While we've had two ER visits over the course of being parents - and a couple of stomach viruses, a freaky vaccine reaction/infection, ear tube surgery and a bout with pneumonia - we've been relatively unscathed (knocking on wood and anything else that will prevent Murphy for unleashing his Law after uttering that) in the illness/injuries department.
(Thank heaven for little girls).
In fact, until Saturday, we had not had a single incident that involved blood. The ONE bodily fluid that doesn't make my toes curl and it doesn't make an appearance in Life as a Parent for almost 4 years.
We've now been initiated.
It wasn't a beautiful day on Saturday, but it was warm, so when Woodstock asked to watch a movie after General Conference was over, I told her she had to get some exercise first. Two minutes later she sailed by me, wearing snow boots with her capris, and right out the back door. She ran laps around the yard for almost 15 minutes. Still not worn out, she begged me to play tag with her. It's not that I don't like tag, it's that every step I take lately involves shooting pain down my left leg - still, it turns out I can almost out-run a pre-schooler. Almost.
Tag lasted long enough for Pebbles to wake up from her nap, at which point she demanded to go "Ow-sigh" (outside) with "Gee Gee" (the name which Woodstock has instructed Pebbles to use). Of course, Pebbles is not the most stable on her feet, particularly on uneven ground when wearing shoes.
Blood. Curdling. Scream.
And then the dreaded silence that lets you know all is not well.
Pebbles had lost her footing and tumbled chin-first onto the patio. I picked her up - her chin was scraped up and blood was coming from somewhere.
Woodstock raced over and calmly asked what was going on. I said, "Pebbles fell. Her mouth is bleeding, so I need to take her in and look at her."
Absolute hysteria ensued. Woodstock - the unharmed older sister, dissolved into hysterics. "Mom!" She yelled (even though I was standing right next to her) "Pebbles is BLEEDING. Call an amb-lee-ance (ambulance). We hafta go to the hospital." At which point she raced by me and into the house.
I scooped up Pebbles and took her into the bathroom - only to discover the light source was too poor to ascertain exactly where on her face the blood was coming from. I grabbed some sterile gauze pads, the hydrogen peroxide and relocated to Pebbles to the dining room table (under our bright-as-noonday new light fixture - hooray for energy-sucking light sources).
That, apparently, was bad news for Woodstock who, no longer crying, yelled in a panicky voice, "Mom! You're not a doctor! She's BLEEDING!" Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious.
**I should note here again that blood is the one bodily fluid that neither grosses me out nor makes me panicky. I may be high-strung but am a very useful person to have around in emergencies or when someone is bleeding.**
After taking a look around (as well as one could while wrestling a 23-pound crying, squirmy child with razor-sharp teeth poised to chomp down immediately on whatever dared venture near the rapidly swelling lip), I phoned Himself to get his opinion on my assessment. (Himself has a knack for missing nearly every dramatic moment that happens - he was at work yesterday). We agreed that watching it and icing it was the best course. If it stopped bleeding, fabulous. If not, well, a visit to the doctor was in order - sans the ambulance Woodstock was still insisting we needed.
Of course, a 19-month-old, a mouth injury and ice do not go well together, so we determined a Popsicle would be the best remedy for both the crying and the swelling. I got off the phone.
"Dad says she needs a Popsicle," I remarked to Woodstock - hoping she'd give Himself more credit than she was giving me. After all, he's not a doctor either.
"A Popsicle?" Her panicky voice vanished. She sounded downright hopeful.
Then, her sister's ailments and her rallying cry for an amb-lee-ance forgotten, Woodstock asked, "Can I have one too?"
Funny how suddenly her sister's still bleeding lip took the backseat to the mention of frozen sugary ice water.
As it turns out, Popsicles cure more than just bleeding lips. They also cure hysterical pre-schoolers.
Lesson learned - keep the freezer stocked. (And don't let Pebbles near concrete).
Showing posts with label Weekends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weekends. Show all posts
Monday, April 04, 2011
Monday, November 02, 2009
The Magic 120 Minutes
I was beginning to wonder how long someone can go about accomplishing everything for everyone else, but getting nothing done on one's personal "to do" list. I vowed I'd not become one of those women who devoted 100% of herself to everyone else and spent nothing of value (time, money or reflection) on herself.
Somewhere about the 3rd month of pregnancy with Pebbles, that happened. Which is how I found myself in my stylist's chair on Saturday for the first time in exactly 10 months. For perspective, the last time I had my hair cut was 3 days before I found out I was pregnant, and I now have a 2-month-old baby.
It is amazing what transformation a hair cut and some highlights can do to a person. I felt a little more like myself and less like the haggard lady in the frumpy mommy costume. Although, if you look too close and the rest of the lumps and bumps on me ... well, there is a ways to go.
It almost seems like the haircut translated into energy. (That and the time change - about which, no one told the kiddos, but it means I got to put both of them to bed early, so I gained an hour last night instead of Saturday night). I washed, dried, folded and PUT AWAY (key phrase here) NINE batches of laundry this weekend. I brought in the winter clothes, put away the summer clothes and my maternity clothes. This morning I deboned chicken for tonight's meal, put the bones/skin/other bits to boil with seasonings, carrots and onions for chicken soup base, which will be a meal later in the week, made scrambled eggs and veggies for Woodstock (she'll eat anything you put in eggs!), dressed and fed myself and both kids, prepped the zucchini for roasted zucchini tonight and got us all out of the house only 5 minutes late.
Maybe I need to get my hair cut every few days ...?
Somewhere about the 3rd month of pregnancy with Pebbles, that happened. Which is how I found myself in my stylist's chair on Saturday for the first time in exactly 10 months. For perspective, the last time I had my hair cut was 3 days before I found out I was pregnant, and I now have a 2-month-old baby.
It is amazing what transformation a hair cut and some highlights can do to a person. I felt a little more like myself and less like the haggard lady in the frumpy mommy costume. Although, if you look too close and the rest of the lumps and bumps on me ... well, there is a ways to go.
It almost seems like the haircut translated into energy. (That and the time change - about which, no one told the kiddos, but it means I got to put both of them to bed early, so I gained an hour last night instead of Saturday night). I washed, dried, folded and PUT AWAY (key phrase here) NINE batches of laundry this weekend. I brought in the winter clothes, put away the summer clothes and my maternity clothes. This morning I deboned chicken for tonight's meal, put the bones/skin/other bits to boil with seasonings, carrots and onions for chicken soup base, which will be a meal later in the week, made scrambled eggs and veggies for Woodstock (she'll eat anything you put in eggs!), dressed and fed myself and both kids, prepped the zucchini for roasted zucchini tonight and got us all out of the house only 5 minutes late.
Maybe I need to get my hair cut every few days ...?
Saturday, August 22, 2009
From the Mixed-Up Weekend Files
Exhaustion and boredom and gratitude and overwhelming surges of every emotion known to man (or woman) would sum up the last few days of this past week.
Starting with the whole "Drama Tuesday" that included a sideways Pebbles and a dying father-in-law I have rocketed through the rest of the week with Himself's last-minute gold-plated (or cost enough it should have been) flight to (and 5-day stay in) the Pacific Northwest, a car rental employee who hooked Himself up with a 5-day rental for a total of $72, including tax, twice-a-day chiropractic visits (which, even with the co-pay each day, are still cheaper than whatever my share of a c-section would be), another midwife/OB consult (in tandem, since my midwife leaves for vacation in three days and doesn't handle breech babies anyway), a massive work project that has consumed me, my intern leaving, an inability to sleep or eat much, a networking gig I had to staff, a toddler whose vocabulary has grown to include the mysterious phrase "shame on you!", a near record-breaking heat wave and a house set to self-destruct.
This morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I'd felt very little fetal movement the night before and none in the quiet hours of the obscenely early morning. Because Pebbles position (while back to head down on Thursday) is tenuous and there is some concern regarding the cord position, my instructions are to "Head to L&D the minute your contractions become regular, your water breaks or you stop feeling movement." I lie in bed for an hour, wondering who on earth I'd call at 4:30 in the morning to watch Woodstock while I drove myself to L&D for lack of fetal movement. I then realized that I'd left two days' of kitchen mess, and there was no way I could possibly admit anyone to the house who could witness that.
So I got up. I scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized two cupboards, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the guest bathroom before Woodstock decided to get up at 6:30 a.m. - a full hour early. By this point, one thing had led to another, and I needed to get her fed, dressed and presentable if I needed a sitter. She then "helped" me water the lawn, sweep and half-heartedly mop the kitchen/dining room, straighten the upstairs rooms and throw the kitchen rugs in the washing machine.
By 8 a.m., I was ready for a nap. Besides, I still had to try the sugary drink (oj) and food trick and lie down on my left side to get the baby to move. I fell asleep on the couch before Pebbles even woke up. Woodstock, free to roam the house, got bored with the Food Network programming I had selected and wandered into the dining room. I woke up 20 minutes later covered in spread-out napkins. Woodstock, who was sitting next to me calmly said, "Go to bed, mama. Woodstock cover you up." Hard to be too grumpy about picking up 20 napkins and re-folding them (in addition to the trail of napkins left from the dining room to the living room) when one's child has done it to make sure one is "covered up" for one's nap.
With slightly more energy (and slightly less sanity), I decided to quickly tackle the basement bathroom and take a shower before I started calling to find a sitter. Mostly because I really just wanted Pebbles to move on her own. I straightened the family room, ran a batch of towels through the wash, scrubbed the basement bath (minus the tub - my belly is too big to effectively lean over the tub to scrub it) and vacuumed. I threw the last stray items into my hospital bag - just in case. I showered, much to the delight of Woodstock, who kept pulling back the shower curtain to peer through the sheer plastic curtain and exclaiming, "Mama's naked!" while giggling.
At that point, it was 11:30 a.m. and Woodstock was starving. Feeling the need to make sure she was fed before I called anyone, I made lunch for both of us. She sat in "Grover's chair" across from me at the table, chin resting on its surface, and kept up a running commentary. I focused on eating more than I had at breakfast.
Whether it was the work or the food and the nearly 60 ounces of water consumed in a few hours' time, Pebbles woke up, did a dance and stayed fairly active for half an hour.
The relief was palpable. Woodstock and I celebrated by taking a long early afternoon nap.
I'm now trying to get up the energy to inflate and fill Woodstock's pool for an afternoon diversion (curses to Himself who couldn't get the $6 plastic kiddie pool and had to get the fancy inflatable one that requires an army - not to mention a whole lot of patience - to set up).
It's the strangest week/weekend I've had in recent memory.
Starting with the whole "Drama Tuesday" that included a sideways Pebbles and a dying father-in-law I have rocketed through the rest of the week with Himself's last-minute gold-plated (or cost enough it should have been) flight to (and 5-day stay in) the Pacific Northwest, a car rental employee who hooked Himself up with a 5-day rental for a total of $72, including tax, twice-a-day chiropractic visits (which, even with the co-pay each day, are still cheaper than whatever my share of a c-section would be), another midwife/OB consult (in tandem, since my midwife leaves for vacation in three days and doesn't handle breech babies anyway), a massive work project that has consumed me, my intern leaving, an inability to sleep or eat much, a networking gig I had to staff, a toddler whose vocabulary has grown to include the mysterious phrase "shame on you!", a near record-breaking heat wave and a house set to self-destruct.
This morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I'd felt very little fetal movement the night before and none in the quiet hours of the obscenely early morning. Because Pebbles position (while back to head down on Thursday) is tenuous and there is some concern regarding the cord position, my instructions are to "Head to L&D the minute your contractions become regular, your water breaks or you stop feeling movement." I lie in bed for an hour, wondering who on earth I'd call at 4:30 in the morning to watch Woodstock while I drove myself to L&D for lack of fetal movement. I then realized that I'd left two days' of kitchen mess, and there was no way I could possibly admit anyone to the house who could witness that.
So I got up. I scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized two cupboards, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the guest bathroom before Woodstock decided to get up at 6:30 a.m. - a full hour early. By this point, one thing had led to another, and I needed to get her fed, dressed and presentable if I needed a sitter. She then "helped" me water the lawn, sweep and half-heartedly mop the kitchen/dining room, straighten the upstairs rooms and throw the kitchen rugs in the washing machine.
By 8 a.m., I was ready for a nap. Besides, I still had to try the sugary drink (oj) and food trick and lie down on my left side to get the baby to move. I fell asleep on the couch before Pebbles even woke up. Woodstock, free to roam the house, got bored with the Food Network programming I had selected and wandered into the dining room. I woke up 20 minutes later covered in spread-out napkins. Woodstock, who was sitting next to me calmly said, "Go to bed, mama. Woodstock cover you up." Hard to be too grumpy about picking up 20 napkins and re-folding them (in addition to the trail of napkins left from the dining room to the living room) when one's child has done it to make sure one is "covered up" for one's nap.
With slightly more energy (and slightly less sanity), I decided to quickly tackle the basement bathroom and take a shower before I started calling to find a sitter. Mostly because I really just wanted Pebbles to move on her own. I straightened the family room, ran a batch of towels through the wash, scrubbed the basement bath (minus the tub - my belly is too big to effectively lean over the tub to scrub it) and vacuumed. I threw the last stray items into my hospital bag - just in case. I showered, much to the delight of Woodstock, who kept pulling back the shower curtain to peer through the sheer plastic curtain and exclaiming, "Mama's naked!" while giggling.
At that point, it was 11:30 a.m. and Woodstock was starving. Feeling the need to make sure she was fed before I called anyone, I made lunch for both of us. She sat in "Grover's chair" across from me at the table, chin resting on its surface, and kept up a running commentary. I focused on eating more than I had at breakfast.
Whether it was the work or the food and the nearly 60 ounces of water consumed in a few hours' time, Pebbles woke up, did a dance and stayed fairly active for half an hour.
The relief was palpable. Woodstock and I celebrated by taking a long early afternoon nap.
I'm now trying to get up the energy to inflate and fill Woodstock's pool for an afternoon diversion (curses to Himself who couldn't get the $6 plastic kiddie pool and had to get the fancy inflatable one that requires an army - not to mention a whole lot of patience - to set up).
It's the strangest week/weekend I've had in recent memory.
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."
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Note to Self: Never Trust a Toddler With a Secret
Two reasons one should never trust a toddler with a secret:
Reason One
Saturday I purchased a DVD for Himself for his birthday (3 weeks hence) at Costco. I had a coupon that was expiring, so I had to buy it that day. Since it was, in theory, from Woodstock, I showed it to her when I got home - never imagining a 20-month-old could spill the beans so to speak. I said, "Woodstock, look what we got daddy for his birthday!"
Then I put it in the bag of things that needed to go downstairs. About 10 minutes later, Himself came up from the basement. Woodstock gleefully ran to the bag, grabbed the DVD and handed it to Himself, saying, "Happy Birthday Daddy!"
She was so proud of herself. Himself melted into a big puddle - although puzzled by why I had entrusted Woodstock with such information as to what his birthday gift was. I was torn between adoration that she got the context perfect and mild irritation that I was dumb enough to think Woodstock wouldn't "get" it and therefore wouldn't share it.
She then launched into singing "Happy Birthday" - complete with "Happy Birthday to Woodstock," which is the only way she ever sings it. :)
Reason Two:
This was not, actually, a secret, but a good lesson that children have no known boundaries about what should and shouldn't be shared repeatedly.
Himself and Woodstock trekked to the Great Frozen North Sunday for a 2-day trip to see Himself's dad and sister. Himself, in all his parental wisdom, opted to go for "travel light" and didn't bring the pack-n-play. "Woodstock can sleep in a big bed," he said. Um, sure.
On the way home, Himself called to tell me to not be alarmed by the bruise/rug burn on Woodstock's forehead because, well, because she had fallen out of the big bed. I bit my tongue, aching to say "I told you so."
When I arrived home, Woodstock ran into my arms, then said, "Mama. Fall out bed. Ouch head," and pointed to her souvenier of the event. Since then, any time she approaches her (or any other) bed or touches her head, she repeats, "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch. Head," or some variation. Including sharing this piece of information repeatedly with the sitter.
Good thing it's just a rite-of-passage-for-every-toddler moment. I didn't need to say "Told you so," because it appears Woodstock is never going to let Himself live it down. Four days later and she is still reminding us about "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch."
Reason One
Saturday I purchased a DVD for Himself for his birthday (3 weeks hence) at Costco. I had a coupon that was expiring, so I had to buy it that day. Since it was, in theory, from Woodstock, I showed it to her when I got home - never imagining a 20-month-old could spill the beans so to speak. I said, "Woodstock, look what we got daddy for his birthday!"
Then I put it in the bag of things that needed to go downstairs. About 10 minutes later, Himself came up from the basement. Woodstock gleefully ran to the bag, grabbed the DVD and handed it to Himself, saying, "Happy Birthday Daddy!"
She was so proud of herself. Himself melted into a big puddle - although puzzled by why I had entrusted Woodstock with such information as to what his birthday gift was. I was torn between adoration that she got the context perfect and mild irritation that I was dumb enough to think Woodstock wouldn't "get" it and therefore wouldn't share it.
She then launched into singing "Happy Birthday" - complete with "Happy Birthday to Woodstock," which is the only way she ever sings it. :)
Reason Two:
This was not, actually, a secret, but a good lesson that children have no known boundaries about what should and shouldn't be shared repeatedly.
Himself and Woodstock trekked to the Great Frozen North Sunday for a 2-day trip to see Himself's dad and sister. Himself, in all his parental wisdom, opted to go for "travel light" and didn't bring the pack-n-play. "Woodstock can sleep in a big bed," he said. Um, sure.
On the way home, Himself called to tell me to not be alarmed by the bruise/rug burn on Woodstock's forehead because, well, because she had fallen out of the big bed. I bit my tongue, aching to say "I told you so."
When I arrived home, Woodstock ran into my arms, then said, "Mama. Fall out bed. Ouch head," and pointed to her souvenier of the event. Since then, any time she approaches her (or any other) bed or touches her head, she repeats, "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch. Head," or some variation. Including sharing this piece of information repeatedly with the sitter.
Good thing it's just a rite-of-passage-for-every-toddler moment. I didn't need to say "Told you so," because it appears Woodstock is never going to let Himself live it down. Four days later and she is still reminding us about "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch."
Monday, March 09, 2009
I'll Take That Chicken Fried, Please.
It all started when my mom accidentally swiped my manual can-opener when she was here in February.
Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:
"What do you want me to make for dinner?"
Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."
Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"
I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.
Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.
I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.
After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.
No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.
The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.
I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.
Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.
Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:
"What do you want me to make for dinner?"
Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."
Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"
I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.
Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.
I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.
After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.
No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.
The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.
I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.
Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Tradition v. Testimony
Yesterday in Sunday School we had an interesting debate-lightly-disguised-as-a-conversation about tradition v. testimony - those who practice religion because it's "tradition" (everyone else in the family does it, so why not?) versus those who practice religion because they have a testimony of the core principles, ordinances and beliefs.
I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.
However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.
For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).
I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).
I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).
I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.
I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.
The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.
I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.
I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.
That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.
I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.
For some reason, that bothered me.
I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.
However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.
For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).
I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).
I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).
I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.
I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.
The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.
I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.
I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.
That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Skipping Sunday?
Yesterday was "ONE OF THOSE DAYS" - one of those days in capital letters that ends in weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - and feeling guilty about it (especially the gnashing of teeth part) because it's Sunday. One of those days, which, lately, happens every single week.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Running from Kites
I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Ode to General Electric
It's funny that Friday's post was this, because this weekend I would have had the kind of gratitude journal entry that would seem odd to anyone else.
I am grateful that I own a washer and dryer.
Not only that, but I am particularly grateful that it is a front-loading, king-sized capacity washer and dryer with a sanitize cycle.
Woodstock hasn't kept anything but water down all weekend. As a result, I have done four batches of heavily soiled laundry. This was, of course, on top of the six batches of laundry that already needed doing (it was the weekend to wash sheets and towels, and the weekend I re-washed all warm-weather clothes before putting them in storage).
I didn't even complain that the sanitize cycle takes nearly two hours and all the hot water in the house, because I was so grateful that it was a good enough washer to get all the "soiled bits" off the clothing/bedding/odds and ends in one cycle.
I was grateful for the king-sized capacity because it meant that I could wash the sheets and blankets (and clothing) each time Woodstock soiled them, all in one batch (The couch is "draped" with linens because while the washer does have a large capacity, it is not large enough to wash the couch).
I was grateful for the front-loading style, because it meant I could wash her high chair cover, the straps and the stuffed animals that also fell victim to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even those that say "hand wash only." As if I would have the stomach capacity to handwash something with little bits stuck to it.
All that makes me grateful for the job I had in Virginia that allowed me to purchase said GE washer (and dryer - I love my dryer too) at contractor's pricing, which meant I could justify said king-sized, front-loading and sanitize features.
Unfortunately, while the washing machine worked near miracles, it could not ensure more than a couple of hours of sleep for Himself or I or a baby that got better.
We may end up having to test the washer's ability to wash car seat covers today, as Woodstock has to go see the doctor when they open.
(Side note: Himself's "gratitude list" would include the fact that we have a clean shower - since Woodstock seemed to have a knack for getting sick on him. She knows her mother has a terribly weak stomach and gave her some pity, I suppose).
I am grateful that I own a washer and dryer.
Not only that, but I am particularly grateful that it is a front-loading, king-sized capacity washer and dryer with a sanitize cycle.
Woodstock hasn't kept anything but water down all weekend. As a result, I have done four batches of heavily soiled laundry. This was, of course, on top of the six batches of laundry that already needed doing (it was the weekend to wash sheets and towels, and the weekend I re-washed all warm-weather clothes before putting them in storage).
I didn't even complain that the sanitize cycle takes nearly two hours and all the hot water in the house, because I was so grateful that it was a good enough washer to get all the "soiled bits" off the clothing/bedding/odds and ends in one cycle.
I was grateful for the king-sized capacity because it meant that I could wash the sheets and blankets (and clothing) each time Woodstock soiled them, all in one batch (The couch is "draped" with linens because while the washer does have a large capacity, it is not large enough to wash the couch).
I was grateful for the front-loading style, because it meant I could wash her high chair cover, the straps and the stuffed animals that also fell victim to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even those that say "hand wash only." As if I would have the stomach capacity to handwash something with little bits stuck to it.
All that makes me grateful for the job I had in Virginia that allowed me to purchase said GE washer (and dryer - I love my dryer too) at contractor's pricing, which meant I could justify said king-sized, front-loading and sanitize features.
Unfortunately, while the washing machine worked near miracles, it could not ensure more than a couple of hours of sleep for Himself or I or a baby that got better.
We may end up having to test the washer's ability to wash car seat covers today, as Woodstock has to go see the doctor when they open.
(Side note: Himself's "gratitude list" would include the fact that we have a clean shower - since Woodstock seemed to have a knack for getting sick on him. She knows her mother has a terribly weak stomach and gave her some pity, I suppose).
Monday, October 20, 2008
Mixed-up Meal
We had one of those meals over the weekend that friends and family alike will likely tease us about for years to come.
In an attempt to focus on cleaning and organization (tasks I loathe), I put off grocery shopping until after Himself got home from work on Saturday. I thawed out a pound of hamburger to make something for dinner. Except, well, neither Woodstock nor I nor Himself actually particularly like ground beef. I like it in moussaka or Spanish rice, but that is about it. And since I had neither a good hard aged cheese for moussaka or tomato juice for Spanish rice, neither was an option.
I spent nearly half an hour searching for a recipe in my volumes of recipe books for something using ground beef that would satisfy us all. Nothing lept out at me other than meatballs, but one cannot make meatballs with only a pound of meat.
In desperation, I went hunting for random things that sounded good. Tempura batter mix, green tomatoes, sweet potatoes, a package of jalepeno brats (the only kind of sausage I can stand - mostly becuase they're so lean you have to spray the pan before you cook them - no grease!- and the jalepenos kill the sausage flavor). Some apples from the last farmer's market of the year...
When Himself came home, the kitchen smelled of fall - peppers, sweet potatoes, green tomatoes, brown-sugared apples ... he asked what I was making. I coyly replied that I wasn't going to tell him, because if I listed it on a menu he would laugh at me.
We dined on tempura-battered fried green tomatoes, roasted sweet potatoes and jalepeno brats, cut into medallions, and apple cardamom upside down cake for dessert. There is something about tempura batter that makes fried foods infinitely more palatable to me. There is something about roasting that makes the flavors of already rich sweet potatoes burst in a celebration of crisp leaves and cold nights. There is something about the first fruits of fall that make a meal seem more "cozy" and warm. Never mind that they were all sort of jumbled up on a menu.
Himself didn't laugh at me. In fact, we both remarked on how it was the perfect light fall meal.
Of course, he was the only one who didn't laugh. I could hear my mom rolling her eyes as she said, "only in your house."
No one roasts veggies, fries green tomatoes or eats jalepeno sausage in our families. Sometimes I wonder where we came from.
In an attempt to focus on cleaning and organization (tasks I loathe), I put off grocery shopping until after Himself got home from work on Saturday. I thawed out a pound of hamburger to make something for dinner. Except, well, neither Woodstock nor I nor Himself actually particularly like ground beef. I like it in moussaka or Spanish rice, but that is about it. And since I had neither a good hard aged cheese for moussaka or tomato juice for Spanish rice, neither was an option.
I spent nearly half an hour searching for a recipe in my volumes of recipe books for something using ground beef that would satisfy us all. Nothing lept out at me other than meatballs, but one cannot make meatballs with only a pound of meat.
In desperation, I went hunting for random things that sounded good. Tempura batter mix, green tomatoes, sweet potatoes, a package of jalepeno brats (the only kind of sausage I can stand - mostly becuase they're so lean you have to spray the pan before you cook them - no grease!- and the jalepenos kill the sausage flavor). Some apples from the last farmer's market of the year...
When Himself came home, the kitchen smelled of fall - peppers, sweet potatoes, green tomatoes, brown-sugared apples ... he asked what I was making. I coyly replied that I wasn't going to tell him, because if I listed it on a menu he would laugh at me.
We dined on tempura-battered fried green tomatoes, roasted sweet potatoes and jalepeno brats, cut into medallions, and apple cardamom upside down cake for dessert. There is something about tempura batter that makes fried foods infinitely more palatable to me. There is something about roasting that makes the flavors of already rich sweet potatoes burst in a celebration of crisp leaves and cold nights. There is something about the first fruits of fall that make a meal seem more "cozy" and warm. Never mind that they were all sort of jumbled up on a menu.
Himself didn't laugh at me. In fact, we both remarked on how it was the perfect light fall meal.
Of course, he was the only one who didn't laugh. I could hear my mom rolling her eyes as she said, "only in your house."
No one roasts veggies, fries green tomatoes or eats jalepeno sausage in our families. Sometimes I wonder where we came from.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Black Tie
The Office had it's Annual Lifetime Achievement Award Gala on Saturday. It was the first event I've worked on since I left Virginia. I have missed event planning immensely ... it's the adrenaline boost I haven't had in 16 months. I started working at The Office three months ago - at the tail end of planning, but I was able to roll up my sleeves and get involved, which I loved.
John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.
He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.
It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.
It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.
It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.
It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"
Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.
HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!
John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.
He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.
It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.
It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.
It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.
It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"
Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.
HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!
Monday, October 06, 2008
Perfection.
Typically, there is some amount of dread regarding General Conference weekends. While I love the instruction from the leadership of the church and I love having a more relaxed Sunday, it is a huge challenge for me to give up my one productive day -Saturday.
But this year, I gave myself a free pass. I did the dishes, straightened up the upstairs and ... let everything else slide.
I scrapbooked while watching conference on Saturday - 4 lovely hours while Woodstock was sleeping. I got to be uplifted and make some progress on Woodstock's baby book. I scrapbooked again Sunday morning for a couple of hours. I joined Heidi for dinner and a fabulous movie Saturday night.
On Sunday, I spent the two-hour break between sessions making potato curry to eat with friends who joined us for the afternoon session. We played one of my favorite games, which hasn't been played since we lived with Jane, as it takes 3 people to play.
Later, we bundled up Woodstock in her pink monkey pjs and went for a walk through the neighborhood, just the three of us. It smelled and felt like fall. We giggled as Woodstock pointed out all of her exciting discoveries (birds, cars, anything that moved, essentially). We delighted as Woodstock chattered and giggled and pointed at the cat that always comes out to greet her and I on our walks. We pointed out houses, yards, architectural details that we loved and speculated on the market price of those homes up for sale.
We came home, gave Woodstock her "boppie" (a term she picked up at Miss Jan's), made hot cocoa with whipped cream and snuggled on the couch to watch a couple of episodes of BBC's Planet Earth on Himself's ridiculous new TV.
It was perfection. All weekend. All of it. It felt like a Rockwell painting for all of its sublime delight. Conference should happen every weekend. Then again, we wouldn't have any clean laundry if it did.
But this year, I gave myself a free pass. I did the dishes, straightened up the upstairs and ... let everything else slide.
I scrapbooked while watching conference on Saturday - 4 lovely hours while Woodstock was sleeping. I got to be uplifted and make some progress on Woodstock's baby book. I scrapbooked again Sunday morning for a couple of hours. I joined Heidi for dinner and a fabulous movie Saturday night.
On Sunday, I spent the two-hour break between sessions making potato curry to eat with friends who joined us for the afternoon session. We played one of my favorite games, which hasn't been played since we lived with Jane, as it takes 3 people to play.
Later, we bundled up Woodstock in her pink monkey pjs and went for a walk through the neighborhood, just the three of us. It smelled and felt like fall. We giggled as Woodstock pointed out all of her exciting discoveries (birds, cars, anything that moved, essentially). We delighted as Woodstock chattered and giggled and pointed at the cat that always comes out to greet her and I on our walks. We pointed out houses, yards, architectural details that we loved and speculated on the market price of those homes up for sale.
We came home, gave Woodstock her "boppie" (a term she picked up at Miss Jan's), made hot cocoa with whipped cream and snuggled on the couch to watch a couple of episodes of BBC's Planet Earth on Himself's ridiculous new TV.
It was perfection. All weekend. All of it. It felt like a Rockwell painting for all of its sublime delight. Conference should happen every weekend. Then again, we wouldn't have any clean laundry if it did.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
On Falling Down the Stairs
pho·bi·a /ˈfoÊŠbiÉ™/
–noun a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.
I have an irrational fear of falling. Off cliffs, off curbs and especially down the stairs. I have spent years in the corporate world going UP the stairs and DOWN in the elevator if I had to go down more than one flight - only to be subjected to raised eyebrows, snickers and exclamations of "Seriously?!"
Yes. Seriously. My phobia of falling down the stairs is so bad that if there is an elevator, I'd rather take the elevator - and I HATE ELEVATORS.
Now that we have stairs in The New (to us) House, I have to go up and down them several times a day. There is not a single time that I go down the stairs without picturing myself falling and ending up in a tangled heap at the bottom. It is so bad (and our house stairs are so narrow) that I won't wear shoes down the stairs, so there is often a random assortment of shoes, flip flops and slippers at the top of the stairs. (Clearly I am not afraid of breaking my neck before I even get to the stairs.)
It is even worse when I am carrying Woodstock down the stairs. I envision both of us at the bottom in a complex tangle of elbows, knees and necks bent at the wrong angles. With me on top, of course. Phobias are all about the worst possible scenario.
Either it is a self-fulfilling prophesy or I have good reason to be afraid, because this morning, while Himself was bathing Woodstock, I fell down the last half of the staircase.
I landed flat on my back at the bottom with a "WHOOMPH!" Himself asked what had happened, but I had no wind left in me. He couldn't actually see what happened or make sure my neck wasn't broken, as Woodstock was still in the tub. And, in the triage of broken neck v. drowning baby (or, more likely, one who will try to climb out of the tub), the broken neck came in second.
My left rear side hurts like ___________ (enter your own 4-letter word here). My back hurts. My pride hurts.
Worst of all, the little voice in my head is yelling, "TOLD YOU SO! You should not go down the stairs."
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Tales of an Insomniac, Night 4
Chronic sleep issues have plagued me since young adulthood (or younger adulthood, as the case may be, I'm not exactly old). However, the past four nights have been ridiculous.
Night 1, I blamed on not feeling well - achy, sore throat, general feeling of post-incident-of-being-flattened-by-a-Mack-truck. I tossed. I turned. I kicked Himself. He poked me back. I flailed. I piled all the covers on and kicked them all back off.
Night 2, I still blamed on not feeling well, though I had taken medication earlier to prevent that excuse. It didn't really work. I laid in the quiet stillness and breathed. I listened to Woodstock breathe over the baby monitor. When I knew Himself was absolutely asleep, I turned on the lamp and read.
Night 3, I took the laptop to bed with me and started to watch the season finale of NCIS online. Himself chose that moment to go to bed. I went on an expedition to find is iPod headphones (I own no headphones). Except, well, except we moved TWO MONTHS AGO, and apparently that box hasn't been unpacked. As I turned back to return to the bedroom, an entire tower of CDs fell over, without me managing to touch them. I muttered. Loudly. Himself wanted to know why I was wandering around with all the lights on causing things to fall over. I eventually found an old crossword puzzle book, one of my old cures for insomnia. It took 2 hours to work. The last time I saw the clock, it was 3:30 a.m.
I expected to be ravished when I woke up the next morning at precisely the same time Woodstock did (no, it was not a coincidence). I wasn't. I expected I would fade late in the day. I didn't any more than usual. Of course, one of the hallmarks of my insomnia is going for DAYS without more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep and then needing 11-12 hours a night for weeks to make up for it. All of this was fine prior to the arrival of Woodstock, of course.
Day 4 (last night) was even worse. I went to get gas at 11:30 p.m., before the Sunday bewitching hour of midnight. We didn't particularly need gas, we don't ever drive the car on Sundays and the tank was 1/3 full ... but, well, just in case - and I needed something to do. It didn't work. I washed the dishes - by hand. I puttered. Sometime around midnight I decided to make bread. It helped exhaust me, but did nothing to bring on feelings of leaded eyelids. And, to be honest, bread made at midnight isn't as good as bread made at a normal daylight hour ... it's finicky enough as it is, I was just asking for disaster by undergoing the task in the wee hours of the morning.
And then ... nothing. Sleep still did not come. I counted the hours, minutes, seconds until morning. I curled up next to Himself. I counted sheep, worked another New York Times crossword puzzle and waited.
I waited clear into Day 5.
Night 1, I blamed on not feeling well - achy, sore throat, general feeling of post-incident-of-being-flattened-by-a-Mack-truck. I tossed. I turned. I kicked Himself. He poked me back. I flailed. I piled all the covers on and kicked them all back off.
Night 2, I still blamed on not feeling well, though I had taken medication earlier to prevent that excuse. It didn't really work. I laid in the quiet stillness and breathed. I listened to Woodstock breathe over the baby monitor. When I knew Himself was absolutely asleep, I turned on the lamp and read.
Night 3, I took the laptop to bed with me and started to watch the season finale of NCIS online. Himself chose that moment to go to bed. I went on an expedition to find is iPod headphones (I own no headphones). Except, well, except we moved TWO MONTHS AGO, and apparently that box hasn't been unpacked. As I turned back to return to the bedroom, an entire tower of CDs fell over, without me managing to touch them. I muttered. Loudly. Himself wanted to know why I was wandering around with all the lights on causing things to fall over. I eventually found an old crossword puzzle book, one of my old cures for insomnia. It took 2 hours to work. The last time I saw the clock, it was 3:30 a.m.
I expected to be ravished when I woke up the next morning at precisely the same time Woodstock did (no, it was not a coincidence). I wasn't. I expected I would fade late in the day. I didn't any more than usual. Of course, one of the hallmarks of my insomnia is going for DAYS without more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep and then needing 11-12 hours a night for weeks to make up for it. All of this was fine prior to the arrival of Woodstock, of course.
Day 4 (last night) was even worse. I went to get gas at 11:30 p.m., before the Sunday bewitching hour of midnight. We didn't particularly need gas, we don't ever drive the car on Sundays and the tank was 1/3 full ... but, well, just in case - and I needed something to do. It didn't work. I washed the dishes - by hand. I puttered. Sometime around midnight I decided to make bread. It helped exhaust me, but did nothing to bring on feelings of leaded eyelids. And, to be honest, bread made at midnight isn't as good as bread made at a normal daylight hour ... it's finicky enough as it is, I was just asking for disaster by undergoing the task in the wee hours of the morning.
And then ... nothing. Sleep still did not come. I counted the hours, minutes, seconds until morning. I curled up next to Himself. I counted sheep, worked another New York Times crossword puzzle and waited.
I waited clear into Day 5.
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.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Rites of Passage
There are certain rites of passage that scream "you're an adult now!" - most notably the first time you unpack your things in a home that doesn't contain parentals, siblings or anything quite the same as that with which you've always been surrounded.
The same goes for parenting, I suppose. There are lots of little rites of passage to mark your "arrival" at parenting - first cold, first non-well-baby trip to the doctor (double pneumonia and tonsilitis - 5 weeks ago), first urgent care visit (pink eye - 6 weeks ago), and first trip to the ER (stomach virus, dehydration, bacterial infection of unknown cause - last night).
When we do milestones, we do them with grand style.
And now I'm wondering - what the heck happened to the healthy little kid who spent 11 months of her life virtually illness free?! I'm doing so as I am propping my eyelids open with my fingers. Since Friday morning, I've had 5 hours of sleep. (In Woodstock's defense, Friday night's lack of sleep was my own doing, not hers).
It's official - I'm a "real" parent now.
The same goes for parenting, I suppose. There are lots of little rites of passage to mark your "arrival" at parenting - first cold, first non-well-baby trip to the doctor (double pneumonia and tonsilitis - 5 weeks ago), first urgent care visit (pink eye - 6 weeks ago), and first trip to the ER (stomach virus, dehydration, bacterial infection of unknown cause - last night).
When we do milestones, we do them with grand style.
And now I'm wondering - what the heck happened to the healthy little kid who spent 11 months of her life virtually illness free?! I'm doing so as I am propping my eyelids open with my fingers. Since Friday morning, I've had 5 hours of sleep. (In Woodstock's defense, Friday night's lack of sleep was my own doing, not hers).
It's official - I'm a "real" parent now.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Nightmare Before Labor Day
Saturday night, I had my worst panic attack in a long time.
It probably didn't help that my sister had showed me earlier that evening what she and the other nurses at work do when they're bored - they look up bookings for the county jail to see if they know anyone (sadly - both of us did, and I haven't lived in that county for 12 years!).
It probably didn't help that Woodstock's party, by everyone else's accounts successful, was one of the most miserable things through which I've subjected myself in months ... a virtual kaleidescope of sound and color and movement that threatened to send the whole world off kilter.
It probably didn't help that, with all my attempts to minimize traffic through the house on Saturday (thereby minmizing the impact on the rental carpet that is easy to stain and impossible to scrub), I have two HUGE spots that are going to require both time and money to remove.
It probably didn't help that there were SEVEN people spending the night Saturday night - guest room, nursery, living room, family room all had bodies in them and Woodstock was in our room. There was nowhere to de-program.
It probably didn't help that I woke up to Himself nearly smothering me (or so it felt) from a horrible dream, that I can only remember vaguely.
I started to sob hysterically. Himself, already perplexed by the fact that I would drastically spring to the other side of the bed if he happened to touch me, tried to calm me down.
The darkness was thick. I had to swallow any noise that came from the rising tide of panic engulfing me from the inside out, as Woodstock was sleeping soundly only feet away. I wanted to be held and yet the sensation of touch made me recoil. Every little thing, every little sensation, noise, sight - collectively was magnified into something greater. The whirring in my head was audible. The dread in the depth of my soul was palpable.
After I exhausted all of the emotional outburst of the attack, I fled to the bathroom (the only room not occupied by a sleeping body). I rescued my aromatheraphy bottles from the cavernous dungeous of the under-the-sink cabinet and ran a bath with a generous amount of lavendar bubbles. I ran the bath hot enough to sting my skin and require slow acclimation. I read about China's economy,disecting the panic attack to better understand the triggers and my reaction as I read about Chinese labor laws, factory conditions and rise to economic power.
I scrubbed my feet with an aromatherapy scrub. I lathered in lavendar. I inhaled deeply. I tried to visualize sleep. It worked so well that I napped for nearly an hour and woke to tepid water and wrinkled appendages.
I crept up the stairs for a glass of water, then back to my bedroom. Out came the fuzzy socks and medicated foot rub that takes the ache out of almost anything. Out came a fresh pillow and Himself's warm arms.
And I wondered how on earth to stop the crippling anxiety of the winter from creeping back in. Summer cannot last long enough.
It probably didn't help that my sister had showed me earlier that evening what she and the other nurses at work do when they're bored - they look up bookings for the county jail to see if they know anyone (sadly - both of us did, and I haven't lived in that county for 12 years!).
It probably didn't help that Woodstock's party, by everyone else's accounts successful, was one of the most miserable things through which I've subjected myself in months ... a virtual kaleidescope of sound and color and movement that threatened to send the whole world off kilter.
It probably didn't help that, with all my attempts to minimize traffic through the house on Saturday (thereby minmizing the impact on the rental carpet that is easy to stain and impossible to scrub), I have two HUGE spots that are going to require both time and money to remove.
It probably didn't help that there were SEVEN people spending the night Saturday night - guest room, nursery, living room, family room all had bodies in them and Woodstock was in our room. There was nowhere to de-program.
It probably didn't help that I woke up to Himself nearly smothering me (or so it felt) from a horrible dream, that I can only remember vaguely.
I started to sob hysterically. Himself, already perplexed by the fact that I would drastically spring to the other side of the bed if he happened to touch me, tried to calm me down.
The darkness was thick. I had to swallow any noise that came from the rising tide of panic engulfing me from the inside out, as Woodstock was sleeping soundly only feet away. I wanted to be held and yet the sensation of touch made me recoil. Every little thing, every little sensation, noise, sight - collectively was magnified into something greater. The whirring in my head was audible. The dread in the depth of my soul was palpable.
After I exhausted all of the emotional outburst of the attack, I fled to the bathroom (the only room not occupied by a sleeping body). I rescued my aromatheraphy bottles from the cavernous dungeous of the under-the-sink cabinet and ran a bath with a generous amount of lavendar bubbles. I ran the bath hot enough to sting my skin and require slow acclimation. I read about China's economy,disecting the panic attack to better understand the triggers and my reaction as I read about Chinese labor laws, factory conditions and rise to economic power.
I scrubbed my feet with an aromatherapy scrub. I lathered in lavendar. I inhaled deeply. I tried to visualize sleep. It worked so well that I napped for nearly an hour and woke to tepid water and wrinkled appendages.
I crept up the stairs for a glass of water, then back to my bedroom. Out came the fuzzy socks and medicated foot rub that takes the ache out of almost anything. Out came a fresh pillow and Himself's warm arms.
And I wondered how on earth to stop the crippling anxiety of the winter from creeping back in. Summer cannot last long enough.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Cursed
Remember this - a year and three days ago? Or the later floods that required fans? (briefly touched upon here), just a couple of weeks later?
We're cursed. They're baaaacccck!
I came home yesterday in a flurry - having only minutes to change clothes before heading up to a cabin retreat with some neighborhood women.
I couldn't find my socks. I don't wear socks in the summer, so naturally they wouldn't be among the first (or second) things I unpacked.
As I got closer to the outside wall in our bedroom, looking for my socks, I heard a gurgling noise.
In fact ... the wall was gurgling. I called to himself. He said I was imagining things. There are two rooms in the new house that should never, ever have water sounds in them - one of them is our bedroom.
I moved over to the wall to get a better idea of what the gurgling noise was and ... SQUISH! Water pooled up around my toes.
Something tells me that a room that has no plumbing behind the walls should not EVER have water pooling around ones toes on top of gurgling walls.
"HIMSELF!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. He said "it can't be that bad."
But it was. And 30 seconds later, when I opened the blinds, it got MUCH WORSE than "that bad" because there I was, staring into no less than a foot of water in the window well.
The good news is, the windows apparently don't leak. The window and the sill were dry.
The bad news is, the wall DOES leak - the water from the window well was seaping into the wall and running down the INSIDE of the wall (gurgling) and under the carpet (squishing).
At this point I drug Himself in to see the fact that our bedroom was now, in fact, some sort of macabre excuse for an aquarium - with floating spiders instead of fish.
It was the spiders, in fact, that made Himself declare "no way am I bailing the water out!" I had to remind him that the only place for the water to go was INSIDE. Then, finally finding my socks (after moving the remaining unpacked boxes out of our room), I grabbed a bucket, ran outside and began bailing out the mucky, spider-filled water in the now appropriately named "well" outside our window.
It turns out there is a suspected leak in the 33-year-old sprinkler line. Now we have a wet wall, a wet floor (with the carpet half removed) and ... you guessed it ...
A horrible, industrial-sized fan. In a room with no screen and half a dozen nasty looking spiders just outside, which means no fresh air through the window.
I give up.
We're cursed. They're baaaacccck!
I came home yesterday in a flurry - having only minutes to change clothes before heading up to a cabin retreat with some neighborhood women.
I couldn't find my socks. I don't wear socks in the summer, so naturally they wouldn't be among the first (or second) things I unpacked.
As I got closer to the outside wall in our bedroom, looking for my socks, I heard a gurgling noise.
In fact ... the wall was gurgling. I called to himself. He said I was imagining things. There are two rooms in the new house that should never, ever have water sounds in them - one of them is our bedroom.
I moved over to the wall to get a better idea of what the gurgling noise was and ... SQUISH! Water pooled up around my toes.
Something tells me that a room that has no plumbing behind the walls should not EVER have water pooling around ones toes on top of gurgling walls.
"HIMSELF!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. He said "it can't be that bad."
But it was. And 30 seconds later, when I opened the blinds, it got MUCH WORSE than "that bad" because there I was, staring into no less than a foot of water in the window well.
The good news is, the windows apparently don't leak. The window and the sill were dry.
The bad news is, the wall DOES leak - the water from the window well was seaping into the wall and running down the INSIDE of the wall (gurgling) and under the carpet (squishing).
At this point I drug Himself in to see the fact that our bedroom was now, in fact, some sort of macabre excuse for an aquarium - with floating spiders instead of fish.
It was the spiders, in fact, that made Himself declare "no way am I bailing the water out!" I had to remind him that the only place for the water to go was INSIDE. Then, finally finding my socks (after moving the remaining unpacked boxes out of our room), I grabbed a bucket, ran outside and began bailing out the mucky, spider-filled water in the now appropriately named "well" outside our window.
It turns out there is a suspected leak in the 33-year-old sprinkler line. Now we have a wet wall, a wet floor (with the carpet half removed) and ... you guessed it ...
A horrible, industrial-sized fan. In a room with no screen and half a dozen nasty looking spiders just outside, which means no fresh air through the window.
I give up.
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.
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