Again.
No, the camping trip 4 weeks ago didn't cure me of my need to commune with the great outdoors this summer - though it did cure me of wanting to sleep on the ground the rest of the pregnancy. Himself's work schedule is a mess, so he couldn't get off. Grover was visiting relations in the Great Frozen North, so I took Woodstock and we set off on a 230-mile journey (36.5 miles of it on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere) to join up with The Parentals, my sister/bro-in-law/niece and a couple of other family members for four days of "luxury" camping.
It is "luxury" because I got to sleep in my parents' trailer. Although don't be too jealous - the bed was only slightly softer than the ground, and I did have to share a sleeping space with Woodstock, who would wake up each morning with the sun at 5:45 a.m. and declare, "All done sleeping mommy!" Um, sure. Me too ... I guess. It was also "luxury" because on this annual camping trip (I've gone 25 or so of my 30+ years), we eat like queens - an abudance of food was available at all times of night or day, in addition to the fabulous meals whipped up by The Parentals and my sister.
The only problem was at 36 weeks pregnant I got the a-okay to go from my Midwife only if I promised to not hike or take "long walks that other people would consider hiking" or do too much. The Parentals translated this as, "Sara should do nothing." Aggravation. I felt alternately useless and exhausted. The Parentals waivered between grateful I could come and paranoid that I'd go into labor at 9,000 feet, 2+ hours from the nearest (small) hospital.
On the way down, under strict instructions from The Parentals, I caravanned with my aunt who was also joining the family camping trip in the camping spot across the street. She told me I had to navigate, as she never could remember exactly how to get there. I joked that once we hit the dirt road, you spend the first 20 miles convinced you're on the wrong road (little to no signage) and the last 16 miles or so convinced you've passed the campground because the mileage sign (the ONE mileage sign) is wrong. I will admit, as fiercely independent as I am, I was a little nervous making the return trip today sans an escort - through nearly 40 miles of barren wilderness with no cell phone signal. I could just imagine getting a flat tire, being unable to change it due to my "condition" and having to hike (er, walk) the remaining lonely miles to the nearest town - population a few hundred people - with Woodstock on my back and a 9-month-pregnant belly.
Fortunately, lots of prayers and good fortune abounded and we made it home filthy, safe and only slightly grumpy.
Six hours later, I've unpacked, done three batches of laundry, bathed, gone to the grocery store (clean but unkempt), ordered Chinese food and tried not to think about how exhausted I am after four days of doing nothing but chasing Woodstock and sitting on my tail end.
Four weeks left (approximately), and I think I'm all adventured out.
Showing posts with label Outings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Outings. Show all posts
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
The One Where The Pregnant Lady Ventures to the Pool
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."
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."
Sunday, September 14, 2008
As it Turns Out, Fairs Have ... Animals.
Okay, lest someone call me ridiculously uninformed, I did know that fairs had animals, I just didn't realize one could actually view them.
Growing up, the county fair, held the second week of August, was a big deal. A HUGE deal, actually, as it included the town's only parade longer than 2 minutes. It tended to run a whole hour, which was an eternity in a small town like ours. But more than just the parade, the entire fair was a big deal.
Over all of my years of fair-going, however, I don't remember a livestock portion - until the the "proper" fair grounds opened, long after the magic had worn off and I had left home. Even then, I am quite sure I never actually visited any of the animals.
Until yesterday.
Himself was working (again), so Woodstock and I ventured out to the state fair. Right off, I knew it was going to be good - I got shaded street parking 1.5 blocks away, negating the need to pay $5 to park in a dirt lot in the full sun. I wasn't exactly sure what we were going to see or do at the fair, after all, my total budget for the event was the $6.50 entrance ticket.
Soon after arriving, however, I discovered ... the animals. Lots and lots of animals. Whole warehouse-style barns full of animals. Woodstock shrieked in delight. Every square inch of her body vibrated in ecstasy as she realized that the animals were all at her eye level.
She loved the sheep the most - naked (sheared) little critters who shoved their shiny black noses through the metal gates to sniff her out. She giggled - even after being covered in sheep snot when one sneezed on her as we passed by (I didn't think that was quite so funny).
I eventually gave in and held Woodstock so she could actually pet some of the sheep noses being thrust in her direction. She squealed and giggled and bounced up and down. I tried to keep her from leaping into (or sucking on) the sheep's pen and snap a photo of her petting the sheep, resulting in the rather poor attempt at "illustration of a moment" above.
We also visited the cows, goats and the pigs. The goats brought just as much elation as the sheep (and more worry from me, as I had visions of goats gnawing on Woodstock's t-shirt if we got too close). Woodstock was only mildly interested in the cows until she got eye-level with a month-old calf. Suddenly, cows were something small, furry and active - her definition of an exciting animal.
Hours later, having exhausted my $6.50 worth of little girl giggles, we headed for home, exhausted.
As it turns out, fairs with animals make for pleasant outings with little ones. We just might be back next year.
Growing up, the county fair, held the second week of August, was a big deal. A HUGE deal, actually, as it included the town's only parade longer than 2 minutes. It tended to run a whole hour, which was an eternity in a small town like ours. But more than just the parade, the entire fair was a big deal.
Over all of my years of fair-going, however, I don't remember a livestock portion - until the the "proper" fair grounds opened, long after the magic had worn off and I had left home. Even then, I am quite sure I never actually visited any of the animals.
Until yesterday.
Himself was working (again), so Woodstock and I ventured out to the state fair. Right off, I knew it was going to be good - I got shaded street parking 1.5 blocks away, negating the need to pay $5 to park in a dirt lot in the full sun. I wasn't exactly sure what we were going to see or do at the fair, after all, my total budget for the event was the $6.50 entrance ticket.
Soon after arriving, however, I discovered ... the animals. Lots and lots of animals. Whole warehouse-style barns full of animals. Woodstock shrieked in delight. Every square inch of her body vibrated in ecstasy as she realized that the animals were all at her eye level.
She loved the sheep the most - naked (sheared) little critters who shoved their shiny black noses through the metal gates to sniff her out. She giggled - even after being covered in sheep snot when one sneezed on her as we passed by (I didn't think that was quite so funny).
I eventually gave in and held Woodstock so she could actually pet some of the sheep noses being thrust in her direction. She squealed and giggled and bounced up and down. I tried to keep her from leaping into (or sucking on) the sheep's pen and snap a photo of her petting the sheep, resulting in the rather poor attempt at "illustration of a moment" above.
We also visited the cows, goats and the pigs. The goats brought just as much elation as the sheep (and more worry from me, as I had visions of goats gnawing on Woodstock's t-shirt if we got too close). Woodstock was only mildly interested in the cows until she got eye-level with a month-old calf. Suddenly, cows were something small, furry and active - her definition of an exciting animal.
Hours later, having exhausted my $6.50 worth of little girl giggles, we headed for home, exhausted.
As it turns out, fairs with animals make for pleasant outings with little ones. We just might be back next year.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
All Good Things Happen at Once
Between being a new mom, having a demanding job at The Factory, being a wife and being a human being who cannot seem to survive on 2.5 hours of sleep a night, I have virtually no social life to speak of.
Which is why days like tomorrow really frost my cookies. I actually have MORE THAN ONE option and the free time to do it (more or less, if I close my eyes and pretend the house is spotless and my work is done).
*The bridal shower for the neighbor's daughter - another chance to get to know my neighbors, which I always try to take advantage of.
*The Young at Heart concert downtown, for which The Factory is offering a rare chance to do something on the company's dime (ie the tickets are free for employees and a guest). A group of octogenarians singing rock-n-roll - definitely promises to be amusing.
*Heidi's neighborhood (my adopted neighborhood - I did, after all, reside there for 6 weeks as the semi-permanent basement dweller last summer) is having a girl's night movie and dinner party. Food is good.
*A former colleague from VA is in town on business and wants to meet for dinner. Again, food is good. And Baby Girl hasn't met any of my friends from VA yet that haven't already relocated to The Frontier (Oliver, would you just hurry up already?!)
Himself is working late last night, which eliminates the concert (as Baby Girl is all mine for the evening), but couldn't these things happen once a week for a month instead of all on the same night?!
Which is why days like tomorrow really frost my cookies. I actually have MORE THAN ONE option and the free time to do it (more or less, if I close my eyes and pretend the house is spotless and my work is done).
*The bridal shower for the neighbor's daughter - another chance to get to know my neighbors, which I always try to take advantage of.
*The Young at Heart concert downtown, for which The Factory is offering a rare chance to do something on the company's dime (ie the tickets are free for employees and a guest). A group of octogenarians singing rock-n-roll - definitely promises to be amusing.
*Heidi's neighborhood (my adopted neighborhood - I did, after all, reside there for 6 weeks as the semi-permanent basement dweller last summer) is having a girl's night movie and dinner party. Food is good.
*A former colleague from VA is in town on business and wants to meet for dinner. Again, food is good. And Baby Girl hasn't met any of my friends from VA yet that haven't already relocated to The Frontier (Oliver, would you just hurry up already?!)
Himself is working late last night, which eliminates the concert (as Baby Girl is all mine for the evening), but couldn't these things happen once a week for a month instead of all on the same night?!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Good Will Toward Men
I've been feeling Scroogy this Christmas - or, rather, apathetic enough to not even really feel Scroogy - just bleh, as if the holidays are one enormous chore to get through (or be avoided). But I really felt Scroogy because I felt like I was totally self-absorbed - one of those grinchy people who looks at the Salvation Army Santas and wonders why they chose this store, on this day, to shake their bell and ratchet your headache up another notch.
I discovered an incredibly easy, cheap way to brighten up a whole county's worth of holiday revelers - quite by accident.
This weekend, my mom needed me to run some errands for her (how she survived with me thousands of miles away, I've yet to figure out - maybe she's making up for lost time). They involved driving down to Happy Valley. For the record, I would rather sit on the Beltway than drive in Happy Valley. It's a most-painful endeavor - especially since her request involved several stops, a couple of stores and a wrapping job (sidenote: the gift ended up looking like a 5-year-old wrapped it - parking lot wrapping jobs with an infant wailing in the background about how unfair life is that she is stuck in her carseat just don't look so great).
It also involved stopping at my aunt's house. In a fit of holiday cheer, I dressed Baby Girl in her ridiculously cute Santa outfit (you can see her here) - largely because it's warm, it fits and the furry collar entertains Baby Girl for minutes on end.
We left the house at noon. We got back at 7:30 p.m. During that time we went to one department store, one farming store (don't ask - I think I was the only one there not wearing boots), my aunt's house, several stores in the mall, Costco and Arby's (I somehow forgot to eat in the middle of all of this). Himself had the stroller, so I hauled Baby Girl around in my arms the entire time. My arm grew tired. She, apparently, did not. She happily slurped on her fist and watched all the people.
I started to notice something ... everywhere we went, people brightened up - if only for a moment. One lady stopped us and told me that we had made her day. There were whispers, pointing, little kids tugging on pants and saying, "Mommy - look, it's a little Santa!". People smiling and wishing us Merry Christmas. Every time, Baby Girl would stop slurping long enough to flash a dazzling smile that lights up her whole face. You could almost see people melt into puddles of goo as they smiled back.
Last night, when we drug Baby Girl out in subzero (not quite, but it felt like it) temperatures to see the lights downtown, she wore the same outfit. The same reaction happened.
I didn't feel quite so Scroogy after that. I realized that my contribution this year to good will toward men might be small, but it definitely makes a difference.
After all, who can walk away not feeling a little better after they see Baby Girl in a Santa suit?
I discovered an incredibly easy, cheap way to brighten up a whole county's worth of holiday revelers - quite by accident.
This weekend, my mom needed me to run some errands for her (how she survived with me thousands of miles away, I've yet to figure out - maybe she's making up for lost time). They involved driving down to Happy Valley. For the record, I would rather sit on the Beltway than drive in Happy Valley. It's a most-painful endeavor - especially since her request involved several stops, a couple of stores and a wrapping job (sidenote: the gift ended up looking like a 5-year-old wrapped it - parking lot wrapping jobs with an infant wailing in the background about how unfair life is that she is stuck in her carseat just don't look so great).
It also involved stopping at my aunt's house. In a fit of holiday cheer, I dressed Baby Girl in her ridiculously cute Santa outfit (you can see her here) - largely because it's warm, it fits and the furry collar entertains Baby Girl for minutes on end.
We left the house at noon. We got back at 7:30 p.m. During that time we went to one department store, one farming store (don't ask - I think I was the only one there not wearing boots), my aunt's house, several stores in the mall, Costco and Arby's (I somehow forgot to eat in the middle of all of this). Himself had the stroller, so I hauled Baby Girl around in my arms the entire time. My arm grew tired. She, apparently, did not. She happily slurped on her fist and watched all the people.
I started to notice something ... everywhere we went, people brightened up - if only for a moment. One lady stopped us and told me that we had made her day. There were whispers, pointing, little kids tugging on pants and saying, "Mommy - look, it's a little Santa!". People smiling and wishing us Merry Christmas. Every time, Baby Girl would stop slurping long enough to flash a dazzling smile that lights up her whole face. You could almost see people melt into puddles of goo as they smiled back.
Last night, when we drug Baby Girl out in subzero (not quite, but it felt like it) temperatures to see the lights downtown, she wore the same outfit. The same reaction happened.
I didn't feel quite so Scroogy after that. I realized that my contribution this year to good will toward men might be small, but it definitely makes a difference.
After all, who can walk away not feeling a little better after they see Baby Girl in a Santa suit?
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Great Night Out
Last night, for the first time in just shy of a year, Himself and I went out and I was neither pregnant nor toting an infant. Granted, I wasn't feeling well, so it wasn't totally all daisies and sunshine, but it was wonderful nonetheless. I had to refrain from skipping down the ice-coated sidewalk outside the restaurant as I thought of a whole dinner out without having to worry about whether or not Baby Girl's baby noises were going to drive anyone mad.
Here's where my not-so-maternal-instinct glowed in neon colors: I didn't feel bad about leaving Baby Girl with the sitter. Not once. Gasp, mutter and shake your head all you want about me not feeling guilty for leaving her at 11 weeks (I've had people tell me we should wait until at least six months - at that rate we'd all be in the looney bin), but it was a wonderful evening, and I managed to rationalize my way out of feeling guilty by making a list:
* Baby Girl's sitter will sit for free on Thursday nights if you pay on time. Miss Jan watches Baby Girl five days a week (more or less) anyway, so it's not like we were leaving her with just anyone.
* Himself and I REALLY needed some time alone, sans baby. A wild-haired, crackly-voiced, cranky, achy mom; bored-out-of-his-mind dad; The Hobbit Hole wildly out of control (more on that later); and the season's first snow - it's a recipe sure to entice someone to wring someone else's neck. A happy baby meant she was the only thing that didn't need fixing.
* Miss Jan is closed today for licensing courses, so I'm working from home - meaning I get to spend the whole day with Baby Girl, making up for the four extra hours we abandoned her for last night.
* We did go see Baby Girl between dinner, dropping the concert tickets off to the guy who bought them off of us and the movie. It wasn't so much the "oh my gosh, I haven't seen my child in hours and I'm going to start weeping if I don't see her" (remember I'm not instinctivly maternal) as much as the date was a last-minute thing, so I had to drop off one more bottle of milk ensuring she didn't starve (and she didn't - she conned Miss Jan into thinking she was starving to death, prompting an extra feeding - which she spent the rest of the evening burping up).
The whole night was magic - even if I looked like hell and felt just about the same. Himself was the charming, talkative guy I fell in love with. We had sushi at the sushi bar. We talked food and work and life and sports (his beloved Packers got trounced last night - too bad). We discovered a Spanish grocery and found all things (or most things) Goya - meaning Himself's Puerto Rican Chicken, Beans and Rice dish will be served tomorrow night, after six months of not being able to make it. We laughed at our obvious maturity as we entered the movie theater to see The Bee Movie (which is cute - and has amazing animation).
The best thing? Himself planned it. He decided on where to have dinner. He found the theater and gave me a choice of two films.
I might not have maternal instincts, but it was worth it for one night of remembering the reason Baby Girl came along.
(For those of you appalled that I would leave my child at not-quite three months, it appears any insult regarding being left with the sitter last night are forgotten, as she's napping soundly next to me while I type.)
Here's where my not-so-maternal-instinct glowed in neon colors: I didn't feel bad about leaving Baby Girl with the sitter. Not once. Gasp, mutter and shake your head all you want about me not feeling guilty for leaving her at 11 weeks (I've had people tell me we should wait until at least six months - at that rate we'd all be in the looney bin), but it was a wonderful evening, and I managed to rationalize my way out of feeling guilty by making a list:
* Baby Girl's sitter will sit for free on Thursday nights if you pay on time. Miss Jan watches Baby Girl five days a week (more or less) anyway, so it's not like we were leaving her with just anyone.
* Himself and I REALLY needed some time alone, sans baby. A wild-haired, crackly-voiced, cranky, achy mom; bored-out-of-his-mind dad; The Hobbit Hole wildly out of control (more on that later); and the season's first snow - it's a recipe sure to entice someone to wring someone else's neck. A happy baby meant she was the only thing that didn't need fixing.
* Miss Jan is closed today for licensing courses, so I'm working from home - meaning I get to spend the whole day with Baby Girl, making up for the four extra hours we abandoned her for last night.
* We did go see Baby Girl between dinner, dropping the concert tickets off to the guy who bought them off of us and the movie. It wasn't so much the "oh my gosh, I haven't seen my child in hours and I'm going to start weeping if I don't see her" (remember I'm not instinctivly maternal) as much as the date was a last-minute thing, so I had to drop off one more bottle of milk ensuring she didn't starve (and she didn't - she conned Miss Jan into thinking she was starving to death, prompting an extra feeding - which she spent the rest of the evening burping up).
The whole night was magic - even if I looked like hell and felt just about the same. Himself was the charming, talkative guy I fell in love with. We had sushi at the sushi bar. We talked food and work and life and sports (his beloved Packers got trounced last night - too bad). We discovered a Spanish grocery and found all things (or most things) Goya - meaning Himself's Puerto Rican Chicken, Beans and Rice dish will be served tomorrow night, after six months of not being able to make it. We laughed at our obvious maturity as we entered the movie theater to see The Bee Movie (which is cute - and has amazing animation).
The best thing? Himself planned it. He decided on where to have dinner. He found the theater and gave me a choice of two films.
I might not have maternal instincts, but it was worth it for one night of remembering the reason Baby Girl came along.
(For those of you appalled that I would leave my child at not-quite three months, it appears any insult regarding being left with the sitter last night are forgotten, as she's napping soundly next to me while I type.)
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