I've come to the conclusion that even if I were a taste tester for Ben & Jerrys (and for whom would that NOT be a dream job?) I'd probably want to go out for a steak every now and then. And the question then becomes why should I feel guilty about that?
So why is it that when I feel the need to ask for "time off" from being a mommy do I feel guilty? Angelina is 100% a mommy's girl, to the point that she looks at Daddy when he comes home from work wanting a hug, and screams "NO!" while hiding behind mommy. Unfortunately for her, she's just at the height where she's burying her face in my ass, and I always wonder why this would be more appealing than giving Daddy a hug. 'Course I don't mention that one to him, he's demoralized enough.
Then I was pondering how I could explain this to men... Suppose your 24/7 job was painting bikinis on super models. Wouldn't you still occasionally want a break to go watch a football game, be around people for whom you don't have to suck in your gut, and drink beer? Would you feel guilty about abandoning the now bikini-less super models for your ball-scratching beer bash? NOOOO. You'd boast about how perfect your job was and how much fun it was to paint perfect perky breasts. You'd be the envy of all the guys. You'd come back refreshed, and with the wonderful idea to paint a bikini top like two beer cans with the tops popped, and a bikini bottom like a bowl of chips -- the ultimate dream of just about every man. Enough with the artsy hibiscus blossoms! You'd win an award and the cover of Sports Illustrated -- precisely because you were able to go get some R & R.
Do you think men would "get" that? I wish. And why is it we so often have to ask, demand, wheedle and beg for our little breaks. Is it our fault? Do we sing the virtues of Mommyhood so much that they don't think we need our version of the beer bash? I'm happy with being able to shop at Rite Aid without having to piss off other shoppers by going down the exact center of the aisle to keep AJ from grabbing EVERYTHING and throwing it in the cart. How often can I calmly say "No, sweetie. We don't need _______________" fill in the blank with: incontinence pads, a bottle of tylenol, lipstick in purple, a garden gnome.
Listen to me. Sheesh. "Is it our fault?" What IS this? Are we PROGRAMMED to find a way to feel guilty. ARGHHHHHH. Or is it that men are just never going to be intuitive about what others need? It's the old "I can't read your mind" defense. But we women can. He pours his coffee, I hand him the cream -- did I read his mind or am I just aware? I love men, don't get me wrong, and Doug's beyond super. It's the purpose of life to keep learning.
A friend of mine is now pregnant with her third boy. When Daddy comes home, she might as well not exist for the other two. Another Seahorse who has a boy reports the same phenomenon, and was actually able to read several novels on a recent vacation. I vaguely remember what a novel is. On those rare occasions when I've read for entertainment, I've made sure it's in German so that I am at least refreshing the language while I'm "relaxing."
So then the question is, is it a gender thing? Does it switch? Am I going to have one on the breast and one on the hip come September? I'm almost looking forward to the mandatory post C-section five days in the hospital. Where else will I have help like that? And now that the ultrasound has shown that #2 will be a girl, I'll probably have two mommy's girls. And that will be absolutely wonderful except for those two or three hours a week when I've totally lost my mind.
How is it I can be completely charmed by her while she's lying to my face. She stands there with THAT look of concentration on her face and I ask if she's going poo poo. Between grunts she looks at me with big blue eyes and says "No, Mommy."
Angelina's a runner. And she hasn't gotten to the point where she understands, or should I say complies with "Come Here!" Since she did this on my 75 year old mom, I thought I needed to put a stop to it. I have one of those politically incorrect enough harness/leash combos for kids, but since I don't want to trust my daughter's life to velcro I went to PetSmart. She's officially -- by weight - a "medium" dog. I've gotten some weird looks but, as that brilliant philosopher Mr T. was fond of saying, "I pity the fool" who actually ever says anything since I've got my soapbox and speech about child safety in my back pocket at all times.
There have been a lot of boo boos lately that need kissing. Angelina insists on kissing OUR boo boos too. Doug was hopping around on one foot the other day, intently NOT cursing and Angelina insisted on kissing his foot. She'll bang her head on the table, gotta kiss the boo boo. She'll stub her toe on a toy, gotta kiss the boo boo. This was fine until she had a bad reaction to something she ate and wound up with diaper rash so bad she was arched up in her car seat, screaming. I got her in the house and was changing her when she sobbed "Mommy! Boo boo! KISS!" And of course, because it was my sweet baby's cute little behind (and because I'd didey-wiped the heck out of it) I planted little kisses on each cheek. What we won't do for them.
Angelina thought it was fun this morning to take little pieces of toilet paper and stuff them up my nose while declaring "Booger!" -- in German it's "poppel." Even more amusing for her was when I'd press on the side of my nose, closing the other nostril, and snort the TP out of my nose with as much velocity as I could muster. The hubby walked into the bathroom and declared this disgusting... This? From the gender who considers lighting farts a rite of passage? If it amuses my daughter I'll snort TP for hours. I doubt this will spare her a singed heiney if she winds up a tom-boy.
Peekaboo has become "BeeBOO!" It took me a while to realize what she was saying. Poor little thing must think I'm really dense. It was brought home to me again how careful we need to be with our word choices. Don't ask me what got into her, but just yesterday while I was in another room, she ripped off her diaper and sat on the potty -- and peed -- all by her ownsome. Wow! Was I shocked! Her reward of choice is to get naked and roll around under the down comforter in our bed. This being Pacifica, I only own flannel and it does feel good against the skin. She cheerily ordered "Mami, NAKT!" (Mommy, get naked!) and since I was dying to lose the bra anyway I complied. We rolled around, tickling and cuddling. She dug under the covers to get at the "Boobies!" and pretty soon we were playing BeeBoo, Boobies! I've made peace with my poor choice of words for the boobs, but then she was laying on her back, one ankle in each hand she said "BeeBoo Pussy!" Holy crap! Where did THAT one come from? Seeing my shock, and responding to my "What did you say?" she let go of an ankle, and unmistakingly pointed to her little privates and said with a proud grin "pussy, beeboo pussy!" She closed her legs together, then spread them again and said with an angelic little laugh, "beeboo pussy!" All it takes is a couple of times telling her during a diaper change "Hold still, Mommy's got to clean your little pussy" and the word is cemented for life. Oh well, I think it sounds nicer than "vulva."
I told Doug I was going to ask the Doctor if she could make a whole new incision for the next C section. Doug's response was something on the order of "Why the hell would you want another scar?" I told him I might get each tattooed with the baby's name. He just rolled his eyes. Never underestimate the maudlin sentimentality of a pregnant, hormonal woman, I told him. I'm sure Doug was wondering what the heck I'd have done with episiotomy scars.
So wish me luck, I'm starting week 20. I'm half way there and enjoying this pregnancy immensely now that the baby is moving around and letting me know she's there. What a joy this sensation is! What a blissfully happy time in my life. I'm so phenomenally blessed that at age 40 we were able to get pregnant again, the baby's healthy. Exhaustion is a tiny price to pay to be part of this beautiful miracle. My house is a mess, I never wear makeup, I look like crap but I'm blissfully happy. Copyright 2005, Evelyn James
Friday, April 29, 2005
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
050404
I inadvertently discovered an interrogation technique that I plan to use on Angelina (and, of course #2).
Doug came to me out of the blue and said "Is there something you want to tell me?" with an odd look on his face. At this point thoughts began flying through my head like lightning through a very muddy swamp. What had he discovered? What did he know that I didn't? Not that I'm confessing, mind you, but there is a technique for surreptitiously spending money where you make the actual check out to Nordstrom, but write "Safeway" in the check register. Couldn't be that, so I hedged.
"I think you already know I'm pregnant."
"Noooooo. I think you need to tell me something." He said again.
Again the lightning dragged its sorry butt through the muddy swamp of my brain. Not that I'm confessing, mind you, but there is the technique for concealing a minor fender bender by waiting for the perfect moment when you're both approaching your car in a parking lot then gasping theatrically and, with equally theatrical outrage pointing out that someone must have scraped your car while you were shopping. I actually learned that technique at work, and thank goodness the statute of limitations has expired. Couldn't be that... The swamp had consumed my thought process and Doug must have noticed that I was pitifully wracking my brain so he again asked "Something you need to tell me?"
"Uh," I hedged again "Now that Brad Pitt's single again, you're hanging by a string?"
I guess he didn't want me to smart ass further down that particular line of inquiry, so, with an amused but exasperated look on his face he prompted "The phone?"
Light bulbs suddenly flickered with all their feeble 60 watts in my brain as I recalled "OH! Your Dad called while you were in the shower!" He must have been letting the water warm up to have heard it, then checked the calls log.
On the other hand, I was pleased to realize that I had overcome my childhood tendency to be a compulsive confessor. I'm hoping it's a genetically dominant trait and that Angelina has this too. I must have been 8 or 9 when my younger cousin got her hands on a book of matches. Always the instigator, Debbie suggested we start a campfire in the hopes of making some s'mores. About 6 or 7 of us went out on my grandfather's back 40 near the creek (yes, I grew up in the country) and began gathering the ingredients necessary, wood chips, little twigs. Some adult, who must have had kids of his own, saw the huddle and heard his Up-To-No-Good-Radar go off. He hollered at us over the fence "What're you kids doing!?!" We all popped up, took one look at the guy and scattered like cockroaches that had seen the light. Flight is a defacto admission of some sort of guilt, but the guy couldn't possibly chase down 7 kids, all going in different directions.
This just happened to be the same day our boarder collie got peppered with buckshot in the hindquarters -- like I said, I grew up in the country. That evening I heard my mom ask my dad whether or not they should call the cops and I burst out into tears and wails and spontaneous confessions "We just wanted s'mores and it was Debbie's idea and we didn't really start a fire PLEASE DON'T HAVE ME ARRESTED!!!!!" Both mom and dad looked at their wailing daughter, thoroughly confused but they realized that there must be an issue here and with very little prompting got the rest of the story out of me. Only AFTER they got the full confession did they tell me they were going to report that our dog got shot. I swear when I left the room I heard them chuckle.
So with her genetic contributions and with Doug and I both having had interview and interrogation training, I'm thinking AJ doesn't stand a chance. Here's hoping
Do you ever look for talents in your kids? Aptitudes that indicate a possible future career? I know it's way too early but I can't help wondering. For example, she doesn't call me when she wakes up from her nap anymore. I hear rustling on the baby monitor, then I hear the sound of her laughter as she bounces up and down. Eventually she's having so much fun that she wants to share it and calls for Mommy. Every day when I get in there, she's thrown everything -- yes EVERYTHING -- out of her crib. That's the rustling I hear first. I'm wondering if this means she'll be a future rock star trashing hotel rooms. Hmmm.
Or worse yet, once she's done joyously bouncing, she runs from one end of the crib to the other and I SWEAR she looks like those silly wrestlers careening around the wrestling ring. I'm wondering if I throw another kid in there, will she pick him up and do the flying helicopter? Or maybe they'll do the super figure four leg lock. I have no idea, but for right now she's the cutest little giggling wrestler I've ever seen. Then I'm thinking the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. The other day when we were leaving the house Doug grabbed Angelina and hollered "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLLLLE" We'll leave the career choices for later, like when she's three.
One of the sacrifices of Motherhood -- I've given up wearing lipstick, as lately I've been having to kiss a lot of boo boos. I'm thinking of using Neosporin as lipgloss. Now that's motherly multi-tasking!
I've been talking about pregnancy with a lot of my buddies. Was interested to hear one gal say that her husband isn't all that disappointed that they can't get pregnant again as she was fairly well psychotic when she was pregnant. I had to think how lucky Doug is as I'm perceiving myself as fairly even keeled. I mentioned this to him -- big mistake.
This morning I was in the kitchen. Angelina was eating blueberry bread and I was giving Doug a haircut. Made me think of what a lovely scene of domestic bliss we were enjoying. Then Doug hauled out the vacuum cleaner and diligently vacuumed up the hair clippings. That would have been fine, except then he left it on, clapping his hand over the nozzle repeatedly so that it would make a different sound. I'm not sure if this was amusing Angelina -- his intent -- but it was annoying the hell out of me. I barked at my dear husband, as all loving wives do. Something on the order of "WILL YOU SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!" With the vacuum still on, he said, "Uh huh, you're not hormonal at all, and don't swear in front of my child." I know of NO woman who likes to be accused of being hormonal, even if it's true.
After a few moments of steaming, I decided I needed to make a point. Unfortunately the point I made was proving my hormonal status, of course that didn't occur to me until later. I took a pot and a spoon, and went to the bathroom where he had just lathered up for shaving. He didn't see me coming. I then began banging the spoon against the pot right behind his head. You can imagine that his reaction was to be seriously irritated and I got a spray of water and shaving cream flicked in my face for my troubles. In his shock, he said "What the HELL has gotten into you?!?!" I then said, in a voice that sounded a little smug even to me, "OH! So obnoxious sounds irritate you too? You MUST be HORMONAL! And don't swear in front of my child!" I wonder if there are support groups for men trying to survive their wife's pregnancy with any level of sanity.
We'll survive, we'll just be a little more twisted than before.
Evelyn Copyright 2005, Evelyn James. All rights reserved
Doug came to me out of the blue and said "Is there something you want to tell me?" with an odd look on his face. At this point thoughts began flying through my head like lightning through a very muddy swamp. What had he discovered? What did he know that I didn't? Not that I'm confessing, mind you, but there is a technique for surreptitiously spending money where you make the actual check out to Nordstrom, but write "Safeway" in the check register. Couldn't be that, so I hedged.
"I think you already know I'm pregnant."
"Noooooo. I think you need to tell me something." He said again.
Again the lightning dragged its sorry butt through the muddy swamp of my brain. Not that I'm confessing, mind you, but there is the technique for concealing a minor fender bender by waiting for the perfect moment when you're both approaching your car in a parking lot then gasping theatrically and, with equally theatrical outrage pointing out that someone must have scraped your car while you were shopping. I actually learned that technique at work, and thank goodness the statute of limitations has expired. Couldn't be that... The swamp had consumed my thought process and Doug must have noticed that I was pitifully wracking my brain so he again asked "Something you need to tell me?"
"Uh," I hedged again "Now that Brad Pitt's single again, you're hanging by a string?"
I guess he didn't want me to smart ass further down that particular line of inquiry, so, with an amused but exasperated look on his face he prompted "The phone?"
Light bulbs suddenly flickered with all their feeble 60 watts in my brain as I recalled "OH! Your Dad called while you were in the shower!" He must have been letting the water warm up to have heard it, then checked the calls log.
On the other hand, I was pleased to realize that I had overcome my childhood tendency to be a compulsive confessor. I'm hoping it's a genetically dominant trait and that Angelina has this too. I must have been 8 or 9 when my younger cousin got her hands on a book of matches. Always the instigator, Debbie suggested we start a campfire in the hopes of making some s'mores. About 6 or 7 of us went out on my grandfather's back 40 near the creek (yes, I grew up in the country) and began gathering the ingredients necessary, wood chips, little twigs. Some adult, who must have had kids of his own, saw the huddle and heard his Up-To-No-Good-Radar go off. He hollered at us over the fence "What're you kids doing!?!" We all popped up, took one look at the guy and scattered like cockroaches that had seen the light. Flight is a defacto admission of some sort of guilt, but the guy couldn't possibly chase down 7 kids, all going in different directions.
This just happened to be the same day our boarder collie got peppered with buckshot in the hindquarters -- like I said, I grew up in the country. That evening I heard my mom ask my dad whether or not they should call the cops and I burst out into tears and wails and spontaneous confessions "We just wanted s'mores and it was Debbie's idea and we didn't really start a fire PLEASE DON'T HAVE ME ARRESTED!!!!!" Both mom and dad looked at their wailing daughter, thoroughly confused but they realized that there must be an issue here and with very little prompting got the rest of the story out of me. Only AFTER they got the full confession did they tell me they were going to report that our dog got shot. I swear when I left the room I heard them chuckle.
So with her genetic contributions and with Doug and I both having had interview and interrogation training, I'm thinking AJ doesn't stand a chance. Here's hoping
Do you ever look for talents in your kids? Aptitudes that indicate a possible future career? I know it's way too early but I can't help wondering. For example, she doesn't call me when she wakes up from her nap anymore. I hear rustling on the baby monitor, then I hear the sound of her laughter as she bounces up and down. Eventually she's having so much fun that she wants to share it and calls for Mommy. Every day when I get in there, she's thrown everything -- yes EVERYTHING -- out of her crib. That's the rustling I hear first. I'm wondering if this means she'll be a future rock star trashing hotel rooms. Hmmm.
Or worse yet, once she's done joyously bouncing, she runs from one end of the crib to the other and I SWEAR she looks like those silly wrestlers careening around the wrestling ring. I'm wondering if I throw another kid in there, will she pick him up and do the flying helicopter? Or maybe they'll do the super figure four leg lock. I have no idea, but for right now she's the cutest little giggling wrestler I've ever seen. Then I'm thinking the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. The other day when we were leaving the house Doug grabbed Angelina and hollered "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLLLLE" We'll leave the career choices for later, like when she's three.
One of the sacrifices of Motherhood -- I've given up wearing lipstick, as lately I've been having to kiss a lot of boo boos. I'm thinking of using Neosporin as lipgloss. Now that's motherly multi-tasking!
I've been talking about pregnancy with a lot of my buddies. Was interested to hear one gal say that her husband isn't all that disappointed that they can't get pregnant again as she was fairly well psychotic when she was pregnant. I had to think how lucky Doug is as I'm perceiving myself as fairly even keeled. I mentioned this to him -- big mistake.
This morning I was in the kitchen. Angelina was eating blueberry bread and I was giving Doug a haircut. Made me think of what a lovely scene of domestic bliss we were enjoying. Then Doug hauled out the vacuum cleaner and diligently vacuumed up the hair clippings. That would have been fine, except then he left it on, clapping his hand over the nozzle repeatedly so that it would make a different sound. I'm not sure if this was amusing Angelina -- his intent -- but it was annoying the hell out of me. I barked at my dear husband, as all loving wives do. Something on the order of "WILL YOU SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!" With the vacuum still on, he said, "Uh huh, you're not hormonal at all, and don't swear in front of my child." I know of NO woman who likes to be accused of being hormonal, even if it's true.
After a few moments of steaming, I decided I needed to make a point. Unfortunately the point I made was proving my hormonal status, of course that didn't occur to me until later. I took a pot and a spoon, and went to the bathroom where he had just lathered up for shaving. He didn't see me coming. I then began banging the spoon against the pot right behind his head. You can imagine that his reaction was to be seriously irritated and I got a spray of water and shaving cream flicked in my face for my troubles. In his shock, he said "What the HELL has gotten into you?!?!" I then said, in a voice that sounded a little smug even to me, "OH! So obnoxious sounds irritate you too? You MUST be HORMONAL! And don't swear in front of my child!" I wonder if there are support groups for men trying to survive their wife's pregnancy with any level of sanity.
We'll survive, we'll just be a little more twisted than before.
Evelyn Copyright 2005, Evelyn James. All rights reserved
Friday, April 01, 2005
Dr Seuss Overdose
I read AJ books,
We don't watch much TV
To prevent her becoming
A cute pink zombie.
So we read books about Fuzzles
And books about Woozles,
And how one can best tame
A Hullabanoodle.
We practice our As,
Our Bs and our Cs.
We read books about counting
Our one, twos and threes.
These books drive me loopy,
They'll make me go mad
But I read and I read
'Cause it makes her feel glad
So I read and I read
And I read still more drivel
But when hubby comes home,
You can bet that I snivel
"It's YOUR turn right now,
Yes it's YOUR turn I think.
As for me, I'll go out
And I'll have a stiff drink
I'll forget Dr. Seuss,
I'll get loose as a goose
I'll drink 'til I can't tell a man from a moose!"
"It's wishful thinking," said he.
"It's wishful thinking, this drinking.
You're knocked up, you're pregnant.
You're with child, silly, see?
"A pedicure then, or a wax or a bob.
But I Must MUST go out." I said with a sob.
"She's an angel." I said.
"But this day's been too tough
And an angel we know, me?
Not so much."
I'm losing my marbles,
I've lost half my brain
My intellect I suspect
I will never regain.
So I ran out the door
As if I were chased
By the Cat in the Hat in some really weird race
A pedicure? A bob?
A quick trip to Reno?
I thought as I grabbed a San Pellegrino.
Barnes & Nobel, I thought,
As I dashed out the door.
Oh why had I not thought of that one before?
What a joy it would be just to wander the aisles
To browse and to shop with my odd little smile.
Kid free, thought I, YEAH!
No more reshelving books
Torn by sweet little hands
from their little book nooks.
Without chasing a toddler,
What books could I browse!
On knitting! On cooking!
On husbanding cows!
My time I enjoyed with decaf cappuccino
I gave up all thoughts of escaping to Reno.
So then I came home,
My sweet angel in bed,
And the hubby with more
Grey hairs on his head.
And what had I bought with the almighty dollar?
More parenting books 'til my husband did holler.
"How many more books can we have?" Questioned he
as I showed him one on the best use of T.P..
"Potty training's important!" Protested I.
(I should have bought him a book on how to tie flies.)
What he doesn't know,
What he doesn't yet see
Is the stash in the trunk
Of books, not for me.
A new book about Fuzzles,
And more about Woozles
And more ways to tame a Hullabanoodle.
A new book about letters D, E, and F,
And a video about a puppy named Jeff.
My sanity returned and we crawled into bed
I have joy in my heart, and thoughts in my head
That we'll read, and we'll read,
Maybe more than I oughtta
'Cause I really do love my sweet baby daughter.
copyright 2005, Evelyn James
We don't watch much TV
To prevent her becoming
A cute pink zombie.
So we read books about Fuzzles
And books about Woozles,
And how one can best tame
A Hullabanoodle.
We practice our As,
Our Bs and our Cs.
We read books about counting
Our one, twos and threes.
These books drive me loopy,
They'll make me go mad
But I read and I read
'Cause it makes her feel glad
So I read and I read
And I read still more drivel
But when hubby comes home,
You can bet that I snivel
"It's YOUR turn right now,
Yes it's YOUR turn I think.
As for me, I'll go out
And I'll have a stiff drink
I'll forget Dr. Seuss,
I'll get loose as a goose
I'll drink 'til I can't tell a man from a moose!"
"It's wishful thinking," said he.
"It's wishful thinking, this drinking.
You're knocked up, you're pregnant.
You're with child, silly, see?
"A pedicure then, or a wax or a bob.
But I Must MUST go out." I said with a sob.
"She's an angel." I said.
"But this day's been too tough
And an angel we know, me?
Not so much."
I'm losing my marbles,
I've lost half my brain
My intellect I suspect
I will never regain.
So I ran out the door
As if I were chased
By the Cat in the Hat in some really weird race
A pedicure? A bob?
A quick trip to Reno?
I thought as I grabbed a San Pellegrino.
Barnes & Nobel, I thought,
As I dashed out the door.
Oh why had I not thought of that one before?
What a joy it would be just to wander the aisles
To browse and to shop with my odd little smile.
Kid free, thought I, YEAH!
No more reshelving books
Torn by sweet little hands
from their little book nooks.
Without chasing a toddler,
What books could I browse!
On knitting! On cooking!
On husbanding cows!
My time I enjoyed with decaf cappuccino
I gave up all thoughts of escaping to Reno.
So then I came home,
My sweet angel in bed,
And the hubby with more
Grey hairs on his head.
And what had I bought with the almighty dollar?
More parenting books 'til my husband did holler.
"How many more books can we have?" Questioned he
as I showed him one on the best use of T.P..
"Potty training's important!" Protested I.
(I should have bought him a book on how to tie flies.)
What he doesn't know,
What he doesn't yet see
Is the stash in the trunk
Of books, not for me.
A new book about Fuzzles,
And more about Woozles
And more ways to tame a Hullabanoodle.
A new book about letters D, E, and F,
And a video about a puppy named Jeff.
My sanity returned and we crawled into bed
I have joy in my heart, and thoughts in my head
That we'll read, and we'll read,
Maybe more than I oughtta
'Cause I really do love my sweet baby daughter.
copyright 2005, Evelyn James
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
050315
Oh the things we do to pacify our toddlers in public. Yes, I'm barely into my second trimester, but yes, I am buying maternity clothes. I went to Sears for the president's day sale. I'm appalled to admit we left Sears looking like Hansel and Gretel had gotten a corporate sponsorship from Pepperidge farms based on the trail of goldfish left behind. (I could just picture little lederhosen looking like Nascar knock-offs with the PF Logos.) Why do they choose to throw all their tantrums in public, or is it just then that we notice how mortifying they are? It just doesn't feel very mature to be yanking back and forth on a zippy full of goldfish with a screaming toddler. Of course it's a lot LESS mature to just cave. "Okay, Angelina, you can have the zippy." Uh huh, really dignified to be on my hands and knees in the middle of Sears scooping up goldfish by the handful while AJ still had the zippy and it was raining goldfish on my head. This would by why I decided to let the Sears Janitorial service earn their keep with the Hansel and Gretel trail.
So my new mantra is "Don't cave, don't cave!" And here I am, dilligently speaking only German to her, studying German again myself (a very difficult language) and yet I'm not above resorting to English when I'm in public and have Angelina thrown over a shoulder after a chase where she careened through people like a pinball. "Sweetie, if you can't stay near mommy you aren't allowed out of the cart. Please stop screaming, sweetie." Not for her benefit, of course, but for all those people that I, the larger pinball, careened against in my attempts to catch her. And a giggling toddler has a level of charm that the chasing chubby 40 year old just can't match, so people are looking at ME as being the villan who intruded into their personal space ... and of course I AM. Needless to say my tone of voice to Angelina is saying "Do you really want to live to reach two?"
The day was not made better by a leaking Avent bottle. By the time I got home and up the stairs I realized that my chic black diaper back pack was leaking a trail of milk down my ass. Ev got a little grumpy. And then I imprudently went to Costco on a weekend. Doug and I had boycotted Costco there for several years after I'd been pinned at one end of the cart and Doug at the other by the eighth passing family of 10 or more in a crowded aisle. Doug left everything in the cart and got me out of there after I hollered to him "NOW I KNOW WHY RATS EAT EACH OTHER WHEN THERE ARE TOO MANY IN A CAGE!" So this time I was back, but I was definitely the aggressor rat. Ever have a day when you're just hoping someone messes with you? That last little gal who bumped my butt with the cart narrowly escaped with her life, at least in my imagination. At this point it's cathartic just to give someone a really dirty look. So is this finally a sign of maturity? That I'm not taking out my aggressor rat tendencies on perfect strangers? That I have some restraint and don't rip someone's liver out through their nostril just 'cause they bumped my butt?
God, I remember the days when I felt like a grown up. When I had a job and a life and boobs I could call my own. Talk about share ware. I was all nostalgic about weaning and missing nursing. I don't mind cuddling topless at her insistance, but does she HAVE to twiddle the nipples? Some days I really understand the women who think they'd go nuts if they were stay at home moms. I guess here's the secret. We SAHMs DO go nuts. It's just that working outside the home would have made us nutser.
I told Doug I'd been asked to write a column for the PMC newsletter. His reaction was a tepid "That's great honey, just leave me out of it." Now how can I do that? Particularly when he tells me that while I was at the PMC meeting he was getting ready to give Angelina a bath. We've never used the baby bath for her, Doug's always stripped down and gotten in with her. She could bathe by herself now (with supervision, of course) but it's their quality time. They splash and play together and it's just a delight to see. On the other hand, due to Angelina's penchant for eating cat food, we have all the cats' supplies in there. Every bath requires cleaning out the cat food and water, sweeping up the crumbs, etc. So Doug had Angelina prepared for the bath (i.e. running around naked) and was ready to get in himself (naked too) when he was bent over sweeping up kitty crumbs. Thems that dangle will jangle of course. Angelina must have seen the interesting view from the back, came up and poked the dangling pair with her little fingers. Doug popped up as if on a spring and turned around to see Angelina smiling and pointing, saying "Pee pee!" He got a little wiggy about it. It doesn't matter how innocent, NO man wants to see any female pointing and giggling. I was raised part of the time in Europe where nudity is normal, so I'd prefer to have her just think parts is parts rather than make a value judgement about them. He got under the suds as quickly as he could and they had a wonderful time.
I had a dentist appointment. I was worried about it because I tend to gag these days while brushing my teeth. Doug and I were supposed to switch roles. I was getting ready to leave the house while he was to be watching Angelina. Uh huh. I was in the shower, all shampooed up when I heard AJ come in to the bathroom. A little pink shadow passed by the frosted glass shower door and then I heard a gleeful "Pee Pee!" I looked out, dripping shampoo everywhere to discover that she was stirring the water in the open toilet with her pacifier. Horrified I snatched it out of her hand and soaped it up with some of the shampoo from my hair. I needn't doubt who taught her that snatching behavior that will probably show up at a playgroup near you. Where was Doug? Watching Fox News to see if we'd caught Osama yet.
We had another blissfully uneventful day. I was doing laundry and AJ was "helping." She found a pair of Doug's underwear and put them on. Both feet were through one leg and she had them bunched up around her waist. 30 seconds later they were off. I would put the wash on the dryer door and she'd "help" by pushing it into the dryer. Later I was on "the throne." (At what point in our mommyhood do we ever get privacy back?) Angelina was having so much fun hiding behind the towel on the towel bar and having me "find" her with tickles and giggles. I thought that these were the silly little moments I'd be missing if I were working. And I don't care if I still can't call my boobs my own. I don't care if I never have manicured acrylic nails again. I don't care if I look schleppy and have an oatmeal handprint on my sweatshirt all day. I don't care that I don't pull down a hefty paycheck anymore. I know other women don't have the choice or prefer to work. Bravo for the choices you make. I DO go nuts, but for me it's bliss to hear her say "Nackt, boobies HUG!"
Doug had oral surgery on Wednesday morning. He was pretty loopy from the drugs and hanging around with an ice pack on his face. Even so, he wanted to be a little productive and since I'm claiming preggo priviledge, he decided to clean the cat box. This is usually a two person job since it takes 100% of someone's energy to keep Angelina out of the cat box. Even TV isn't more fascinating than that. Doug finished and vacuumed and our house was blessedly free of that horrible odor again. I was fixing dinner. Doug decided to check e-mail. We've been trying to get Angelina to play independantly and as such, when she's occupied we usually just peek from around a corner and let her keep going. Since it's silence that makes us the most nervous, we weren't too worried as we could hear her pitter patter up and down the hallway. We failed to notice that our little Angel had found the large scoop we use for the cats' food and was industriously running back and forth between the cat box and the living room coffee table. I noticed when I poked my head out of the kitchen to tell Doug dinner was ready. There were about seven large piles of cat litter on the coffee table, which she must have figured was enough as she started pretending she had a little zen sand garden and was running her hands through the litter like a rake. To get seven piles, she had to pass the open doorways to the kitchen and the office 14 times. She appeared to be very proud of herself! I ran for the video camera while Doug ran for the vacuum. We thereby forgot one of the cardinal rules of parenting which is PREVENT FURTHER DAMAGE FIRST. Cleanup should be second. At least one pile wound up in the carpet. This was, of course, a lovely accent to the trail she'd left from one end of the house to the other schlepping the litter to the coffee table in the first place. We got Angelina corralled and everything cleaned up. I immediately called Doug's mom, just in case she still had some memories of days like this at his hands when she cursed him to have a child just like him. Doug swears it was the drugs that made him forget the doorstop.
Doug and I had a little spat. Nothing unusual. He gave up the ice bags last night. Concerned about the swelling, he came up to me and asked "Do I have any swelling?" Still peved I said "No, but I could fix that for you."
I caught myself calling an insulated coffee commuter mug a "sippy cup."
Doug and I took the Valentine's day sex tour at the zoo this year. Was sposta get us all interested and excited and we were supposed to go home and implement some of the tips we'd learned from the animal kingdom. Yeah right. I'm pregnant. What is it? Is it some sort of propoganda that human females are always receptive to sex? Who the hell leaked that particular item of disinformation. Dateline should do an expose to debunk the myth. Sometimes I feel like despite my intellectual interest in sex, all the hormones in my body are saying "BULLSHIT! he already scored and the bun is baking, NO SEX FOR YOU!"
To the serious side.
So I have a question here. Am I nuts or is it possible to give up "control" without giving up "authority?" Can I create a loving environment where the kids can relax because they get to have fun and I handle the grown-up stuff? I can't believe kids actually WANT to have complete control, despite their tantrums to the contrary. Are we speaking the same language as our children? I've noticed that for some kids asking politely means they utterly ignore what is being asked of them. Can one bark orders in a cheerful tone? Kids don't always understand adult language such as "You're hurting Mommy's feelings when you're not polite to grandma." Some kids couldn't give a rat's patootie about Mommy's feelings. What I'm getting through my various studies is that they're concrete thinkers and creatures of creatable habits. About 10,000 repetitions of "Say please" and "Say thank-you" can eventually be replaced by "what do we say?" and will eventually generate a moderately polite child.
Isn't it to our children's advantage to teach them how to function in society with social nicities amongst which are pleases and thank-yous? I know one child who never says a spontaneous please or thank-you and I am utterly uninspired to give this kid anything, ever. Can they be taught to be grateful without ever showing gratitude? I don't see how. I know that kid wants more goodies, but his behavior is not going to make it happen. There's a philosophy that these social lubricants are contrived and kids shouldn't be required to say things they don't really feel.
Is it our goal to have our children never feel bad, or is it on occasion an available parenting tool? Since when is "remorse" considered bad? It seems to me as though kids SHOULD feel badly when they've done a bad thing -- not that THEY ARE bad, but simple remorse. How else will they develop an aversion to the behavior we don't want repeated? How can they ever MEAN "I'm sorry" if they never actually FEEL sorry?
I used to be "Officer Friendly" and give lectures to kids. I had to study how the brain functions. Most of the pleasant feelings illegal drugs induce we can cause for ourselves if we choose to do so. If you're angry you can choose to take a bubble bath, or a long walk, or attack the stairmaster. If you're sad you can pet your cat, do something nice for someone else, or watch a comedy. You must consciously CHOOSE the behavior and engage in it before your brain will give you the happy neurotransmitter payoff.
So if we teach kids the behavior (Say "thank you" to Grandma) even though they may not FEEL like engaging in that behavior, they will get the payoff (Grandma smiles with pure love on her face, hugs them and brings more presents at her next visit.) Often times behavior comes before the payoff, and only then is the behavior is cemented. If we don't insist on the behavior they'll never get the payoff and never wind up internally motivated to engage in the desired behavior.
It may be "contrived" but at 21 months with minimal prompting, Angelina says Peas (please) Bitte (please in German) Genkoo (thank you) and Danke (thank you in German). I usually respond with "You're so very welcome, I love to do things for you."
Nothing is so polarizing as parenting philosophies. There are many roads to Rome as a friend of mine said, I just wonder if we're assuming that ALL roads lead to Rome, and they don't. If my thoughts offend anyone, sorry. Don't worry, I'm not raising your child, just mine. At least we all see eye to eye that we want the best for our kids. And I don't want mine clobbering yours.
I guess their therapists will determine how well we did.
p.s. I love hearing feedback. Let me know what you think, or tell me a mommy moment of your own. All rights reserved
So my new mantra is "Don't cave, don't cave!" And here I am, dilligently speaking only German to her, studying German again myself (a very difficult language) and yet I'm not above resorting to English when I'm in public and have Angelina thrown over a shoulder after a chase where she careened through people like a pinball. "Sweetie, if you can't stay near mommy you aren't allowed out of the cart. Please stop screaming, sweetie." Not for her benefit, of course, but for all those people that I, the larger pinball, careened against in my attempts to catch her. And a giggling toddler has a level of charm that the chasing chubby 40 year old just can't match, so people are looking at ME as being the villan who intruded into their personal space ... and of course I AM. Needless to say my tone of voice to Angelina is saying "Do you really want to live to reach two?"
The day was not made better by a leaking Avent bottle. By the time I got home and up the stairs I realized that my chic black diaper back pack was leaking a trail of milk down my ass. Ev got a little grumpy. And then I imprudently went to Costco on a weekend. Doug and I had boycotted Costco there for several years after I'd been pinned at one end of the cart and Doug at the other by the eighth passing family of 10 or more in a crowded aisle. Doug left everything in the cart and got me out of there after I hollered to him "NOW I KNOW WHY RATS EAT EACH OTHER WHEN THERE ARE TOO MANY IN A CAGE!" So this time I was back, but I was definitely the aggressor rat. Ever have a day when you're just hoping someone messes with you? That last little gal who bumped my butt with the cart narrowly escaped with her life, at least in my imagination. At this point it's cathartic just to give someone a really dirty look. So is this finally a sign of maturity? That I'm not taking out my aggressor rat tendencies on perfect strangers? That I have some restraint and don't rip someone's liver out through their nostril just 'cause they bumped my butt?
God, I remember the days when I felt like a grown up. When I had a job and a life and boobs I could call my own. Talk about share ware. I was all nostalgic about weaning and missing nursing. I don't mind cuddling topless at her insistance, but does she HAVE to twiddle the nipples? Some days I really understand the women who think they'd go nuts if they were stay at home moms. I guess here's the secret. We SAHMs DO go nuts. It's just that working outside the home would have made us nutser.
I told Doug I'd been asked to write a column for the PMC newsletter. His reaction was a tepid "That's great honey, just leave me out of it." Now how can I do that? Particularly when he tells me that while I was at the PMC meeting he was getting ready to give Angelina a bath. We've never used the baby bath for her, Doug's always stripped down and gotten in with her. She could bathe by herself now (with supervision, of course) but it's their quality time. They splash and play together and it's just a delight to see. On the other hand, due to Angelina's penchant for eating cat food, we have all the cats' supplies in there. Every bath requires cleaning out the cat food and water, sweeping up the crumbs, etc. So Doug had Angelina prepared for the bath (i.e. running around naked) and was ready to get in himself (naked too) when he was bent over sweeping up kitty crumbs. Thems that dangle will jangle of course. Angelina must have seen the interesting view from the back, came up and poked the dangling pair with her little fingers. Doug popped up as if on a spring and turned around to see Angelina smiling and pointing, saying "Pee pee!" He got a little wiggy about it. It doesn't matter how innocent, NO man wants to see any female pointing and giggling. I was raised part of the time in Europe where nudity is normal, so I'd prefer to have her just think parts is parts rather than make a value judgement about them. He got under the suds as quickly as he could and they had a wonderful time.
I had a dentist appointment. I was worried about it because I tend to gag these days while brushing my teeth. Doug and I were supposed to switch roles. I was getting ready to leave the house while he was to be watching Angelina. Uh huh. I was in the shower, all shampooed up when I heard AJ come in to the bathroom. A little pink shadow passed by the frosted glass shower door and then I heard a gleeful "Pee Pee!" I looked out, dripping shampoo everywhere to discover that she was stirring the water in the open toilet with her pacifier. Horrified I snatched it out of her hand and soaped it up with some of the shampoo from my hair. I needn't doubt who taught her that snatching behavior that will probably show up at a playgroup near you. Where was Doug? Watching Fox News to see if we'd caught Osama yet.
We had another blissfully uneventful day. I was doing laundry and AJ was "helping." She found a pair of Doug's underwear and put them on. Both feet were through one leg and she had them bunched up around her waist. 30 seconds later they were off. I would put the wash on the dryer door and she'd "help" by pushing it into the dryer. Later I was on "the throne." (At what point in our mommyhood do we ever get privacy back?) Angelina was having so much fun hiding behind the towel on the towel bar and having me "find" her with tickles and giggles. I thought that these were the silly little moments I'd be missing if I were working. And I don't care if I still can't call my boobs my own. I don't care if I never have manicured acrylic nails again. I don't care if I look schleppy and have an oatmeal handprint on my sweatshirt all day. I don't care that I don't pull down a hefty paycheck anymore. I know other women don't have the choice or prefer to work. Bravo for the choices you make. I DO go nuts, but for me it's bliss to hear her say "Nackt, boobies HUG!"
Doug had oral surgery on Wednesday morning. He was pretty loopy from the drugs and hanging around with an ice pack on his face. Even so, he wanted to be a little productive and since I'm claiming preggo priviledge, he decided to clean the cat box. This is usually a two person job since it takes 100% of someone's energy to keep Angelina out of the cat box. Even TV isn't more fascinating than that. Doug finished and vacuumed and our house was blessedly free of that horrible odor again. I was fixing dinner. Doug decided to check e-mail. We've been trying to get Angelina to play independantly and as such, when she's occupied we usually just peek from around a corner and let her keep going. Since it's silence that makes us the most nervous, we weren't too worried as we could hear her pitter patter up and down the hallway. We failed to notice that our little Angel had found the large scoop we use for the cats' food and was industriously running back and forth between the cat box and the living room coffee table. I noticed when I poked my head out of the kitchen to tell Doug dinner was ready. There were about seven large piles of cat litter on the coffee table, which she must have figured was enough as she started pretending she had a little zen sand garden and was running her hands through the litter like a rake. To get seven piles, she had to pass the open doorways to the kitchen and the office 14 times. She appeared to be very proud of herself! I ran for the video camera while Doug ran for the vacuum. We thereby forgot one of the cardinal rules of parenting which is PREVENT FURTHER DAMAGE FIRST. Cleanup should be second. At least one pile wound up in the carpet. This was, of course, a lovely accent to the trail she'd left from one end of the house to the other schlepping the litter to the coffee table in the first place. We got Angelina corralled and everything cleaned up. I immediately called Doug's mom, just in case she still had some memories of days like this at his hands when she cursed him to have a child just like him. Doug swears it was the drugs that made him forget the doorstop.
Doug and I had a little spat. Nothing unusual. He gave up the ice bags last night. Concerned about the swelling, he came up to me and asked "Do I have any swelling?" Still peved I said "No, but I could fix that for you."
I caught myself calling an insulated coffee commuter mug a "sippy cup."
Doug and I took the Valentine's day sex tour at the zoo this year. Was sposta get us all interested and excited and we were supposed to go home and implement some of the tips we'd learned from the animal kingdom. Yeah right. I'm pregnant. What is it? Is it some sort of propoganda that human females are always receptive to sex? Who the hell leaked that particular item of disinformation. Dateline should do an expose to debunk the myth. Sometimes I feel like despite my intellectual interest in sex, all the hormones in my body are saying "BULLSHIT! he already scored and the bun is baking, NO SEX FOR YOU!"
To the serious side.
So I have a question here. Am I nuts or is it possible to give up "control" without giving up "authority?" Can I create a loving environment where the kids can relax because they get to have fun and I handle the grown-up stuff? I can't believe kids actually WANT to have complete control, despite their tantrums to the contrary. Are we speaking the same language as our children? I've noticed that for some kids asking politely means they utterly ignore what is being asked of them. Can one bark orders in a cheerful tone? Kids don't always understand adult language such as "You're hurting Mommy's feelings when you're not polite to grandma." Some kids couldn't give a rat's patootie about Mommy's feelings. What I'm getting through my various studies is that they're concrete thinkers and creatures of creatable habits. About 10,000 repetitions of "Say please" and "Say thank-you" can eventually be replaced by "what do we say?" and will eventually generate a moderately polite child.
Isn't it to our children's advantage to teach them how to function in society with social nicities amongst which are pleases and thank-yous? I know one child who never says a spontaneous please or thank-you and I am utterly uninspired to give this kid anything, ever. Can they be taught to be grateful without ever showing gratitude? I don't see how. I know that kid wants more goodies, but his behavior is not going to make it happen. There's a philosophy that these social lubricants are contrived and kids shouldn't be required to say things they don't really feel.
Is it our goal to have our children never feel bad, or is it on occasion an available parenting tool? Since when is "remorse" considered bad? It seems to me as though kids SHOULD feel badly when they've done a bad thing -- not that THEY ARE bad, but simple remorse. How else will they develop an aversion to the behavior we don't want repeated? How can they ever MEAN "I'm sorry" if they never actually FEEL sorry?
I used to be "Officer Friendly" and give lectures to kids. I had to study how the brain functions. Most of the pleasant feelings illegal drugs induce we can cause for ourselves if we choose to do so. If you're angry you can choose to take a bubble bath, or a long walk, or attack the stairmaster. If you're sad you can pet your cat, do something nice for someone else, or watch a comedy. You must consciously CHOOSE the behavior and engage in it before your brain will give you the happy neurotransmitter payoff.
So if we teach kids the behavior (Say "thank you" to Grandma) even though they may not FEEL like engaging in that behavior, they will get the payoff (Grandma smiles with pure love on her face, hugs them and brings more presents at her next visit.) Often times behavior comes before the payoff, and only then is the behavior is cemented. If we don't insist on the behavior they'll never get the payoff and never wind up internally motivated to engage in the desired behavior.
It may be "contrived" but at 21 months with minimal prompting, Angelina says Peas (please) Bitte (please in German) Genkoo (thank you) and Danke (thank you in German). I usually respond with "You're so very welcome, I love to do things for you."
Nothing is so polarizing as parenting philosophies. There are many roads to Rome as a friend of mine said, I just wonder if we're assuming that ALL roads lead to Rome, and they don't. If my thoughts offend anyone, sorry. Don't worry, I'm not raising your child, just mine. At least we all see eye to eye that we want the best for our kids. And I don't want mine clobbering yours.
I guess their therapists will determine how well we did.
p.s. I love hearing feedback. Let me know what you think, or tell me a mommy moment of your own. All rights reserved
Monday, February 28, 2005
2/28/05 requested introduction
Introduction??? I'm a mommy. I'm 40, pregnant again. Losing my train of thought at least 8x per day. My beautiful little daughter is Angelina, 21 months old. My soul came alive when she was born. I was a workaholic. She cured me of that. I was an obsessively career driven cop for 14 years. She cured me of that too. So I decided to retire prematurely. I hope to teach Angelina to be proud of the fact that I once wore combat boots, although these days I'm looking for slip on sneakers as I figure I wont be able to reach my feet to tie anything soon. I was a woman in a man's field. There are still only about 8% of my fellow feds who are women. I have, as you all know, an odd sense of humor. Most cops do. Odd senses of humor can easily offend. After years of writing affidavits and "just the facts, Ma'am" stuff, I've wanted to write just for fun. Angelina gives me LOTS of material. Or should I say my adaptation to mommyhood has not always been a smooth transition. Being a woman in a man's field means I dealt with a million different and conflicting expectations and judgements. It's hard to hit a moving target so I learned to stop trying and be true to myself. I hope that has prepared me to be a better Mom in what I can teach AJ and #2.
I write these Mommy moments and e-mail them primarily to AJ. If for whatever reason I didn't distribute them anymore I'd still be writing e-mails to my daughter. I just thought they were funny and would resonate with other mommies.
When I was pregnant the first time I bought a sweatshirt from Title 9 sports that says "Life Is Good" on the front. I lost that baby at 10 weeks. I was wearing the shirt yesterday at the home show and a gal asked me "Is life really good?" I stopped and said an unqualified "Yes!" I told her "I'm pregnant, due in September. I have a beautiful and sweet 21 month old. I have a husband who's wonderful, although he annoys the crap out of me sometimes, so I have a blissfully NORMAL marriage. I'm forty, I'm fat, I have wrinkles and fluctuating hormones ... I like myself (finally) and I'm absolutely loving life." That kinda says it all.
There's the introduction. Thanks for being interested. All materials herein are subject to copywrite laws, Copywrite held by Evelyn James
I write these Mommy moments and e-mail them primarily to AJ. If for whatever reason I didn't distribute them anymore I'd still be writing e-mails to my daughter. I just thought they were funny and would resonate with other mommies.
When I was pregnant the first time I bought a sweatshirt from Title 9 sports that says "Life Is Good" on the front. I lost that baby at 10 weeks. I was wearing the shirt yesterday at the home show and a gal asked me "Is life really good?" I stopped and said an unqualified "Yes!" I told her "I'm pregnant, due in September. I have a beautiful and sweet 21 month old. I have a husband who's wonderful, although he annoys the crap out of me sometimes, so I have a blissfully NORMAL marriage. I'm forty, I'm fat, I have wrinkles and fluctuating hormones ... I like myself (finally) and I'm absolutely loving life." That kinda says it all.
There's the introduction. Thanks for being interested. All materials herein are subject to copywrite laws, Copywrite held by Evelyn James
Friday, February 18, 2005
2/18/2005
I was taking a nap over the weekend. Dad was on duty. I was awakened from my comfortable snooze on the couch by little fingers stuffing blue playdoh up my nose. I discovered that the reason she'd resorted to my nose was because she'd already exhausted the capacity of her own nose. Almost a week later I've finally gotten the last blue flakes out of Angelina's little nostrils. I'm not entirely sure my own are clear yet.
What is it about kids and exploring their orifices (orifi?) My mom reminded me of a phone call where I kept interrupting our conversation to tell Angelina to stop shoving blueberries in her ear. Mom said that it was okay as long as it wasn't a coffee bean up the nose -- my sister's trick.
A wise friend of mine assures me "it's a phase, it's ALL a phase." And this is one of the interesting ways in which our children are sent to us for the purpose of teaching humility. One day I was feeling annoyed with another child who kept snatching toys away from Angelina. Actually followed her around for no other reason than to monitor what toys she was touching and snatch them out of her hand. Angelina's always been a fairly even-keeled kid, and she just went off to the next toy. We decided to leave as it was obviously disruptive and unproductive to be there, and at the door our little friend hugged and kissed Angelina with genuine sincerity. I found myself thinking "Oh, you aren't a little monster child after all." Just a tiny bit of smugness on the part of a Mommy, and parental Karma will bite your ass! Not two weeks later Angelina was behaving in exactly the same way.
Another friend's baby, who is obviously brilliant, was getting easily frustrated and started hitting and pulling hair. We mommies were vigilant about refereeing playtimes, and no one got hurt. I'm absolutely positive that someday Angelina will be the hitter, hair-puller or biter. How do we keep the balance? I'm convinced that if I ever get smug or judgmental, even in the most backwater regions of my brain that parental Karma will have Angelina coming home at age 16 with 23 piercings and a positive pregnancy test. I guess by this confession I can be officially diagnosed as neurotic.
But on the subject of backwater regions of my brain... It seems as though the backwater has turned into a murky swamp about the size of the Everglades. Just yesterday I had prepared my lunch (leftover Outback steak and canned corn) and poured myself a glass of orange soda. I walked out to the sunroom/dining room with every intention of eating it when it seemed as though some unseen specter smashed the plate against my chest and spilled my soda all over -- No, we don't have a ghost, but it took me about 5 beats before I realized the damn glass door was closed and I'd just walked into it at full speed. Angelina was napping, so Doug had the good grace to stifle his laughter. I thought the effort would cause him to rupture his spleen! He picked up the phone and dialed Janine, our former au-pair to tell her what I'd done. I'd gotten a good chuckle at her expense when she'd done it a couple times over the year she was with us. And I was the one who closed the door! Again, careful who you laugh at 'cause the next prat-fall will be yours!
February 10th is a day that will live in ... Geez how do you decide? It was the first day Angelina didn't nurse. At nearly 21 months, I know I've done a good job by her. She's a healthy little thing, emphasis on LITTLE, however. I wouldn't have weaned her except that I'm pregnant again (YEAH!). So I'm glad she's weaned for the safety of this next pregnancy, and I'm so thrilled to be pregnant again, but I miss nursing. My brother always says that FIRSTS come in with trumpets and fanfare and lasts tiptoe through your life on quiet little kitten feet. First steps, first tooth, first word. When's the last time she had those baby hiccups? When's the last time she sucked on my pinkie as a pacifier? When's the last time she clutched on to my fingers while practice-walking? When's the last time she said "MAMA" and started saying a very mature "Mommy!" I know when the last time was that she nursed. She still hugs my breasts. Insists that mommy be "Nackt" while we're watching TV in the evening so she can cuddle up with my boobs. Yells "BOOBIE" at the top of her lungs while I'm on the phone until I expose them for a cuddle. You'd think I'd've taught her a better word for them, eh? It's comforting to know that closeness and cuddles continue unrelated to nursing. What an absolute joy it has been to successfully nurse my baby; to give her the best nutrition I could; to hold her close in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was asleep and I could swear I felt Angels surrounding us and watching with smiles of love and peace.
On the other hand, I think I'm suffering from oxytocin withdrawals (or is it the prolactin?). I swear I'm more impatient and irritable than I've ever been with her. Or am I just now turning back into a normal person. Exactly why did I put up with it taking about 1/2 an hour to get from up stairs to the car seat? Yeah well, that Madonna-esque crap is out the window now. I've decided walking can be considered a privilege and if I'm running late then I hoist her like a little sack o' taters and cram her in the car with a cheery "You want to see your buddies, don't you?" All this despite my desire to have her trained to be a little more independent. I really don't want to be carrying her a lot in trimester #3 (and since last time I went 42 weeks, I don't want to be carrying her a lot in trimester #4 either).
I drove home from a playgroup and Angelina fell asleep in the back. I turned off the radio to hear her snore. She comes by it honestly, I snore like a freight train. What a joyous little sound. We've never co-slept, so those rare occasions when she does fall asleep with me it's a very special occasion. Not long ago she fell asleep and HAD to be ON me. She flopped around like a landed mackerel, eventually landing on my neck. I was enjoying it so much I didn't want to move her. Of course I could barely move my neck for the next couple days, but it was worth it.
Another thing she comes by honestly is a fondness for coffee. Try going into a Starbucks and asking for a kid's steamed milk with 1/2 a shot of decaf espresso. If they don't look at you funny, you'll know I've already been there and broke them in for you. I used to give her a teaspoon full at a time in her little Ikea porcelain tea set during breakfast. This could go on for quite a while. One morning recently I didn't have the time for the ritual so I nuked her sippy of milk, added some brown sugar and a tiny scoop of decaf instant. Later that day she shocked me with her first four word sentence... she handed me the empty sippy and said "Mommy, milch, kaffee, holen!" This translates to "Mommy, milk, coffee, get-me-some." I comfort myself by recalling the time she got wired off her little @$$ from a child's cocoa. Decaf is MUCH better.
I'm now 56 days pregnant. Day 51 is when I lost the first baby, so day 52 was a big WOOO HOOO for me. All is well save for the death of more brain cells.
Evelyn All materials herein are subject to copywrite laws, Copywrite held by Evelyn James
What is it about kids and exploring their orifices (orifi?) My mom reminded me of a phone call where I kept interrupting our conversation to tell Angelina to stop shoving blueberries in her ear. Mom said that it was okay as long as it wasn't a coffee bean up the nose -- my sister's trick.
A wise friend of mine assures me "it's a phase, it's ALL a phase." And this is one of the interesting ways in which our children are sent to us for the purpose of teaching humility. One day I was feeling annoyed with another child who kept snatching toys away from Angelina. Actually followed her around for no other reason than to monitor what toys she was touching and snatch them out of her hand. Angelina's always been a fairly even-keeled kid, and she just went off to the next toy. We decided to leave as it was obviously disruptive and unproductive to be there, and at the door our little friend hugged and kissed Angelina with genuine sincerity. I found myself thinking "Oh, you aren't a little monster child after all." Just a tiny bit of smugness on the part of a Mommy, and parental Karma will bite your ass! Not two weeks later Angelina was behaving in exactly the same way.
Another friend's baby, who is obviously brilliant, was getting easily frustrated and started hitting and pulling hair. We mommies were vigilant about refereeing playtimes, and no one got hurt. I'm absolutely positive that someday Angelina will be the hitter, hair-puller or biter. How do we keep the balance? I'm convinced that if I ever get smug or judgmental, even in the most backwater regions of my brain that parental Karma will have Angelina coming home at age 16 with 23 piercings and a positive pregnancy test. I guess by this confession I can be officially diagnosed as neurotic.
But on the subject of backwater regions of my brain... It seems as though the backwater has turned into a murky swamp about the size of the Everglades. Just yesterday I had prepared my lunch (leftover Outback steak and canned corn) and poured myself a glass of orange soda. I walked out to the sunroom/dining room with every intention of eating it when it seemed as though some unseen specter smashed the plate against my chest and spilled my soda all over -- No, we don't have a ghost, but it took me about 5 beats before I realized the damn glass door was closed and I'd just walked into it at full speed. Angelina was napping, so Doug had the good grace to stifle his laughter. I thought the effort would cause him to rupture his spleen! He picked up the phone and dialed Janine, our former au-pair to tell her what I'd done. I'd gotten a good chuckle at her expense when she'd done it a couple times over the year she was with us. And I was the one who closed the door! Again, careful who you laugh at 'cause the next prat-fall will be yours!
February 10th is a day that will live in ... Geez how do you decide? It was the first day Angelina didn't nurse. At nearly 21 months, I know I've done a good job by her. She's a healthy little thing, emphasis on LITTLE, however. I wouldn't have weaned her except that I'm pregnant again (YEAH!). So I'm glad she's weaned for the safety of this next pregnancy, and I'm so thrilled to be pregnant again, but I miss nursing. My brother always says that FIRSTS come in with trumpets and fanfare and lasts tiptoe through your life on quiet little kitten feet. First steps, first tooth, first word. When's the last time she had those baby hiccups? When's the last time she sucked on my pinkie as a pacifier? When's the last time she clutched on to my fingers while practice-walking? When's the last time she said "MAMA" and started saying a very mature "Mommy!" I know when the last time was that she nursed. She still hugs my breasts. Insists that mommy be "Nackt" while we're watching TV in the evening so she can cuddle up with my boobs. Yells "BOOBIE" at the top of her lungs while I'm on the phone until I expose them for a cuddle. You'd think I'd've taught her a better word for them, eh? It's comforting to know that closeness and cuddles continue unrelated to nursing. What an absolute joy it has been to successfully nurse my baby; to give her the best nutrition I could; to hold her close in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was asleep and I could swear I felt Angels surrounding us and watching with smiles of love and peace.
On the other hand, I think I'm suffering from oxytocin withdrawals (or is it the prolactin?). I swear I'm more impatient and irritable than I've ever been with her. Or am I just now turning back into a normal person. Exactly why did I put up with it taking about 1/2 an hour to get from up stairs to the car seat? Yeah well, that Madonna-esque crap is out the window now. I've decided walking can be considered a privilege and if I'm running late then I hoist her like a little sack o' taters and cram her in the car with a cheery "You want to see your buddies, don't you?" All this despite my desire to have her trained to be a little more independent. I really don't want to be carrying her a lot in trimester #3 (and since last time I went 42 weeks, I don't want to be carrying her a lot in trimester #4 either).
I drove home from a playgroup and Angelina fell asleep in the back. I turned off the radio to hear her snore. She comes by it honestly, I snore like a freight train. What a joyous little sound. We've never co-slept, so those rare occasions when she does fall asleep with me it's a very special occasion. Not long ago she fell asleep and HAD to be ON me. She flopped around like a landed mackerel, eventually landing on my neck. I was enjoying it so much I didn't want to move her. Of course I could barely move my neck for the next couple days, but it was worth it.
Another thing she comes by honestly is a fondness for coffee. Try going into a Starbucks and asking for a kid's steamed milk with 1/2 a shot of decaf espresso. If they don't look at you funny, you'll know I've already been there and broke them in for you. I used to give her a teaspoon full at a time in her little Ikea porcelain tea set during breakfast. This could go on for quite a while. One morning recently I didn't have the time for the ritual so I nuked her sippy of milk, added some brown sugar and a tiny scoop of decaf instant. Later that day she shocked me with her first four word sentence... she handed me the empty sippy and said "Mommy, milch, kaffee, holen!" This translates to "Mommy, milk, coffee, get-me-some." I comfort myself by recalling the time she got wired off her little @$$ from a child's cocoa. Decaf is MUCH better.
I'm now 56 days pregnant. Day 51 is when I lost the first baby, so day 52 was a big WOOO HOOO for me. All is well save for the death of more brain cells.
Evelyn All materials herein are subject to copywrite laws, Copywrite held by Evelyn James
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
1/18/2005
Angelina has reached some major developmental milestone. I'm not sure exactly which category it comes under; cognitive, social, gross motor, fine motor control... I don't know. But she's realized that she can use her sleeves (or bare forearms) to wipe her nose. This monumentous discovery means that now I need to wipe not just her nose, but also the cute little slug trails she's wiped on her arms. Oh the joys of winter, eh?
Doug and I have been sleeping apart because I've been coughing. Angelina's been sick too, so she's been up several more times per night than usual so I've been tired. The other day I got her at 7:00. We cuddled in bed. The boobs are a self-service item now as she does her morning nursing without much involvement from me, and I can catch another five minutes of sleep. I just wanted a few more minutes of sleep, so I let Angelina wander around our baby-proofed house unsupervised. This lasted until she came back and wanted to show me her newest treasure. She gave me a handful of something soft and damp. Even sleepy I knew this couldn't be good and when my eyes could focus I discovered I had been presented with a hand full of cat puke. I should have realized that what Angelina had been saying was "Itty Pooh, Itty Pooh." If that doesn't start your day with a sense of anticipation for what's coming next, I don't know what would!
She's underweight. At 19 months, she's only 21 lbs and hasn't been gaining in ages. Because of this I have food at the ready for her constantly. On a recent trip to the zoo, I had goldfish, chicken nuggets, olives, sliced apples, dried blueberries, flat fruit, Ritz bits, juice, and dinosaur shaped gummy fruits. And what do I find her eating when we're in the middle of the petting zoo? Hay balls. The little hay balls we're supposed to be feeding the goats. A veritable smorgasbord I bring for her, and she's eating hay balls. I guess I don't need to worry about fiber.
I've come to the conclusion that chastity belts weren't actually invented by suspicious husbands who were off on some crusade du jour. No, they were actually invented by some frustrated mom who couldn't keep a diaper on her kid. Angelina has a great future as a nudist. She's actually developing interesting manipulative skills in that she knows if she stands by her potty and says "Pee pee!" that I'll take off her clothes and her diaper and set her on the potty. It's at this point that she makes a break for it and runs around the house buck-assed naked, flapping her little arms and yodeling. I don't know why the yodeling has to go along with most of the running, but even when she's dressed, running = yodeling.
Her favorite thing to do while naked is go play "night night" in our bed. She squirms under the covers giggling, and pats the pillow next to her indicating that Mommy should come play "night night" too. I guess she loves the feeling of the flannel on her naked little body. This lasts until Mommy gets a bit nervous about Angelina's bladder capacity. If it were up to her, she'd be naked 24/7. She's learning a new word an hour, it seems and her latest one is "Nackt" or "naked" in German. She'll tug at her clothes whining "Nackt! Nackt!" And while we're under the covers giggling, she usually starts pulling at my clothes saying "Nackt! Nackt!" There's just something beautiful about skin on skin contact with a giggling toddler. Absolutely unselfconscious other than the sheer joy of nudity. This is what the Garden of Eden must have been like.
Doug and I are trying to conceive (TTC) our second child. We've been trying for about 8 months now. I've been charting, peeing on little white plastic sticks, taking herbs and doing acupuncture. I'm basically doing everything short of praying for immaculate conception. I'm THIS close to sacrificing a chicken to the fertility gods. I hear Oxyclean gets out blood stains.
This procreation focus tends to take a lot of the "recreation" focus away from intimate encounters. I'm sure any of you who spent a bit of time TTC can relate. Of course trying to time intimate/procreative encounters during the holidays while the in-laws were visiting as well as working around Angelina's naps... uh huh, THAT's gonna happen. (Heading into Too Much Information land, fair warning) So over the weekend my darling husband was intent on having a recreation-focused encounter to make up for a distinct lack of intimacy over the holidays and during the visit of his parents. We've always been fairly open-minded, and Doug being the gentleman that he is always wants to ensure my satisfaction, however that may be achieved. In an effort to jump start things as well as give me a hint as to his intentions, he made some selections from our "adult toys and novelties" drawer and laid them on the bed. You know what I'm talking about. We all had one to cope with dry spells in our love life during college. For you it might have been the shower massage -- Whatever, go for it. It was shortly after this, and before anything got started :-( that Angelina woke up from the shortest nap ever.
As soon as she's awake we get into her routine. I prepare lunch while she plays with our large salad bowl full of potatoes on the kitchen floor. We could spend millions on educational toys and she'd probably still prefer her potatoes which, incidentally are always well-tenderized by the time I use them. She gets her chicken nuggets (pronounced "bawk bawk" in toddlerese) and pasta most days. After lunch she decided she simply had to be nude -- no problem, I keep the potty handy. She ran to the bedroom while I cleaned up the lunch dishes. By the time I got to the bedroom, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Holy crap. Angelina (buck assed naked, remember) was wielding a battery-operated simulation of male genitalia designed to inspire an inadequacy complex in your average male*. And WITH this realistically colored item, she was energetically bludgeoning the cat. I decided to put aside my concerns about the inappropriateness of her handling this object and focused on the fact that she should be nice to the cat. So I'm telling her to be nice to the kitty, she's going to give the kitty an owie and so on. Angelina is obviously incredulous at this, and proceeds to bonk herself on the head with the realistically textured phallic object as if to say "Mommy, this CAN'T cause an owie, see?" At this point I came to the conclusion that this was WAY too freakishly surreal, snatched her new toy out of her hand and locked it back in the adult toys and novelties drawer and figured the damn cat could fend for herself.
So how were YOUR holidays?
Evelyn
*can they even be obtained in a "regular" size? All materials herein are subject to copywrite laws, Copywrite held by Evelyn James
Doug and I have been sleeping apart because I've been coughing. Angelina's been sick too, so she's been up several more times per night than usual so I've been tired. The other day I got her at 7:00. We cuddled in bed. The boobs are a self-service item now as she does her morning nursing without much involvement from me, and I can catch another five minutes of sleep. I just wanted a few more minutes of sleep, so I let Angelina wander around our baby-proofed house unsupervised. This lasted until she came back and wanted to show me her newest treasure. She gave me a handful of something soft and damp. Even sleepy I knew this couldn't be good and when my eyes could focus I discovered I had been presented with a hand full of cat puke. I should have realized that what Angelina had been saying was "Itty Pooh, Itty Pooh." If that doesn't start your day with a sense of anticipation for what's coming next, I don't know what would!
She's underweight. At 19 months, she's only 21 lbs and hasn't been gaining in ages. Because of this I have food at the ready for her constantly. On a recent trip to the zoo, I had goldfish, chicken nuggets, olives, sliced apples, dried blueberries, flat fruit, Ritz bits, juice, and dinosaur shaped gummy fruits. And what do I find her eating when we're in the middle of the petting zoo? Hay balls. The little hay balls we're supposed to be feeding the goats. A veritable smorgasbord I bring for her, and she's eating hay balls. I guess I don't need to worry about fiber.
I've come to the conclusion that chastity belts weren't actually invented by suspicious husbands who were off on some crusade du jour. No, they were actually invented by some frustrated mom who couldn't keep a diaper on her kid. Angelina has a great future as a nudist. She's actually developing interesting manipulative skills in that she knows if she stands by her potty and says "Pee pee!" that I'll take off her clothes and her diaper and set her on the potty. It's at this point that she makes a break for it and runs around the house buck-assed naked, flapping her little arms and yodeling. I don't know why the yodeling has to go along with most of the running, but even when she's dressed, running = yodeling.
Her favorite thing to do while naked is go play "night night" in our bed. She squirms under the covers giggling, and pats the pillow next to her indicating that Mommy should come play "night night" too. I guess she loves the feeling of the flannel on her naked little body. This lasts until Mommy gets a bit nervous about Angelina's bladder capacity. If it were up to her, she'd be naked 24/7. She's learning a new word an hour, it seems and her latest one is "Nackt" or "naked" in German. She'll tug at her clothes whining "Nackt! Nackt!" And while we're under the covers giggling, she usually starts pulling at my clothes saying "Nackt! Nackt!" There's just something beautiful about skin on skin contact with a giggling toddler. Absolutely unselfconscious other than the sheer joy of nudity. This is what the Garden of Eden must have been like.
Doug and I are trying to conceive (TTC) our second child. We've been trying for about 8 months now. I've been charting, peeing on little white plastic sticks, taking herbs and doing acupuncture. I'm basically doing everything short of praying for immaculate conception. I'm THIS close to sacrificing a chicken to the fertility gods. I hear Oxyclean gets out blood stains.
This procreation focus tends to take a lot of the "recreation" focus away from intimate encounters. I'm sure any of you who spent a bit of time TTC can relate. Of course trying to time intimate/procreative encounters during the holidays while the in-laws were visiting as well as working around Angelina's naps... uh huh, THAT's gonna happen. (Heading into Too Much Information land, fair warning) So over the weekend my darling husband was intent on having a recreation-focused encounter to make up for a distinct lack of intimacy over the holidays and during the visit of his parents. We've always been fairly open-minded, and Doug being the gentleman that he is always wants to ensure my satisfaction, however that may be achieved. In an effort to jump start things as well as give me a hint as to his intentions, he made some selections from our "adult toys and novelties" drawer and laid them on the bed. You know what I'm talking about. We all had one to cope with dry spells in our love life during college. For you it might have been the shower massage -- Whatever, go for it. It was shortly after this, and before anything got started :-( that Angelina woke up from the shortest nap ever.
As soon as she's awake we get into her routine. I prepare lunch while she plays with our large salad bowl full of potatoes on the kitchen floor. We could spend millions on educational toys and she'd probably still prefer her potatoes which, incidentally are always well-tenderized by the time I use them. She gets her chicken nuggets (pronounced "bawk bawk" in toddlerese) and pasta most days. After lunch she decided she simply had to be nude -- no problem, I keep the potty handy. She ran to the bedroom while I cleaned up the lunch dishes. By the time I got to the bedroom, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Holy crap. Angelina (buck assed naked, remember) was wielding a battery-operated simulation of male genitalia designed to inspire an inadequacy complex in your average male*. And WITH this realistically colored item, she was energetically bludgeoning the cat. I decided to put aside my concerns about the inappropriateness of her handling this object and focused on the fact that she should be nice to the cat. So I'm telling her to be nice to the kitty, she's going to give the kitty an owie and so on. Angelina is obviously incredulous at this, and proceeds to bonk herself on the head with the realistically textured phallic object as if to say "Mommy, this CAN'T cause an owie, see?" At this point I came to the conclusion that this was WAY too freakishly surreal, snatched her new toy out of her hand and locked it back in the adult toys and novelties drawer and figured the damn cat could fend for herself.
So how were YOUR holidays?
Evelyn
*can they even be obtained in a "regular" size? All materials herein are subject to copywrite laws, Copywrite held by Evelyn James
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