Years back, in the salad days of my early twenties, I lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment in a converted old mid-rise hotel in the Mount Vernon area of downtown Baltimore. It's the kind of apartment that would have rented for two grand in NYC, but in Baltimore was pretty low rent. It was a neat building, but was a bit run down. It had the distinction of sharing the block with the Baltimore Cathedral. It has since been torn down and turned into a park, which gives you some idea of the kind of shape it was in.
Anyhoo, my parents came for a visit and stayed in my tiny apartment with me. They slept on the itsy bitsy pull out sofa I had in my itsy bitsy living room. These are the people who think they're slumming it if they're in anything less than a junior suite in a hotel. I left them alone there while I went to work during their visit. I figured they would walk around the neighborhood, grab something to eat and we'd catch up in the afternoon. What I hadn't planned on was my mom. She is a woman with no patience for sitting around. Even a few idle minutes are an opportunity to DO SOMETHING.
When I walked through the door after work that day, I was like, "WHAAAT?!" It seems my stepdad took just a teensy bit too long in the shower and my mom heard opportunity knocking. She had rearranged ALL of the furniture in my apartment. Remember it was a small apartment, but STILL.
Every woman thinks they won't grow up to be their mother. Even the best of mothers have their quirks, their funny sayings or their annoying (what? no!) habits. We all think, "I'm my own person, that won't be me!" And inevitably, we all become our mothers in more ways than we ever expected. I hear my mom in the way I say words and the phrases I say to my daughter and as it turns out the likeness extends to my inability to allow something to stay the same for long.
So I apologize that y'all keep walking into my blog and I've moved all the furniture. I just can't seem to settle on how I want it to look and I keep changing things up. I know that in the interest of branding, you're supposed to have a consistent look, but I just. can't. do. it. I need VARIETY.
In the end, I am my mother's daughter.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Sunshine Makes Me Happy
We took to the park today to enjoy some of the sunny weather that came along on the heels of several days of cloudy, raininess. Symbolic for my life this week, no? A little sunshine goes a long way towards improving my attitude. Although, as the beautiful and talented Kristi tells me, those who live in sunny locals long for cloudy days, so it just goes to show you that no one is ever happy.
We enjoyed ourselves at the park, as usual. Sophie was her usual flirty little self. She quickly made friends with a 2 1/2 year old girl and the two of them spent an hour running around together while her mother and I had a nice talk. I keep reading about snobby or snooty moms at playgrounds, and maybe I have just been lucky, but every one that I have met has been super nice.
After our new friends left, Sophie and I were hanging out next to the big kid swings when a little girl came up to me. She was about four years old, with a blond pony tail, and just as precocious as could be.
Little Blond Cutie (LBC): Did you see a little girl over here?
Me: What does she look like?
LBC: She has skin like mine and she was on that swing over there.
Me: When was she there?
LBC: Just a few minutes ago. She's pretend.
Me: Oh, well...wait, she's pretend?
LBC: Yes.
Me: (blink, blink)
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't see her.
LBC: (looks around perturbed and runs off)
Maybe I should have said I had seen her.
PS - Thanks for all of your kind comments yesterday. I had publishing remorse as soon as I hit the button. Sharing makes me feel kind of oogy. A little good, but also a little weird. I don't really like to open up that depressing can of worms, but some days it's all that will come out. It's comforting to know that I'm not alone.
Have a great weekend!
We enjoyed ourselves at the park, as usual. Sophie was her usual flirty little self. She quickly made friends with a 2 1/2 year old girl and the two of them spent an hour running around together while her mother and I had a nice talk. I keep reading about snobby or snooty moms at playgrounds, and maybe I have just been lucky, but every one that I have met has been super nice.
After our new friends left, Sophie and I were hanging out next to the big kid swings when a little girl came up to me. She was about four years old, with a blond pony tail, and just as precocious as could be.
Little Blond Cutie (LBC): Did you see a little girl over here?
Me: What does she look like?
LBC: She has skin like mine and she was on that swing over there.
Me: When was she there?
LBC: Just a few minutes ago. She's pretend.
Me: Oh, well...wait, she's pretend?
LBC: Yes.
Me: (blink, blink)
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't see her.
LBC: (looks around perturbed and runs off)
Maybe I should have said I had seen her.
PS - Thanks for all of your kind comments yesterday. I had publishing remorse as soon as I hit the button. Sharing makes me feel kind of oogy. A little good, but also a little weird. I don't really like to open up that depressing can of worms, but some days it's all that will come out. It's comforting to know that I'm not alone.
Have a great weekend!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Just Another Day In Paradise
Sleep eludes me this night. She is a fickle tease that whispers in my ear and caresses my brow but will not draw me in to her embrace.
A sinus headache has ravaged my skull since Monday. No amount of painkillers or sinus medication seems capable of getting rid of it. It is a vine that runs through my head. I can cut off the tendrils, but the roots are buried deep. If I could only find the source, I could rip it out. But it hides.
Finally. Finally, the tired wins.
I am awakened after only two hours of sleep by the wails of my daughter. As usual, she wakes with a shout rather than a whimper. She does not go gently. I go into her room and change her diaper and nurse her. Usually, this will put her back to sleep. But this night, it does not work.
When I lean down to lay her back in her crib, she begins to cry. I know my girl, and I know that she will cry all night if I leave her alone. She draws on reserves deeper than mine. So I pick her back up and bounce around on my feet for awhile, cooing and shushing her. We repeat this, I put her down, she starts crying, I pick her up and walk with her, for an hour and a half. If I sit down, she squirms and tries to get down onto the ground, presumably to play, so I don't sit down. I stand. It is 3am. My head is pounding. I have only had two hours of sleep. I can't even sit down.
Finally, she goes back to sleep. It is 4am. I drag myself into bed. Despite exhaustion so overwhelming it is a struggle to put one foot in front of the other, I can not fall right back to sleep. The pounding won't stop. The last time I look at the clock it is 4:42. The next time I see it is 5:58, when the screaming starts afresh. I whimper and pull the covers over my head, but that doesn't drown out the crying so I get up.
Hours later, she finally goes down for a nap. I waste precious minutes doing chores and eating lunch before I go upstairs to lay down for a nap. By the time I doze off, she has been asleep for 45 minutes. When she wakes up 25 minutes later, I cry. I have only had 4 hours of sleep, total. I go straight into the bathroom and start the shower. While it tears at my soul to hear her cry, I just can't take it. I stand with my head under the water until it goes cold. It drowns out the sound of my child's unhappiness.
By the time Neil gets home, I am on the edge. I make dinner while he watches our child. I need those minutes of solitude. My head hurts. My heart hurts.
I finally get Sophie into bed. Mercifully, she does not fight me. But the night is not over. Neil and I argue. I don't know why. I take my frustrations out on him. Who else do I have to blame? I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. Neil holds me while I shake. I am adrift.
At 7:45 I take two Excedrin PM and go to bed. I am asleep in minutes and do not wake until Sophie does at 5am. Despite 9 hours of sleep, I am still hopelessly tired. Luckily, the usual tricks work and she goes back to sleep until 7. While I am not whole, I am better. Sleep is my fix.
A new day begins. This one must be better. It must. It must. It must.
A sinus headache has ravaged my skull since Monday. No amount of painkillers or sinus medication seems capable of getting rid of it. It is a vine that runs through my head. I can cut off the tendrils, but the roots are buried deep. If I could only find the source, I could rip it out. But it hides.
Finally. Finally, the tired wins.
I am awakened after only two hours of sleep by the wails of my daughter. As usual, she wakes with a shout rather than a whimper. She does not go gently. I go into her room and change her diaper and nurse her. Usually, this will put her back to sleep. But this night, it does not work.
When I lean down to lay her back in her crib, she begins to cry. I know my girl, and I know that she will cry all night if I leave her alone. She draws on reserves deeper than mine. So I pick her back up and bounce around on my feet for awhile, cooing and shushing her. We repeat this, I put her down, she starts crying, I pick her up and walk with her, for an hour and a half. If I sit down, she squirms and tries to get down onto the ground, presumably to play, so I don't sit down. I stand. It is 3am. My head is pounding. I have only had two hours of sleep. I can't even sit down.
Finally, she goes back to sleep. It is 4am. I drag myself into bed. Despite exhaustion so overwhelming it is a struggle to put one foot in front of the other, I can not fall right back to sleep. The pounding won't stop. The last time I look at the clock it is 4:42. The next time I see it is 5:58, when the screaming starts afresh. I whimper and pull the covers over my head, but that doesn't drown out the crying so I get up.
Hours later, she finally goes down for a nap. I waste precious minutes doing chores and eating lunch before I go upstairs to lay down for a nap. By the time I doze off, she has been asleep for 45 minutes. When she wakes up 25 minutes later, I cry. I have only had 4 hours of sleep, total. I go straight into the bathroom and start the shower. While it tears at my soul to hear her cry, I just can't take it. I stand with my head under the water until it goes cold. It drowns out the sound of my child's unhappiness.
By the time Neil gets home, I am on the edge. I make dinner while he watches our child. I need those minutes of solitude. My head hurts. My heart hurts.
I finally get Sophie into bed. Mercifully, she does not fight me. But the night is not over. Neil and I argue. I don't know why. I take my frustrations out on him. Who else do I have to blame? I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. Neil holds me while I shake. I am adrift.
At 7:45 I take two Excedrin PM and go to bed. I am asleep in minutes and do not wake until Sophie does at 5am. Despite 9 hours of sleep, I am still hopelessly tired. Luckily, the usual tricks work and she goes back to sleep until 7. While I am not whole, I am better. Sleep is my fix.
A new day begins. This one must be better. It must. It must. It must.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Parenting Fail
We spent a good chunk of yesterday working on the back yard. We finally got the trench filled in from when we had the sewer line replaced two years ago and we're working on turning the area where the above ground pool used to be back into lawn. We got a lot done despite Sophie's best efforts to distract us. We chuckled when she climbed into the bucket we were using to collect rocks. And because I will allow no moment of her life to pass by without documentation, I ran in for the camera and snapped a few shots.
Later that evening, once the bean was in bed, Neil and I watched Dirty Jobs while we nursed sore backs and arms. Mike Rowe was using a bucket to clean up dog poop that was fairly similar to ours. It is Dirty Jobs after all. He commented on the warning on the side about children. Neil and I just looked at each other and laughed. We hadn't even noticed.
Parenting Fail:
Later that evening, once the bean was in bed, Neil and I watched Dirty Jobs while we nursed sore backs and arms. Mike Rowe was using a bucket to clean up dog poop that was fairly similar to ours. It is Dirty Jobs after all. He commented on the warning on the side about children. Neil and I just looked at each other and laughed. We hadn't even noticed.
Parenting Fail:
Monday, April 13, 2009
Anyone with a penis should stop reading now...
When I was a teenager, I had terrible periods. Flo's visits were long (7-9 days) and fraught with horrible cramps, nausea, migraines, exhaustion and, ahem, heavy flo. You know the old joke, how can you trust something that bleeds for a week and doesn't die? Yeah, that's me. There is just no way I wasn't anemic after that.
I went on the pill at 16, largely to help control these horrible monthly experiences. And it worked. All I can say is thank goodness for Gregory Pincus. With just one wee little pill a day, Flo's visits were shortened (3 days) and, frankly, a real breeze. No more pain. No more pads and tampons. (Yeah, it was that bad.) And it did good things for my skin.
I was on the pill for the better part of 17 years. Obviously, I stopped taking it when we decided to have a baby, but then I didn't have periods during that time, so it was no biggie. After Sophie was born, I began taking a mini pill. I didn't have my first period until Sophie was 8 months old (breastfeeding ROCKS!) and even after that it was another 3-4 months before things really got back to normal. Unfortunately, the mini pill didn't work for me, so I stopped taking it when Sophie was about a year old.
Now, we're 18 months post-partum and my body has finally gotten back into the swing of things. Unfortunately, despite the fact that no other part of my body in any way reflects my teenage self (sigh), old Flo has reverted to her teenage ways. I can't go back on the full pill until I am completely done with breastfeeding, which will be in the next few months, until then I have to live with the pain, mood swings (poor Neil) and cravings (I came home from the grocery store yesterday with a dozen donuts, cake mix, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and a Hershey Bar - so much for the diet). Not loving it.
It's almost enough to make me want to get pregnant again. Almost.
I went on the pill at 16, largely to help control these horrible monthly experiences. And it worked. All I can say is thank goodness for Gregory Pincus. With just one wee little pill a day, Flo's visits were shortened (3 days) and, frankly, a real breeze. No more pain. No more pads and tampons. (Yeah, it was that bad.) And it did good things for my skin.
I was on the pill for the better part of 17 years. Obviously, I stopped taking it when we decided to have a baby, but then I didn't have periods during that time, so it was no biggie. After Sophie was born, I began taking a mini pill. I didn't have my first period until Sophie was 8 months old (breastfeeding ROCKS!) and even after that it was another 3-4 months before things really got back to normal. Unfortunately, the mini pill didn't work for me, so I stopped taking it when Sophie was about a year old.
Now, we're 18 months post-partum and my body has finally gotten back into the swing of things. Unfortunately, despite the fact that no other part of my body in any way reflects my teenage self (sigh), old Flo has reverted to her teenage ways. I can't go back on the full pill until I am completely done with breastfeeding, which will be in the next few months, until then I have to live with the pain, mood swings (poor Neil) and cravings (I came home from the grocery store yesterday with a dozen donuts, cake mix, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and a Hershey Bar - so much for the diet). Not loving it.
It's almost enough to make me want to get pregnant again. Almost.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Bribery
Add to the long, long list of things I thought/said I would never do as a parent: Doing ANYTHING to get my kid to eat.
That would be Sophie. Eating an Eggo. In her Ikea tent. In front of the TV.
Does it make it better that the waffle is whole wheat?
That would be Sophie. Eating an Eggo. In her Ikea tent. In front of the TV.
Does it make it better that the waffle is whole wheat?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Boy Crazy
It's official. My girl is boy crazy. I've noticed it when we're out and about. She makes eyes at the fellas in the grocery store. She coyly bats her eyelashes at the guys at the gym. She can be found hugging the other boys during play dates. This girl is going to be trouble with a capital T when she gets older.
The last few days, since the weather has been nicer, I've been taking Sophie out to the Back 40 (actually it's more like Back .25) to do some yard work. We have a fenced in yard, so she can run around with her ball or whatever while I do my thing.
The first day, the two boys that live behind us came out and we started talking. They are 7 and 9 and very eager to tell me all about their lives, sometimes in embarrassing detail. It's especially charming when they give me little details about their 12 year old sister, like how she put her new training bra on backwards or how she cried on Sunday because she couldn't get her hair to work. I am quite certain she would be mortified if she knew they were spreading this information, and I always tell them to mind their sister's feelings. On the inside, I'm roaring at their candor. The boys stayed on their side, but spent the entire time playing catch with Sophie over the fence and patting her head while she cooed, giggled and babbled for them.
Since then, if I even point myself in the direction of the back door, she goes running to it, hollering in Russian or whatever it is she speaks, banging her little hands on the door. I'm pretty sure if I had a Toddler to English translator, it would be something along the lines of "Take me to the BOYS!" When we go outside, she heads straight for the back fence, ya-ya-ya-ing the whole way.
Today, the boys came over the fence to play with her in our yard. The three of them ran around and the boys took turns picking her up, swinging her in circles and trying to make her laugh. They were especially delighted when my delicate little flower tooted while one of them was holding her. The 9-year-old tells me he loves babies and he can't wait to babysit. Cute, yes?
Meanwhile, her speech has been kind of slow to develop. She says a few words fairly clearly: Mama, Dada, Kitty, Hi, Bye; but hasn't really begun to mimic words back to us yet. Today, the older boy, as he was swinging her around, said "My name is Nick, say Nick!" And I'll be darned if she didn't say Nick.
Yep, we're in trouble.
The last few days, since the weather has been nicer, I've been taking Sophie out to the Back 40 (actually it's more like Back .25) to do some yard work. We have a fenced in yard, so she can run around with her ball or whatever while I do my thing.
The first day, the two boys that live behind us came out and we started talking. They are 7 and 9 and very eager to tell me all about their lives, sometimes in embarrassing detail. It's especially charming when they give me little details about their 12 year old sister, like how she put her new training bra on backwards or how she cried on Sunday because she couldn't get her hair to work. I am quite certain she would be mortified if she knew they were spreading this information, and I always tell them to mind their sister's feelings. On the inside, I'm roaring at their candor. The boys stayed on their side, but spent the entire time playing catch with Sophie over the fence and patting her head while she cooed, giggled and babbled for them.
Since then, if I even point myself in the direction of the back door, she goes running to it, hollering in Russian or whatever it is she speaks, banging her little hands on the door. I'm pretty sure if I had a Toddler to English translator, it would be something along the lines of "Take me to the BOYS!" When we go outside, she heads straight for the back fence, ya-ya-ya-ing the whole way.
Today, the boys came over the fence to play with her in our yard. The three of them ran around and the boys took turns picking her up, swinging her in circles and trying to make her laugh. They were especially delighted when my delicate little flower tooted while one of them was holding her. The 9-year-old tells me he loves babies and he can't wait to babysit. Cute, yes?
Meanwhile, her speech has been kind of slow to develop. She says a few words fairly clearly: Mama, Dada, Kitty, Hi, Bye; but hasn't really begun to mimic words back to us yet. Today, the older boy, as he was swinging her around, said "My name is Nick, say Nick!" And I'll be darned if she didn't say Nick.
Yep, we're in trouble.
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