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Something has happened in the cosmos.
Something strange. Something... a harbringer, a sign, a message from the Creator of the Universe itself...
and we'd all be fools to ignore it.
My cat, the vicious old fart, and my dog, the crazy spastic gal, are co-existing on the same floor as I am...
This can only mean a few things...
a) The earth has tilted on it's axis slightly, throwing off my cat's inner hate beacon.
b) the third horseman from the four horseman of the apocylypse is about to arrive, shortly followed by the other three (but don't panic, they have to make it through customs first)
c) the lion has laid down with the lamb, which can only mean d will occur.
d) a comet is going to fly really close to our planet and set us into an early ice age.
Yes, it's that big.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Dear children,
I am asking, begging, no, pleading with you...
Can you please wake up in the mornings? Is it so hard?
Why must I grab the foot that is hanging over the loft bed and shake, pull and prod it just to get a response? You must get up preferably at 6, at least by 6:30, and go to school at 7 every morning five days out of the week. You would think that you'd get up naturally, or with a little less prodding.
And Bear, why, why must I cajole you out of bed? Why do you need to come crawl into our bed in the morning before you will even entertain the idea of waking up. I'm not even sure you open your eyes on the way to our room. Why must I spend so much time convincing you getting out of bed is a good idea?
Now, Turbo, you are my exception. And I hate to mention you, because you are like the sun. You rise every morning, bright eyed and cheery, ready for anything... school, gymnastics, the hordes of Attila the Hun, anything... and Ipromise you I am not complaining or whining one bit. But I just ask one small concession. Before you inflict your cheery, bright-eyed gonna go tackle the day gleefully attitude on me, could you, you know, let me have some coffee first?
Can you please wake up in the mornings? Is it so hard?
Why must I grab the foot that is hanging over the loft bed and shake, pull and prod it just to get a response? You must get up preferably at 6, at least by 6:30, and go to school at 7 every morning five days out of the week. You would think that you'd get up naturally, or with a little less prodding.
And Bear, why, why must I cajole you out of bed? Why do you need to come crawl into our bed in the morning before you will even entertain the idea of waking up. I'm not even sure you open your eyes on the way to our room. Why must I spend so much time convincing you getting out of bed is a good idea?
Now, Turbo, you are my exception. And I hate to mention you, because you are like the sun. You rise every morning, bright eyed and cheery, ready for anything... school, gymnastics, the hordes of Attila the Hun, anything... and Ipromise you I am not complaining or whining one bit. But I just ask one small concession. Before you inflict your cheery, bright-eyed gonna go tackle the day gleefully attitude on me, could you, you know, let me have some coffee first?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
6-day old pajamas
I am tempted not to post this, even though we try to write honestly about the ups and downs we encounter as we try to be good moms. Here goes. See those brown stripy jammies my baby is wearing two posts down as he happily chews on the rubbery lid of that medicine dropper? I haven't done laundry this week AND I changed him out of those tonight. TONIGHT.
So my mind is racing. Did he wear those jammies for 6 days in a row? Did he???
*think*
*think*
*LIGHTBULB ON* I remember! I for sure had him in a stripey shirt and overalls on Friday. Thank goodness. 3 days in same clothes IS acceptable, if not desirable. 6 days and my brain starts to melt.
I was gone all day yesterday and my husband had the kids on his own. Maybe he picked the jammies up out of the hamper (I mean off the floor, who am I kidding) and decided they would be fine. Maybe I even did it last night, I was very exhausted.
This is in direct contrast to his sister that changes her clothes at least 3 times/day.
So my mind is racing. Did he wear those jammies for 6 days in a row? Did he???
*think*
*think*
*LIGHTBULB ON* I remember! I for sure had him in a stripey shirt and overalls on Friday. Thank goodness. 3 days in same clothes IS acceptable, if not desirable. 6 days and my brain starts to melt.
I was gone all day yesterday and my husband had the kids on his own. Maybe he picked the jammies up out of the hamper (I mean off the floor, who am I kidding) and decided they would be fine. Maybe I even did it last night, I was very exhausted.
This is in direct contrast to his sister that changes her clothes at least 3 times/day.
Friday, September 12, 2008
He'll Cry More If He's Homeless
The title is a mantra in our household, and as with most kinds of whistling in the dark, it doesn't always keep the hobgoblins of fear away from us.
I work at home. Not just the work of a household, but the kind of work that has deadlines, that depends on other people and has other people depending on it, and that brings in money. In order to do this work, I must be accessible for certain hours during the day, and I need a several hours, usually in a row, in which I can concentrate.
Sometimes I think my son would be better off in daycare instead of with a mama who can't always play with him when he wants to play. He used to jabber away with mock conversations, but he hasn't done that in weeks. Is it because I'm not paying him the attention he deserves? Am I not talking enough, responsive enough, smart enough to handle both him and a job? Daycare with all the stimulation and other children must offer advantages over and above what his constantly typing mother can give him.
Eye contact is the big one, of course. Lack of eye contact is one of the early warning signs of autism. He was never fascinated by my face, even as a tiny newborn - but I had to go back to work when he was three weeks old. He was in my lap, or beside me, the whole time. Still, my focus was on the screen and the keyboard instead of his sweet face. I know rationally that I did him no harm. Probably. But it doesn't keep me from breaking out in a cold sweat when I can't get my wide eyed son to look at me.
We nurse on demand in this house. But I feel like a cow, and from the first week of his life he has hated nursing in my office chair. Anywhere else, he's happy as a clam, and it seems to me to be a reasonable concession. But good lord. I'm bored just sitting there getting milked, and daytime television strikes me as a horseman of the apocalypse. So I've always had a book open during nursing. And now I'm wondering - have I taught him that he's not important enough to focus on? Is that why he gets upset after a long day of not having my full attention?
I know he hates the home office, some days - he'll cry and cry in the office, but the minute we go to another room everything is fine.
I do everything I can. I write these posts when he's napping. I try to schedule conference calls for naptime, or at least a time of day when he's usually happy to watch the wind blowing through the trees. I hold him on my lap when I'm doing research. I try to play on the floor with him for a few minutes every hour that he's awake. We go for walks every evening. The Perfect Husband reads dozens of stories every night. We cosleep. And yet I keep hearing the refrain "not enough, not enough." I look at his smile, I hear his laugh, and I think, my god, who thought I had the chops to get this kid to adulthood with the same perfection he had when I got him?
I have to work. TPH says "he'll cry more if he's homeless," and it's true. My friends whose babies go to daycare say I'm lucky I'm home with my son, my friends who don't have paying work say I'm lucky to have professional gratification and success. I am lucky, a hundred ways, I know that. But there are still days where every choice feels incomplete and every decision feels wrong.
I work at home. Not just the work of a household, but the kind of work that has deadlines, that depends on other people and has other people depending on it, and that brings in money. In order to do this work, I must be accessible for certain hours during the day, and I need a several hours, usually in a row, in which I can concentrate.
Sometimes I think my son would be better off in daycare instead of with a mama who can't always play with him when he wants to play. He used to jabber away with mock conversations, but he hasn't done that in weeks. Is it because I'm not paying him the attention he deserves? Am I not talking enough, responsive enough, smart enough to handle both him and a job? Daycare with all the stimulation and other children must offer advantages over and above what his constantly typing mother can give him.
Eye contact is the big one, of course. Lack of eye contact is one of the early warning signs of autism. He was never fascinated by my face, even as a tiny newborn - but I had to go back to work when he was three weeks old. He was in my lap, or beside me, the whole time. Still, my focus was on the screen and the keyboard instead of his sweet face. I know rationally that I did him no harm. Probably. But it doesn't keep me from breaking out in a cold sweat when I can't get my wide eyed son to look at me.
We nurse on demand in this house. But I feel like a cow, and from the first week of his life he has hated nursing in my office chair. Anywhere else, he's happy as a clam, and it seems to me to be a reasonable concession. But good lord. I'm bored just sitting there getting milked, and daytime television strikes me as a horseman of the apocalypse. So I've always had a book open during nursing. And now I'm wondering - have I taught him that he's not important enough to focus on? Is that why he gets upset after a long day of not having my full attention?
I know he hates the home office, some days - he'll cry and cry in the office, but the minute we go to another room everything is fine.
I do everything I can. I write these posts when he's napping. I try to schedule conference calls for naptime, or at least a time of day when he's usually happy to watch the wind blowing through the trees. I hold him on my lap when I'm doing research. I try to play on the floor with him for a few minutes every hour that he's awake. We go for walks every evening. The Perfect Husband reads dozens of stories every night. We cosleep. And yet I keep hearing the refrain "not enough, not enough." I look at his smile, I hear his laugh, and I think, my god, who thought I had the chops to get this kid to adulthood with the same perfection he had when I got him?
I have to work. TPH says "he'll cry more if he's homeless," and it's true. My friends whose babies go to daycare say I'm lucky I'm home with my son, my friends who don't have paying work say I'm lucky to have professional gratification and success. I am lucky, a hundred ways, I know that. But there are still days where every choice feels incomplete and every decision feels wrong.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Linkin In
So,
It is near nigh impossible to get a job without networking. I only know other moms and people who work in other states. Oh, so how oh how can I network?
Well, Hubby McRed gets about a gazillion e-mails a week from his LinkedIn account (okay, more like three or four a month) inquiring as if so and so from such and such a place could 'connect' or 'network' or 'chat' with him about various things involving employment.
So I updated my linked-in account with actual relevant information, besides my trite 'dude, I like to write stories about made up crap' statement I wrote back when I didn't care, and now, I am waiting to see if there is an anti-networking curse upon me that is blackening my soul slowly, day by day, or if LinkedIn can be my key to networking in a life that otherwise is networkless...
And no one need worry, Rainy, I won't be holding my breath. I'm not honestly sure what I"m doing, so I'm just doing it. But I admit to a bit of curiosity, while acknowledging that I still have to hone my network profiling skills and 'key word' usage...
It is near nigh impossible to get a job without networking. I only know other moms and people who work in other states. Oh, so how oh how can I network?
Well, Hubby McRed gets about a gazillion e-mails a week from his LinkedIn account (okay, more like three or four a month) inquiring as if so and so from such and such a place could 'connect' or 'network' or 'chat' with him about various things involving employment.
So I updated my linked-in account with actual relevant information, besides my trite 'dude, I like to write stories about made up crap' statement I wrote back when I didn't care, and now, I am waiting to see if there is an anti-networking curse upon me that is blackening my soul slowly, day by day, or if LinkedIn can be my key to networking in a life that otherwise is networkless...
And no one need worry, Rainy, I won't be holding my breath. I'm not honestly sure what I"m doing, so I'm just doing it. But I admit to a bit of curiosity, while acknowledging that I still have to hone my network profiling skills and 'key word' usage...
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
I'd Rather Have An Exclamation Point
For the last couple days, I've been desperate for salty crunchy things, I've been feeling a little bloated, I've been short tempered, and as I gaze at my beautiful, practically seven month old baby who is the light of my life and the apple of my husband's eye, I've been thinking OH HELL NO I'M NOT HAVING ANOTHER ONE, IF I AM PREGNANT AGAIN I WILL GO INSANE.
Well, the good news is I'm not pregnant.
What's sad is that I had totally forgotten that menstruation was even on the options list of things my body could do.
I remember being twelve, and desperately hoping I'd get my period soon, so I could sigh weakly, float to the nurse's office, ask for some Tylenol (this was the Dark Ages where they didn't need a signed waiver and your mother's name written in blood before you could get Tylenol from the nurse) to ease the pain of "my time of the month," and wear the little belt I'd read about in that Judy Blume book you had to read if you were a twelve year old girl.
When my period finally came, I was completely disgusted when I found out belts were decades out of date and I was going to wear a peel and stick thing that felt like a diaper.
I have not enjoyed my menses since. When it ceased, and I realized we had in fact made a baby, I was thrilled about not having a period. The main thing I was looking forward to about breastfeeding was not menstruating. In fact, I demand a refund from my uterus. I'm still breastfeeding all the time. I have a twenty pound seven month old to prove it! No, I can't say "exclusively breastfeeding," we give him smushed fruits and veggies now, but trust me when I say the nutrition is still entirely from my dairy bar here. He's eating tops a half jar (the small size) a day.
In the face of that, why am I back to snarfing pretzels (delicious, perfectly crunchy salty pretzels) like they were manna from heaven?
NOT FAIR!
Well, the good news is I'm not pregnant.
What's sad is that I had totally forgotten that menstruation was even on the options list of things my body could do.
I remember being twelve, and desperately hoping I'd get my period soon, so I could sigh weakly, float to the nurse's office, ask for some Tylenol (this was the Dark Ages where they didn't need a signed waiver and your mother's name written in blood before you could get Tylenol from the nurse) to ease the pain of "my time of the month," and wear the little belt I'd read about in that Judy Blume book you had to read if you were a twelve year old girl.
When my period finally came, I was completely disgusted when I found out belts were decades out of date and I was going to wear a peel and stick thing that felt like a diaper.
I have not enjoyed my menses since. When it ceased, and I realized we had in fact made a baby, I was thrilled about not having a period. The main thing I was looking forward to about breastfeeding was not menstruating. In fact, I demand a refund from my uterus. I'm still breastfeeding all the time. I have a twenty pound seven month old to prove it! No, I can't say "exclusively breastfeeding," we give him smushed fruits and veggies now, but trust me when I say the nutrition is still entirely from my dairy bar here. He's eating tops a half jar (the small size) a day.
In the face of that, why am I back to snarfing pretzels (delicious, perfectly crunchy salty pretzels) like they were manna from heaven?
NOT FAIR!
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