I am at grad school for the next week doing my first of four semester residencies. Because my little one isn't weaned yet, they let me bring him and a 'child care aide' who we'll call Maddie :)
Getting here was interesting.
We spent two days in the car, and what should have been a 16 hour trip took (if you don't count the hotel room semi-sleep time) approximately 21 hours. We took turns driving, and I honestly think we both prefer the driving to the time in the back seat with Owen. He did really well for some periods of time, and he slept a few times, too. But mostly he was pissed. I imagine his thought process to be something like this:
You guys suck! Why am I in this stupid seat again? You just took me out 8 minutes ago, and all I got to do was lay on my back and get a clean diaper before you threw me back in here?! Are you insane?!?!? Why do you hate me? Why do you torture me? LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU EVIL BITCHES! This is a severe injustice you are inflicting upon me. This is egregious. I demand satisfaction!! Fucking hell, this is so wrong!! I need to crawl and play and try to pull things down on my head and put things in my mouth all day, not sit wedged in a plastic seat with polyester lining! I HATE YOU!!!
And I totally agree with him. It's horrible and evil and mean, and I don't blame him for being totally miserable. Especially since he spent the first hour of the trip sitting in 2 inches of juice because his sippy cup leaked and I didn't know it. And he also spent an hour or so in a pile of poop diaper because it didn't smell and Maddie didn't know it was there. Poor little fella.
I will, of course, try to exact a little sympathy for me, since I got injured. Maddie, who is new to driving a stick shift vehicle, jolted the car while pulling out of a parking lot and I had already started nursing O, so he bit down and I screamed and he cried and I discovered my nipple was bleeding...
Not fun.
a teeny blurb about me
- another clueless mom
- I am a 32 year old first time mom who is continually shocked at how much those baby books and doulas and midwives don't tell you about having and raising kids...let me tell you, it's a lot!
6.24.2011
6.14.2011
Tuesday's Take
Ok, so it doesn't sound as good as Photo Friday, but I wanted to put up some new pics of my cutie pie. And I am too tired and too stressed to write much, so pictures seemed the easy way out :)
Snuggling with Aunt Pandy
BOTTOM TEETH!
Chubby baby legs are so fun to pinch!
I got a cell phone Chelsea! Mwuah-ha-ha!
Nom nom nom!
Yeah, I like hip hop. What about it?!
I have orange toes like Chelsea does! Yay!
6.11.2011
Changing Again (Me, This Time.)
My body is changing again. Altering itself based on what my baby needs, and takes, and what he doesn't.
He doesn't nurse as much anymore, now that he (messily and with great angst) feeds himself pasta wheels and chicken chunks and peas. So my once bouncy-flouncy milk-makers have shrunk back to their pre-pregnancy proportions...except now they are flat and lifeless like deflated bicycle tires. Ugh. No amount of underwire will save them at this point. I look down at my cleavage and am surprise to find that I don't really have any to speak of anymore. So sad.
Also, with much dismay and without preparing for it, I have rejoined the ranks of womanhood. And let me just tell you that it is NOT going well. I was having these nice, cramp-free, pantyliners-only kinds of periods before I got myself knocked up. They were brief, easy, and painless. This period, however, is like their evil stepsister. I should have bought stock in Tampax. Hell, I should have bought some Tampax! I was not ready for this, and it's distinctly unpleasant. I should have seen it coming, I guess, but I was living blissfully in my world without menstrual cycles.
One good thing is the weight loss. Thanks to Weight Watchers, and my dutiful adherence to its principles, I have lost about 26 pounds so far. This is a wonderment that I do not get tired of talking about. I am halfway to my goal of losing 50 pounds, and I feel pretty damn great about it. I still get to eat pizza and milkshakes (on OCCASION, mind you) but I am rapidly approaching the day when my pre-preggie fat jeans will fit again...and then, oh heavenly joy, my skinny jeans will fit me someday, too!! It's delightful to see myself slowly but surely shrinking to a healthy and acceptable size. I don't need to be a size 4. I just need to be a good size for me. Like an 8/10 :)
The one teensy problem with losing this weight (and I do hate to be a beggar AND a chooser, here) is the floppy body it leaves behind. I grew this monstrous large belly, and my skin had to stretch itself to accommodate. Now the belly is shrinking, but the skin is hanging out, confused, wondering where to go. I have gone from preggie tummy to fat tummy to smaller but floppy/flabby tummy. It's odd, and disconcerting. I never expected to have flat abs, nor do I need to. I am not a super model and I don't aspire to be. But this drooping mass is interfering with my plans of maybe someday wearing a bikini again.
Wow, having a baby really does a number on you.
He doesn't nurse as much anymore, now that he (messily and with great angst) feeds himself pasta wheels and chicken chunks and peas. So my once bouncy-flouncy milk-makers have shrunk back to their pre-pregnancy proportions...except now they are flat and lifeless like deflated bicycle tires. Ugh. No amount of underwire will save them at this point. I look down at my cleavage and am surprise to find that I don't really have any to speak of anymore. So sad.
Also, with much dismay and without preparing for it, I have rejoined the ranks of womanhood. And let me just tell you that it is NOT going well. I was having these nice, cramp-free, pantyliners-only kinds of periods before I got myself knocked up. They were brief, easy, and painless. This period, however, is like their evil stepsister. I should have bought stock in Tampax. Hell, I should have bought some Tampax! I was not ready for this, and it's distinctly unpleasant. I should have seen it coming, I guess, but I was living blissfully in my world without menstrual cycles.
One good thing is the weight loss. Thanks to Weight Watchers, and my dutiful adherence to its principles, I have lost about 26 pounds so far. This is a wonderment that I do not get tired of talking about. I am halfway to my goal of losing 50 pounds, and I feel pretty damn great about it. I still get to eat pizza and milkshakes (on OCCASION, mind you) but I am rapidly approaching the day when my pre-preggie fat jeans will fit again...and then, oh heavenly joy, my skinny jeans will fit me someday, too!! It's delightful to see myself slowly but surely shrinking to a healthy and acceptable size. I don't need to be a size 4. I just need to be a good size for me. Like an 8/10 :)
The one teensy problem with losing this weight (and I do hate to be a beggar AND a chooser, here) is the floppy body it leaves behind. I grew this monstrous large belly, and my skin had to stretch itself to accommodate. Now the belly is shrinking, but the skin is hanging out, confused, wondering where to go. I have gone from preggie tummy to fat tummy to smaller but floppy/flabby tummy. It's odd, and disconcerting. I never expected to have flat abs, nor do I need to. I am not a super model and I don't aspire to be. But this drooping mass is interfering with my plans of maybe someday wearing a bikini again.
Wow, having a baby really does a number on you.
6.04.2011
Life Lessons
I wonder sometimes what I will teach my son. What life lessons, what important tidbits, and what necessary information will I impart? I think about the things I see, looking back, that my mom tried to teach me. Self-respect. Confidence. A sense of adventure. Devotion to what I love, whether it be person, career, or place. But those things aren't enough. I have to teach him things my mother didn't have to teach me.
I have to find a way to teach him how to be a man.
I don't say this with the idea of a lumberjack in the back of my mind, or while picturing Hulk Hogan. I am not thinking of stock brokers, or triathletes, or those dudes who strut around the club late at night, oozing testosterone.
I say this while thinking of men I would like my son to emulate, at least in some specific ways. I would like him to be gentle and charming, like my father. I would like him to be smart, like my mom's friend Joe. I would like him to be creative, like Raymond. I would like him to be kind, patient, and generous, like his daddy. I would like him to be sensitive and perceptive, like JJ. And I would like him to be brave, like his Granny Ann, who was obviously not a man, but I think her overt swearing and cigar smoking puts her in the Boys' Club.
These sound like great characteristics for a man to have. And yet it is very hard to find a man who has them all. It is such a struggle to grow up as a boy in this culture. Boys get the message over and over that they are supposed to be tough, that they're superior to girls, that they're not supposed to be emotional, and that their power as human beings comes from their sexual prowess. They see glorified images of muscled dimwits, or snide and condescending snobs, and think that's who they're supposed to be.
I don't want that for Owen. I want him to be a full person, to experience and express a full range of thoughts and feelings, and not be afraid of that. I want him to respect himself, and women, and other men. I want him to find his power in his openness, and his intelligence, and his compassion.
I want him to be one of the good guys. I want someone, someday, to say about him that they got themselves a good man.
So the question becomes...how do I help him become that?
I have to find a way to teach him how to be a man.
I don't say this with the idea of a lumberjack in the back of my mind, or while picturing Hulk Hogan. I am not thinking of stock brokers, or triathletes, or those dudes who strut around the club late at night, oozing testosterone.
I say this while thinking of men I would like my son to emulate, at least in some specific ways. I would like him to be gentle and charming, like my father. I would like him to be smart, like my mom's friend Joe. I would like him to be creative, like Raymond. I would like him to be kind, patient, and generous, like his daddy. I would like him to be sensitive and perceptive, like JJ. And I would like him to be brave, like his Granny Ann, who was obviously not a man, but I think her overt swearing and cigar smoking puts her in the Boys' Club.
These sound like great characteristics for a man to have. And yet it is very hard to find a man who has them all. It is such a struggle to grow up as a boy in this culture. Boys get the message over and over that they are supposed to be tough, that they're superior to girls, that they're not supposed to be emotional, and that their power as human beings comes from their sexual prowess. They see glorified images of muscled dimwits, or snide and condescending snobs, and think that's who they're supposed to be.
I don't want that for Owen. I want him to be a full person, to experience and express a full range of thoughts and feelings, and not be afraid of that. I want him to respect himself, and women, and other men. I want him to find his power in his openness, and his intelligence, and his compassion.
I want him to be one of the good guys. I want someone, someday, to say about him that they got themselves a good man.
So the question becomes...how do I help him become that?
6.02.2011
Opposites Attract
Owen has a baby best friend, Ezra. Ezra is 8 weeks older than him, but they're about the same size, and they're developmentally pretty close to each other, so they have play dates. Cute, giddy, adorable play dates.
They adore each other. They squeal as soon as Ezra walks in the door. Owen wiggles and jiggles all over, he practically trips over his own feet (ok, he DOES trip over his own feet) crawling at light speed to get to Ezra, and Ezra breaks out in a big grin and waves his little arms. It is obvious how happy they are.
The funny thing is, they're total opposites.
Ezra will sit in one spot for 20 minutes, totally absorbed with one toy, quietly inspecting it and turning it over in his hands. He will smile a few times, but is kind of serious and intense. He doesn't make much noise; he's a very quiet and calm baby boy. When his mommy feeds him, he sits still and opens his mouth like a little bird, and doesn't squish it into his eyelashes or on top of his head.
Owen, while Ezra is sitting peacefully and engaged, is doing laps around him at the speed of sound. He plays with 12 different toys in 4 minutes, screeches and babbles incessantly, grinning and showing his toofs. He gets excited, he gets mad, he gets bonked on the head and cries. And we all know what happens when I feed him...chaos.
But they love playing together. They love just being on the same floor of the same room together. They have some utterly endearing connection that transcends their obvious differences. It's the sweetest thing I have ever seen.
They adore each other. They squeal as soon as Ezra walks in the door. Owen wiggles and jiggles all over, he practically trips over his own feet (ok, he DOES trip over his own feet) crawling at light speed to get to Ezra, and Ezra breaks out in a big grin and waves his little arms. It is obvious how happy they are.
The funny thing is, they're total opposites.
Ezra will sit in one spot for 20 minutes, totally absorbed with one toy, quietly inspecting it and turning it over in his hands. He will smile a few times, but is kind of serious and intense. He doesn't make much noise; he's a very quiet and calm baby boy. When his mommy feeds him, he sits still and opens his mouth like a little bird, and doesn't squish it into his eyelashes or on top of his head.
Owen, while Ezra is sitting peacefully and engaged, is doing laps around him at the speed of sound. He plays with 12 different toys in 4 minutes, screeches and babbles incessantly, grinning and showing his toofs. He gets excited, he gets mad, he gets bonked on the head and cries. And we all know what happens when I feed him...chaos.
But they love playing together. They love just being on the same floor of the same room together. They have some utterly endearing connection that transcends their obvious differences. It's the sweetest thing I have ever seen.
6.01.2011
A short story in which Monkey tries to decapitate himself, flirts with an ER doctor, and traumatizes his nanny.
Today started like any other day. We woke up, ate breakfast, played, took a nap. Our friend Alice came over, and the nanny took my little pooper for his mid-day nap so Alice and I could make Chex mix and chat. Suddenly, a crash! A scream! I run into the nanny's bathroom and Monkey is laying a pile of shattered glass and the nanny is picking a giant free-standing mirror off of him (see below).
the dent where all the glass radiates from was made my by child's skull...
I was totally calm, the nanny was kind of freaking out, and poor Alice kept saying "What can I do?" I inspected him from head to toe, and he wasn't bleeding or anything. We decided to take him to the ER anyway because even though he only had a few teeny scratches on him, he had pulverized glass dust all over his face and I was worried it might have gotten in his eyes. After waiting 40 minutes, and after Monkey flirted shamelessly with the handsome ER doctor, they irrigated his eyes and said he seemed totally fine.
It was uncanny how calm I was. The nanny remarked on it later several times. I have always been pretty good in emergency situations (I mean, why else would I join a fire department?!) and I can stay level headed and focused when everyone else is either a zombie or falling apart. But I was surprised I was still able to do that, instinctively, with my own son. I guess I anticipated being more hysterical.
It's good to know this, because I doubt this is our last trip to the emergency room with a {potentially} injured little boy.
Man, am I in for it...it's going to be a long 18 years.
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