraphs later, she gleefully skewers him for his faults, while at the same time absolving her friend's faults because she "She sees herself as a failed mother, and is depressed and chronically overworked at her $120,000-a-year job (which she must cling to for the benefits because Ian freelances). At night, horny and sleepless, she paces the exquisite kitchen, gobbling mini Dove bars. The main breadwinner, Rachel is really the Traditional Dad, but instead of being handed her pipe and slippers at six, she appears to be marooned in a sexless remodeling project with a passive-aggressive Competitive Wife."
As I see it, women have created (by and large) their own monster. We have begged, pleaded, groveled, yelled and demanded to be treated not as mere equals to men but AS MEN. In the process, we emasculate men, demand that they take on everything we can't possibly handle as "poor working mothers," and then whine because they turn into "passive-aggressive Competitive Wi[ves]" - who are probably leaving their partners without intimacy because they are TOO DARN TIRED TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT after a day of working, whipping up healthy meals and shuttling the kids to and from everything. Sure, they should focus on the relationship too, but if we're too busy crying "martyr!" and shoving everything into their laps, we hardly have room to complain.
Now, to be clear, I'm all for equal division of labor ESPECIALLY because I work. I want a partner in parenting, in household tasks and in life - in addition to someone who is also a romantic partner. But I'm not going to get that if I insist on whining about how rough my life is to be the main breadwinner, so therefore I cannot possibly be asked to do anything else. Isn't that the whole 1950s "Man gets home, gets pipe and newspaper ignores family" scenario that we as women have been campaigning against for some 50 years, only with the gender roles reversed?"
I want to know what is wrong with the "stable men" she rails against in her article. What's so wrong with being stable? Stable doesn't have to mean boring, and if it does, maybe she'd best look at herself as she critizes everyone else ... look where it got her ... at least now she can play the "woe is me, SINGLE working mom" card.
The problem is, she seems to confuse Love with Lust - which even a scientist would tell you are two completely different things - from a cellular level right on through your marital vows. That is never more clear than in her last paragraph, in which she states:
Avoid marriage—or you too may suffer the emotional pain, the humiliation, and the logistical difficulty, not to mention the expense, of breaking up a long-term union at midlife for something as demonstrably fleeting as love.That just leaves me speechless.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Moon Walks and Vampires
On Moon Walks
20 years ago today, I made my first trek to the National Air & Space Museum in downtown D.C. I was spending the summer at my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia, and was mid-way through indulging myself in what would ultimately end up being a life-changing experience.
We had made several trips downtown in previous weeks - the first being for the not-to-be-missed 4th of July celebration on the National Mall - but we hadn't yet ventured to the Smithsonian museums on the mall's south side.
I certainly didn't recognize the significance of the day until my arrival (with hundreds of thousands of other people) at the air and space museum that day - the 20th anniversary of man's first walk on the moon. I touched a moon rock, gazed at real and replicated space craft and learned more about space in a few hours of reading every museum sign I could lay my eyes on than I had in all my nearly 11 years of life up to that point. It was, after all, only 3 short years after the Challenger disaster, my last real interaction with space, which had left me a bit skeptical and slightly bruised.
I remember feeling kind of important for being in a place so significant on the anniversary of such a great historical event. It was, ultimately, one of the things that gave D.C. such an incredible pull over my psyche. Standing in the middle of history was intoxicating - so intoxicating that it never quite left me, until I migrated back as an adult resident.
It's hard to believe 20 years - and so much more history - has passed. Today, as I listen to the recaps of the 40th celebration of man's walk on the moon, I can't help but reflect that for me, the lunar landing happened not on July 20, 1969, but on July 20, 1989, as I had the chance to re-live a piece of history in a city known for staging some of the most significant historical, political and social acts of the 20the 20th century.
That day, D.C. became my town.
On Vampires.
It surprises me, looking back, that the thing that terrified me most about my first surgery (at age 14) was not the surgery itself, or even the anesthetic (something I learned to fear with the next surgery, which left me in critical care on life support). Rather, my greatest fear was having my blood drawn and typed the week before surgery. It wasn't the needle so much as it was the fact that I had to sit and watch vials upon vials (or so it felt) of my blood leak out of my arm.
Today, as I journeyed to the hospital lab for my fourth blood draw in 12 days, I realized just how grateful I was that I go over the whole thing a long time ago. As it turns out, if one ends up with a blood clot while pregnant, one ends up spending a significant amount of time getting to knowvampires phlebotomists on a first-name basis. I have one more draw this week until the doctors determine if I am medicated at the correct level. Then I get to repeat the whole process in 10 days when I begin another drug that may or may not interact with the first one, requiring another two weeks of vampire lab visits every three days.
The whole experience has taught me something though - if you have to go in for frequent lab work, go to a hospital. Himself confessed that hospitalvampires phlebotomists generally have more experience overall (not to mention much more experience with difficult veins or people like me who now artificially bleed like a stuck pig upon the slightest abrasion) and are more skilled with a needle. I don't want to risk jeopardizing the streak yet, but so far, 5 sticks with needles (counting the one where I got stuck and didn't bleed - odd) and not a single, solitary bruise. A significant event, given the fact that this medication makes me bruise spontaneously.
It still doesn't make me terribly fond ofvampires blood draws, but at least it makes it tolerable. Plus, they give Woodstock a dum dum sucker if she happens to be with me, which makes her find my lab visits downright thrilling. And anything that makes a toddler happy, makes a toddler's mother very happy.
20 years ago today, I made my first trek to the National Air & Space Museum in downtown D.C. I was spending the summer at my aunt and uncle's house in Virginia, and was mid-way through indulging myself in what would ultimately end up being a life-changing experience.
We had made several trips downtown in previous weeks - the first being for the not-to-be-missed 4th of July celebration on the National Mall - but we hadn't yet ventured to the Smithsonian museums on the mall's south side.
I certainly didn't recognize the significance of the day until my arrival (with hundreds of thousands of other people) at the air and space museum that day - the 20th anniversary of man's first walk on the moon. I touched a moon rock, gazed at real and replicated space craft and learned more about space in a few hours of reading every museum sign I could lay my eyes on than I had in all my nearly 11 years of life up to that point. It was, after all, only 3 short years after the Challenger disaster, my last real interaction with space, which had left me a bit skeptical and slightly bruised.
I remember feeling kind of important for being in a place so significant on the anniversary of such a great historical event. It was, ultimately, one of the things that gave D.C. such an incredible pull over my psyche. Standing in the middle of history was intoxicating - so intoxicating that it never quite left me, until I migrated back as an adult resident.
It's hard to believe 20 years - and so much more history - has passed. Today, as I listen to the recaps of the 40th celebration of man's walk on the moon, I can't help but reflect that for me, the lunar landing happened not on July 20, 1969, but on July 20, 1989, as I had the chance to re-live a piece of history in a city known for staging some of the most significant historical, political and social acts of the 20the 20th century.
That day, D.C. became my town.
On Vampires.
It surprises me, looking back, that the thing that terrified me most about my first surgery (at age 14) was not the surgery itself, or even the anesthetic (something I learned to fear with the next surgery, which left me in critical care on life support). Rather, my greatest fear was having my blood drawn and typed the week before surgery. It wasn't the needle so much as it was the fact that I had to sit and watch vials upon vials (or so it felt) of my blood leak out of my arm.
Today, as I journeyed to the hospital lab for my fourth blood draw in 12 days, I realized just how grateful I was that I go over the whole thing a long time ago. As it turns out, if one ends up with a blood clot while pregnant, one ends up spending a significant amount of time getting to know
The whole experience has taught me something though - if you have to go in for frequent lab work, go to a hospital. Himself confessed that hospital
It still doesn't make me terribly fond of
Thursday, July 09, 2009
50 Days
Okay, really I have 49.5, but who is counting?
This baby will be "fully cooked" in 49(ish) days. 7 weeks.
Nesting has still not kicked in. I haven't done more than surface clean in several weeks (other than the bathrooms, since I've had a slew of house guests who are fortunately quite tolerant of the random non-organizational chaos of the 70s Palace). I haven't cooked a meal all week. And I just realized that the ground beef I took out for dinner tonight got left out all day, which means we won't be eating anything fabulous tonight either.
I did get to check one thing off my very long ridiculous list of things to accomplish yesterday: Buy coming home outfit for baby.
If baby is a boy, we're in big trouble. It's pink and has fuzzy bears.
The list of things to accomplish in the next 49 (ish) days however, looms long, including:
We do not have a name for Baby. Not even a list to narrow down. We just can't seem to motivate ourselves to discuss it. And the semi-proposed middle name isn't the most user-friendly name, further limiting choices. Baby does, however, have a screen name. We're happy to announce that Sara, Himself, Grover and Woodstock will be welcoming Pebbles to the family.
We also don't have a clue where Pebbles will be sleeping when she arrives - other than in her bassinet - because wherever she goes requires re-arranging furniture, and I'm too tired to think about it, let alone actually DO it.
I have not taken any childbirth classes. Ever. Yes, this is my second child. The first one I kind of winged it. I don't have that luxury this time. I do not want to be induced, which means I cannot have an epidural, even if I decide 80% of the way through labor that I want one like last time. I hated the way it made me feel, so I have no regrets about limiting my epidural options, but I am a bit clueless in the pain management techniques of labor. I've read a lot of books. I will be reading more over the next 7 weeks, I believe.
I'm torn as to whether I'm ready or not for this to be done. This may well be it for us. It may well be my last pregnancy (my body is rather hoping so, but the rest of me refuses to commit to any decision regarding further children for a minimum of 2 years post-delivery). Given that, I'm loathe to say I'm ready to be done, but I am ready to no longer feel as if I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs. Woodstock never dropped until I was in transition. Pebbles has been riding with her head practically engaged for the last four weeks. And, if I'm being totally honest, after 5 1/2 months of injections twice a day, I really could do without the needles. But I want a healthy, happy baby, so I'm not ready to have her quite yet.
Besides, I still have 49 days and at least that many things on my list.
This baby will be "fully cooked" in 49(ish) days. 7 weeks.
Nesting has still not kicked in. I haven't done more than surface clean in several weeks (other than the bathrooms, since I've had a slew of house guests who are fortunately quite tolerant of the random non-organizational chaos of the 70s Palace). I haven't cooked a meal all week. And I just realized that the ground beef I took out for dinner tonight got left out all day, which means we won't be eating anything fabulous tonight either.
I did get to check one thing off my very long ridiculous list of things to accomplish yesterday: Buy coming home outfit for baby.
If baby is a boy, we're in big trouble. It's pink and has fuzzy bears.
The list of things to accomplish in the next 49 (ish) days however, looms long, including:
We do not have a name for Baby. Not even a list to narrow down. We just can't seem to motivate ourselves to discuss it. And the semi-proposed middle name isn't the most user-friendly name, further limiting choices. Baby does, however, have a screen name. We're happy to announce that Sara, Himself, Grover and Woodstock will be welcoming Pebbles to the family.
We also don't have a clue where Pebbles will be sleeping when she arrives - other than in her bassinet - because wherever she goes requires re-arranging furniture, and I'm too tired to think about it, let alone actually DO it.
I have not taken any childbirth classes. Ever. Yes, this is my second child. The first one I kind of winged it. I don't have that luxury this time. I do not want to be induced, which means I cannot have an epidural, even if I decide 80% of the way through labor that I want one like last time. I hated the way it made me feel, so I have no regrets about limiting my epidural options, but I am a bit clueless in the pain management techniques of labor. I've read a lot of books. I will be reading more over the next 7 weeks, I believe.
I'm torn as to whether I'm ready or not for this to be done. This may well be it for us. It may well be my last pregnancy (my body is rather hoping so, but the rest of me refuses to commit to any decision regarding further children for a minimum of 2 years post-delivery). Given that, I'm loathe to say I'm ready to be done, but I am ready to no longer feel as if I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs. Woodstock never dropped until I was in transition. Pebbles has been riding with her head practically engaged for the last four weeks. And, if I'm being totally honest, after 5 1/2 months of injections twice a day, I really could do without the needles. But I want a healthy, happy baby, so I'm not ready to have her quite yet.
Besides, I still have 49 days and at least that many things on my list.
Monday, July 06, 2009
The pregnant lady, the toddler and the tent (and one obliging Himself)
The first indication that a camping road trip with a toddler and a pregnant woman was a bad idea should have been when I ran over a screw in the 1.5 blocks between work and the bank on Thursday afternoon, necessitating a new tire (replacing the one, I might add, that we just replaced six months ago *grumble*).
Undaunted, I forged on with a spirit befitting a pioneer (or an asylum resident, it remains to be fully determined). No matter, we'd delay our start a bit in hopes the tire could be fixed. When it couldn't, I not-so-cheerfully loaded everything into the smaller car - the one that would mean a backseat ride with virtually no leg room (long car trips with a toddler are best fared with one adult in the back seat).
Flat tire, late start ... no matter, we were well on our way to the Great American Road Trip, clean air, cooler temperatures and some memory-making.
However, there are a few things that seem to always have to happen to make life into one adventure after another when it involves me:
We definitely made memories, but I'm thinking we'll shelve planning any more vacations in the near future. I can't imagine repeating this scenario until I can actually bend over, breathe, sleep in my own space and hire a maid to clean up after we dirty every conceivable thing we own.
I need a vacation.
Undaunted, I forged on with a spirit befitting a pioneer (or an asylum resident, it remains to be fully determined). No matter, we'd delay our start a bit in hopes the tire could be fixed. When it couldn't, I not-so-cheerfully loaded everything into the smaller car - the one that would mean a backseat ride with virtually no leg room (long car trips with a toddler are best fared with one adult in the back seat).
Flat tire, late start ... no matter, we were well on our way to the Great American Road Trip, clean air, cooler temperatures and some memory-making.
However, there are a few things that seem to always have to happen to make life into one adventure after another when it involves me:
- The late start meant it was raining by the time we reached Yellowstone. Raining buckets. I'm tough, I can rough it, but something about dealing with wet camping gear, a toddler and pregnancy (and a grumpy Himself) didn't appeal. We decided to keep driving until a) the rain quit or b) another alternative presented itself. The alternative presented itself around 7 p.m. Friday night (after the obligatory stop at Old Faithful, where Woodstock delighted onlookers by trying to put her hat on Himself, then giggling hysterically as Old Faithful erupted - she loved it!). At that point we were in Gardiner, Montana. We found a quaint little group of cabins with this sign:
Enough to make you want to stop, right? It took some convincing, but they really were cute, charming (and antiquated) little cabins - and cheap (not as cheap as tent camping, but one cannot be picky if one doesn't wish to sleep on soggy ground). We stayed in this one:
- Sleeping with a toddler. I'm not sure how the co-sleeper people do it, but I am convinced they are probably so exhausted no one realizes how little sleep they are getting, because little people were not meant to sleep with big people. Night one we let Woodstock fall asleep in our bed before relocating her to (gasp!) her makeshift bed of quilts on the floor because we only had one bed. And the only way to confine her to one spot while falling asleep was to put her in between us. Night 2 we all shared a tent - where she again enjoyed prime sleeping space between us to minimize nocturnal acrobatics. I've never gotten so little sleep on vacation before. Woodstock kicking me one way, kiddo #2 kicking me from the inside.
- Tent camping. Did I really just do this at 32 weeks pregnant? Yes. And it wouldn't have been so bad if a) my small backpack tent would have actually been long enough for Himself to stretch out in (oops). b)It had not involved a wiggly toddler who slept beautifully even as she ensured her parents would not. c)I didn't have a hip that causes great pain when sleeping on hard surfaces - normally I sleep on my back or stomach while camping. Kind of an issue when one's tummy is out to here leaving no other choice.
- Holiday camping. Camping across from a group of teenagers, to be specific. Himself and I had just commented on how much we liked our campsite when viola! enter a group of 30+ teens and one or two people that might have passed as possible adult chaperones. It wasn't so bad until about 9 p.m., when we were still trying to get Woodstock down for the night and they had Bon Jovi blaring full volume, along with 30+ teenage voices singing along. Add in normal teenage shrieking and it made for a very curious Woodstock and a very grumpy mama bear. She got them back them back the next morning though when she woke up at 5:45 a.m. and declared, "All done sleeping mama. Go 'side (outside)" Turns out, toddlers aren't the most quiet morning people known to man.
- Driving. So the trip to Yellowstone on a good day with no stops takes about 5 hours. Throw in a toddler and a pregnant lady who has to pee every 90 miles and it can take ... oh, much, much longer than that. We spent A LOT of time in the car. Hundreds of miles in 3 days. We saw the West, North and South entrances of Yellowstone. We drove 190 miles within Yellowstone itself. Add in a 45 mph speed limit, numerous stops for photos, meandering down walkways and random animal sightings (buffalo herds crossing the road - or walking down the middle of it, bears on the side of the road, etc.) and it took up a good portion of the weekend, especially if you add in the fact that it the drive to/from is about 600 miles round-trip to begin with. Woodstock has proven herself as a road warrior - only the last day did cries of "Ouchie bum!" emanate from the back seat.
- Hard labor. Camping as a kid seemed easy. Camping as a single adult was only slightly more difficult. Camping with a kid while pregnant? Yeah, not so much. Keeping up with the toddler who was fascinated by the woods and didn't understand why she couldn't wander as she pleased was exhausting. Doing it on 4 hours of sleep in a two-night span is even more so. Doing it while dodging herds of enormous mosquitoes adds a particular element of fun. Adding in the tent set-up, cooking, clean up, tent tear-down, potty runs, and unpacking and re-packing the car makes one want to schedule a spa day on a beach far, far away. Coming home and realizing it will take 5 batches of laundry to get the campfire smell out of every piece of cloth that made the trek makes one just want to sit down and cry - especially given the sore hip, the 20 mosquito bites (turns out mosquitoes can and do bite through compression stockings!) and the sore muscles from sitting and/or hiking.
We definitely made memories, but I'm thinking we'll shelve planning any more vacations in the near future. I can't imagine repeating this scenario until I can actually bend over, breathe, sleep in my own space and hire a maid to clean up after we dirty every conceivable thing we own.
I need a vacation.
Friday, July 03, 2009
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Is it considered child labor if I turn the garden watering over to my toddler?
Because lately she's been asking to "Go 'side, Mama. Water plants." (Go outside mama, water plants). And hey, that sounds like motivation to work to me. Since motivation is a word in my vocabulary that has been swallowed up by pregnancy, I'd say "go for it" except the watering can is as big as she is.
I made a couple of mistakes in planting a garden this year:
1. I failed to realize we don't own a hose.
2. I failed to realize our outdoor water source is on the FRONT of the house. The garden is in the BACK of the house. It means I have to lug a watering can outside multiple times to water things.
3. I bought drought-resistant plants. Normally a fine thing in the high desert country of The Frontier. Except June has been anything but dry. I've lost a few plants to overwatering thanks to Mother Nature (though it has reduced the number of days I've had to lug the watering can out repeatedly.
4. I underestimated the ease of growing basil. So far I'm 0 for 2 on basil plants.
5. I have magic mint ... one day it looks fabulous. The next, well, it looks rather sickly. Even Woodstock noticed and called my dear plant "icky" on one of its less-than-healthy days.
6. Fourth of July tomatoes, even when planted at the appropraite time apparently don't ripen by the Fourth of July when the sun has only shown for one of the last five weeks. The plant has lots of tomatoes, but they are just as green as the regular tomatoes.
I think I'd best leave the gardening project to next summer, when I can actually see my feet, can kneel and/or bend over and when the weather is back to normal. In the meatime, I have six thriving (if not ripening) tomato plants. We may be eating fried green tomatoes and cilantro this summer, but we'll at least be eating something homegrown.
Because lately she's been asking to "Go 'side, Mama. Water plants." (Go outside mama, water plants). And hey, that sounds like motivation to work to me. Since motivation is a word in my vocabulary that has been swallowed up by pregnancy, I'd say "go for it" except the watering can is as big as she is.
I made a couple of mistakes in planting a garden this year:
1. I failed to realize we don't own a hose.
2. I failed to realize our outdoor water source is on the FRONT of the house. The garden is in the BACK of the house. It means I have to lug a watering can outside multiple times to water things.
3. I bought drought-resistant plants. Normally a fine thing in the high desert country of The Frontier. Except June has been anything but dry. I've lost a few plants to overwatering thanks to Mother Nature (though it has reduced the number of days I've had to lug the watering can out repeatedly.
4. I underestimated the ease of growing basil. So far I'm 0 for 2 on basil plants.
5. I have magic mint ... one day it looks fabulous. The next, well, it looks rather sickly. Even Woodstock noticed and called my dear plant "icky" on one of its less-than-healthy days.
6. Fourth of July tomatoes, even when planted at the appropraite time apparently don't ripen by the Fourth of July when the sun has only shown for one of the last five weeks. The plant has lots of tomatoes, but they are just as green as the regular tomatoes.
I think I'd best leave the gardening project to next summer, when I can actually see my feet, can kneel and/or bend over and when the weather is back to normal. In the meatime, I have six thriving (if not ripening) tomato plants. We may be eating fried green tomatoes and cilantro this summer, but we'll at least be eating something homegrown.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
The Great American Vacation
Himself and I have not taken a vacation in 34 months - not since we went to Boston to see Boston College take three overtimes to beat BYU in September 2006. Prior to that, we took a vacation to Newport, RI, in 2005. Before that our last vacation was our New England honeymoon in 2003.
Oh sure, we've visited family several times during the course of the last 34 months. Little road trips here and there (or long airplane treks before relocating to The Frontier), but while we love our families, it's not exactly going on vacation.
Therefore, I have been hellbent on having a real family vacation this year. I didn't care if it was overnight as long as it was not within 100 miles of The Frontier and didn't involve staying at a relative's house.
Given the fact that we have a baby arriving sometime in the next 8 weeks (ish), with all of the accompanying financial output, this vacation had to be cheap (not that I'm not already the queen of cheap vacations). And, given the fact that I'm chronically exhausted, it really couldn't involve a long distance, because who wants to spend the entire vacation sleeping?
Sometime this spring I hit on the (then) fabulous idea of heading to Yellowstone for a long weekend. Cooler temperatures, close enough to drive, cheap (National Parks Pass doesn't expire until month's end, camping is $12/night, etc.) and beautiful. The original plan was to do it sometime in June - but then June was the Great Job Quandry where we weren't exactly sure what was going on and Himself's schedule was about as predictable as the weather report.
So it got moved to the only other weekend available with three open days prior to me becoming as big as a whale and no longer interested in leaving the basement of the 70s palace (too hot to stay upstairs)...of course, it coordinates with the same weekend the rest of America converges on the Great American Roadtrip, but having endured the I-95 corridor during every major holiday possible, we figure it couldn't be that bad.
Then Himself, who has long professed to be a camper but in reality actually rarely camps, confessed that camping was fine as a kid, but as an adult "it's entirely too much work." DESPERATE for a vacation, I made a deal with the devil: I would do all of the trip preparation/packing myself if he would go and act excited. He agreed.
It sounded easy enough: all the camping gear is in one confined spot. It's only for 3 days and 2 nights. We're eating basic camp food, in order to limit our pot-packing to one and our cooler space to the Igloo in the garage.
Sometime around 7 p.m. last night I realized I'm probably insane. I started with the clothes - that would be easy. Except, Yellowstone is 30 degrees cooler than The Frontier and will require jackets/long sleeves/long pants in the cool morning and late evening hours. I had to climb up to retrieve Woodstock's fall clothing from the top of her closet, then make her play mannequin as I tried them on to see if there were any camping-appropriate pants that wouldn't droop around her ankles. She thought it was fun - except each clothing changed involved her racing through the basement saying, "Cute clothes, mama!" and giggling as she tried to out-maneuver me in order to not have to change. Then came packing for me. Trouble is, I've never been 8 months pregnant in cold weather before, limiting me to about 1.5 pieces of clothing that actually fits and is appropriate for camping.
As of this morning, less than 24 hours before our slated departure, the camping gear is packed (tarps, tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, thermarest pad, lantern, batteries, etc.). The non-perishable food is packed (hot dog buns, marshmallows, instant oatmeal, cereal bars, granola bars, goldfish, fruit, and other assorted edibles). The clothing is (mostly) packed ... still trying to figure out how not to be naked on top this weekend and wondering how silly I'd look in one of Himself's shirts which are 4 sizes too big even while pregnant. Woodstock's diaper bag/backpack is packed (diapers, wipes, changing pad, epi pen, benadryl, etc.).
It's all piled on the living room couch - making it slightly less possible for Woodstock to re-arrange the piles. Problem is, I'm so tired, I'm ready to come home already, and we haven't even left yet.
Then I glanced at the weather ... it is one of those times I'm really praying that the weatherman is wrong in his assessment of this weekend. I might be crazy, camping in a tent at 32 weeks pregnant, but I'm not crazy enough to want to do it in a soggy tent.
Next time, we're picking a vacation destination that involves a massage, a butler, a maid and a personal chef.
Oh sure, we've visited family several times during the course of the last 34 months. Little road trips here and there (or long airplane treks before relocating to The Frontier), but while we love our families, it's not exactly going on vacation.
Therefore, I have been hellbent on having a real family vacation this year. I didn't care if it was overnight as long as it was not within 100 miles of The Frontier and didn't involve staying at a relative's house.
Given the fact that we have a baby arriving sometime in the next 8 weeks (ish), with all of the accompanying financial output, this vacation had to be cheap (not that I'm not already the queen of cheap vacations). And, given the fact that I'm chronically exhausted, it really couldn't involve a long distance, because who wants to spend the entire vacation sleeping?
Sometime this spring I hit on the (then) fabulous idea of heading to Yellowstone for a long weekend. Cooler temperatures, close enough to drive, cheap (National Parks Pass doesn't expire until month's end, camping is $12/night, etc.) and beautiful. The original plan was to do it sometime in June - but then June was the Great Job Quandry where we weren't exactly sure what was going on and Himself's schedule was about as predictable as the weather report.
So it got moved to the only other weekend available with three open days prior to me becoming as big as a whale and no longer interested in leaving the basement of the 70s palace (too hot to stay upstairs)...of course, it coordinates with the same weekend the rest of America converges on the Great American Roadtrip, but having endured the I-95 corridor during every major holiday possible, we figure it couldn't be that bad.
Then Himself, who has long professed to be a camper but in reality actually rarely camps, confessed that camping was fine as a kid, but as an adult "it's entirely too much work." DESPERATE for a vacation, I made a deal with the devil: I would do all of the trip preparation/packing myself if he would go and act excited. He agreed.
It sounded easy enough: all the camping gear is in one confined spot. It's only for 3 days and 2 nights. We're eating basic camp food, in order to limit our pot-packing to one and our cooler space to the Igloo in the garage.
Sometime around 7 p.m. last night I realized I'm probably insane. I started with the clothes - that would be easy. Except, Yellowstone is 30 degrees cooler than The Frontier and will require jackets/long sleeves/long pants in the cool morning and late evening hours. I had to climb up to retrieve Woodstock's fall clothing from the top of her closet, then make her play mannequin as I tried them on to see if there were any camping-appropriate pants that wouldn't droop around her ankles. She thought it was fun - except each clothing changed involved her racing through the basement saying, "Cute clothes, mama!" and giggling as she tried to out-maneuver me in order to not have to change. Then came packing for me. Trouble is, I've never been 8 months pregnant in cold weather before, limiting me to about 1.5 pieces of clothing that actually fits and is appropriate for camping.
As of this morning, less than 24 hours before our slated departure, the camping gear is packed (tarps, tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads, thermarest pad, lantern, batteries, etc.). The non-perishable food is packed (hot dog buns, marshmallows, instant oatmeal, cereal bars, granola bars, goldfish, fruit, and other assorted edibles). The clothing is (mostly) packed ... still trying to figure out how not to be naked on top this weekend and wondering how silly I'd look in one of Himself's shirts which are 4 sizes too big even while pregnant. Woodstock's diaper bag/backpack is packed (diapers, wipes, changing pad, epi pen, benadryl, etc.).
It's all piled on the living room couch - making it slightly less possible for Woodstock to re-arrange the piles. Problem is, I'm so tired, I'm ready to come home already, and we haven't even left yet.
Then I glanced at the weather ... it is one of those times I'm really praying that the weatherman is wrong in his assessment of this weekend. I might be crazy, camping in a tent at 32 weeks pregnant, but I'm not crazy enough to want to do it in a soggy tent.
Next time, we're picking a vacation destination that involves a massage, a butler, a maid and a personal chef.
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