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In a fluke moment, with luck reserved only for someone other than me, I caught a moment of unadulterated Kate on video this weekend. One minute and 30 seconds that sums up my daughter better than any combination of vowels and consonants on this computer screen ever will. It could be that I am just ignorant to the world of a three- and ONE HALF (emphasis on the half) year old, perhaps they all act this way. I am perplexed. In a minute and 30 seconds, she’s managed to “read” a book, seek approval multiple times, do backbends on the couch (by the pile of laundry that has taken up residency there … because, hate to break it, but I am normal), and sing twinkle twinkle while whirling around in circles.
We went to a family reunion on Saturday and I was convinced that the Wiley E. Coyote was totally going to make an appearance and claim his long lost child. Since he didn’t, I have no one else to blame but Craig. “Dude, she’s totally YOUR KID!”
I wonder why I continue to go to the gym. There is no doubt that any caloric intake I have for the day is expended by just watching this child. It makes my brain hurt. And makes me want to lie down for a nap.
But good Lord, could she be any cuter?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Lowering the standard, one day at a time
As a novice in the world of parenting, one thing has been abundantly clear from the start: many mothers play to win. It is an unspoken game with tacit rules. It is a competition laden with assurances to the contrary. We internalize the pressure until the only person in the game is ourselves, with our own mounting expectations and little tolerance for our mistakes. It is about milestones (is being potty trained at 12 months old a prerequisite to medical school?), language skills, extracurricular activities (I couldn’t be more thrilled that little Henry is an aspiring German interpreter), manners, home cooked meals (organic, trans-fat and preservative free of course), limited television time, Martha Stewart-esque desserts for playdates, and birthday parties crafted to perfection.
Let me reflect for a moment on a day in our perfect household:
5:15 a.m. – Hit snooze and contemplate dismembering the alarm clock
5:30 a.m. – Wake and shower
6:00 a.m. – Do a load of laundry before we resort to buying new clothes because our closets are full of dirty ones.
6:15 a.m. – Open the fridge to see if the grocery fairy visited in the night; pack my lunch and make Kate’s juice and milk cups.
6:30 a.m. – Spend 30 minutes trying to make myself look presentable, then give up, wishing I had those 30 minutes of my life back.
7:00 a.m. – Wake Kate up and cheerily convince her that she DOES want to get out of bed, she DOES want to wear clothes, and she DOES want to brush her teeth. Oh and we are running late AGAIN … can’t you cooperate for mommy? What? You need to use the potty downstairs? What’s wrong with the one upstairs? Oh, this is funny, isn’t it? Why am I NOT LAUGHING?
7:15 a.m. – Get Kate a snack for the car. Wait. Of course you don’t want that. What do you want? Oh, not that either? Not that? What about this? I just can’t think of a better way to start the morning. How about you go pick? A blueberry Clif bar, just the thing I presented 13,876 offers ago. Interesting.
7:17 a.m. – Buckle Kate into the car seat, observe large blueberry stain on left shoulder of my shirt
7:22 a.m. – Emerge from the house with a wet, blue-tinged shoulder
7:39 a.m. – Drop Kate off at daycare and drive like a maniac to Starbucks
7:57 a.m. – Arrive to work and settle in to start my day
Start my day? Let's now fast forward through: making it through this thing called work, grocery shopping, cooking and eating dinner, juggling myriad appointments and phone calls, buying a birthday card for my Mother, bath and bedtime, sifting through bills, and contemplating calling into life exhausted tomorrow.
9:59 p.m. – Sit down on the couch perplexed while realizing it is the first time I have done nothing all day. Recognize that the only reward for that is a repeat performance at 5:15 a.m. the next morning.
10:01 p.m. – Wonder why Time Magazine isn’t knocking on my damn door to do a feature article on my superhuman mother-of-the-year accomplishments of the day.
10:03 p.m. – Interruption by my darling husband.
“Do you know what you forgot today?”
“No, what?”
“Shoes. You took Kate to daycare and you didn’t pack her shoes.”
Before I fell over and died, I said, “Oh screw mommy competition. Perhaps my sole purpose is just to make them feel better about themselves.”
Let me reflect for a moment on a day in our perfect household:
5:15 a.m. – Hit snooze and contemplate dismembering the alarm clock
5:30 a.m. – Wake and shower
6:00 a.m. – Do a load of laundry before we resort to buying new clothes because our closets are full of dirty ones.
6:15 a.m. – Open the fridge to see if the grocery fairy visited in the night; pack my lunch and make Kate’s juice and milk cups.
6:30 a.m. – Spend 30 minutes trying to make myself look presentable, then give up, wishing I had those 30 minutes of my life back.
7:00 a.m. – Wake Kate up and cheerily convince her that she DOES want to get out of bed, she DOES want to wear clothes, and she DOES want to brush her teeth. Oh and we are running late AGAIN … can’t you cooperate for mommy? What? You need to use the potty downstairs? What’s wrong with the one upstairs? Oh, this is funny, isn’t it? Why am I NOT LAUGHING?
7:15 a.m. – Get Kate a snack for the car. Wait. Of course you don’t want that. What do you want? Oh, not that either? Not that? What about this? I just can’t think of a better way to start the morning. How about you go pick? A blueberry Clif bar, just the thing I presented 13,876 offers ago. Interesting.
7:17 a.m. – Buckle Kate into the car seat, observe large blueberry stain on left shoulder of my shirt
7:22 a.m. – Emerge from the house with a wet, blue-tinged shoulder
7:39 a.m. – Drop Kate off at daycare and drive like a maniac to Starbucks
7:57 a.m. – Arrive to work and settle in to start my day
Start my day? Let's now fast forward through: making it through this thing called work, grocery shopping, cooking and eating dinner, juggling myriad appointments and phone calls, buying a birthday card for my Mother, bath and bedtime, sifting through bills, and contemplating calling into life exhausted tomorrow.
9:59 p.m. – Sit down on the couch perplexed while realizing it is the first time I have done nothing all day. Recognize that the only reward for that is a repeat performance at 5:15 a.m. the next morning.
10:01 p.m. – Wonder why Time Magazine isn’t knocking on my damn door to do a feature article on my superhuman mother-of-the-year accomplishments of the day.
10:03 p.m. – Interruption by my darling husband.
“Do you know what you forgot today?”
“No, what?”
“Shoes. You took Kate to daycare and you didn’t pack her shoes.”
Before I fell over and died, I said, “Oh screw mommy competition. Perhaps my sole purpose is just to make them feel better about themselves.”
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The non heart-attack
It was 2:40 a.m. Wednesday and I suddenly awoke to a crippling, crushing pain in the left side of my chest. For minutes, I laid there, taking tiny, shallow breaths, because the reward of breathing deeply was not unlike a group of elephants tap dancing on my chest. After a few minutes of this melodrama, I sat up with a sudden jolt, realizing that this was actually happening and not a figment of my semi-awake conscience, or overactive imagination. I went downstairs and ate some Tums, because that is apparently a reasonable thing to do when you are moments away from death.
Craig was not home (strike one Craig), but was still awake when I called him at 2:50 a.m. (redemption of strike one) with details of my predicament. In typical Craig fashion, he calmly asked a series of very annoying, practical, questions. “Are you sweaty?” No. “Are you dizzy?” No. “Does anything else feel weird?” No. “Well, it’s probably muscular; I’d just go back to bed.” When your wife calls you in the middle of the night, besieged by pain of unknown origin, serenely telling her to go back to bed isn’t all that helpful (strike one reinstated). While I concurred that it probably wasn’t life threatening, difficulty breathing and moving aren’t really conducive to sleep and watching the Golden Girls re-runs was only entertaining for so long.
I started contemplating what exactly I would do if I found myself in a medical emergency home alone with a 3.5 year old. How fun would that be? Do the hospitals have some nanny-concierge service? The pessimist in me started to think of how ironic it would be if I were having heart problems since I’ve never been in better shape, or on a healthier diet. Life’s a bitch like that. I also became keenly aware of the fact that I was wearing a shirt with a tie-dyed peace sign that my aunt made for me, oh, about fifteen years ago. While nothing about me screams TIE-DYE or PEACE-SIGN, it was the last time I saw her, so I’ve held on to it for sentimental reasons. However, those same sentiments suddenly don’t seem important when you realize that you could be facing your own mortality, only to be found in such attire.
Eventually I went to sleep and I miraculously woke up the following morning. By mid-day, the pain still wasn’t gone and I figured that I should probably visit the Doctor, lest I suffer a repeat performance at home again that night. I jokingly informed the nurse that I was having chest pain, but I was certain it was muscular, resulting from a fairly intense session at the gym on Sunday. For any of you who know me, you know that nothing ever works this easily for me. Suffice to say, my blood pressure, which is normally about 117/77, decided to show me who was boss and registered 155/93 when she took it.
Do you know what a 29 year-old with chest pain and sudden high blood pressure gets on her lunch hour? Blood work, chest x-rays, and an EKG. Isn’t life grand? Thankfully everything came back fine. The blood pressure was likely just the culmination of MY LUCK OVER THE PREVIOUS 24 HOURS, and has since returned to normal.
The final diagnosis? Costochondritis. If given the choice between costochondritis and walking over hot coals in my bare feet, I’d find myself in quite a quandary.
Craig was not home (strike one Craig), but was still awake when I called him at 2:50 a.m. (redemption of strike one) with details of my predicament. In typical Craig fashion, he calmly asked a series of very annoying, practical, questions. “Are you sweaty?” No. “Are you dizzy?” No. “Does anything else feel weird?” No. “Well, it’s probably muscular; I’d just go back to bed.” When your wife calls you in the middle of the night, besieged by pain of unknown origin, serenely telling her to go back to bed isn’t all that helpful (strike one reinstated). While I concurred that it probably wasn’t life threatening, difficulty breathing and moving aren’t really conducive to sleep and watching the Golden Girls re-runs was only entertaining for so long.
I started contemplating what exactly I would do if I found myself in a medical emergency home alone with a 3.5 year old. How fun would that be? Do the hospitals have some nanny-concierge service? The pessimist in me started to think of how ironic it would be if I were having heart problems since I’ve never been in better shape, or on a healthier diet. Life’s a bitch like that. I also became keenly aware of the fact that I was wearing a shirt with a tie-dyed peace sign that my aunt made for me, oh, about fifteen years ago. While nothing about me screams TIE-DYE or PEACE-SIGN, it was the last time I saw her, so I’ve held on to it for sentimental reasons. However, those same sentiments suddenly don’t seem important when you realize that you could be facing your own mortality, only to be found in such attire.
Eventually I went to sleep and I miraculously woke up the following morning. By mid-day, the pain still wasn’t gone and I figured that I should probably visit the Doctor, lest I suffer a repeat performance at home again that night. I jokingly informed the nurse that I was having chest pain, but I was certain it was muscular, resulting from a fairly intense session at the gym on Sunday. For any of you who know me, you know that nothing ever works this easily for me. Suffice to say, my blood pressure, which is normally about 117/77, decided to show me who was boss and registered 155/93 when she took it.
Do you know what a 29 year-old with chest pain and sudden high blood pressure gets on her lunch hour? Blood work, chest x-rays, and an EKG. Isn’t life grand? Thankfully everything came back fine. The blood pressure was likely just the culmination of MY LUCK OVER THE PREVIOUS 24 HOURS, and has since returned to normal.
The final diagnosis? Costochondritis. If given the choice between costochondritis and walking over hot coals in my bare feet, I’d find myself in quite a quandary.
Monday, July 27, 2009
The source of my sore muscles, bad attitude, and pessimism
We’ve been toying with the idea of putting our house on the market for over a year now. Truth be told, it isn’t because we have specific alternate plans concerning our residency. The only definite we have is the feeling that this house likely isn’t in any potential plans. We met with our realtor in May to get an idea of just how pathetic the market currently is and when we could expect to see some improvement. We learned that while the market is currently at the highest level of suck, it is likely that next year it might be like suck on steroids, and the following year projections included forecasts of posting your house on Freecycle.
We did what any irrational couple unwilling to postpone moving for four years would do, we decided to put our house on the market. Such a simple statement. Such an ineffable undertaking considering the house was about 90% renovated and 10% organized at that point in time.
Heading into June, I told Craig that we’d likely have the house ready in a couple of weeks. That is sort of like me saying, “I’ll be ready in FIVE minutes”, which really means crack open a beer and turn on a re-run of Two and a Half Men and I’ll be down in 45 minutes. Incidentally, a couple of weeks meant seven; seven weeks of nonstop work. Spending seven weeks of summer subject to such torture should be illegal.
Those weeks enriched my brain in the following ways: Helpful hint #1: If it is still in the box from when you moved in 5 years ago, just throw it away because you obviously haven’t missed it or the other 15 boxes just like it. Helpful hint #2: Washing the outside of your windows is overrated. Learning how to use a combination of a pressure-washer and dish detergent = priceless. Helpful hint #3: It is a sign that you’ve neglected your fridge too long when you find a jar of pickles that expired in 2007. Helpful hint #4: It is amazing how much a playroom gets used when you take the treadmill, itinerant furniture, and boxes of clothing out of it. Helpful hint #5: Hiding mountains of paperwork in Tupperware bins and labeling them “office supplies” only sounds like a good idea until you have to move said bins.
On Friday we officially put our house on the market. A co-worker looked at our listing online and couldn’t stop exclaiming over how clean, organized, and show-room perfect our house looked in the pictures. I’m all, NO SHIT, that is because I got so delirious I donated, Craig’s Listed, or threw away most of what we owned.
Oh and whatever you do, don’t look in the closets until some time next week.
We did what any irrational couple unwilling to postpone moving for four years would do, we decided to put our house on the market. Such a simple statement. Such an ineffable undertaking considering the house was about 90% renovated and 10% organized at that point in time.
Heading into June, I told Craig that we’d likely have the house ready in a couple of weeks. That is sort of like me saying, “I’ll be ready in FIVE minutes”, which really means crack open a beer and turn on a re-run of Two and a Half Men and I’ll be down in 45 minutes. Incidentally, a couple of weeks meant seven; seven weeks of nonstop work. Spending seven weeks of summer subject to such torture should be illegal.
Those weeks enriched my brain in the following ways: Helpful hint #1: If it is still in the box from when you moved in 5 years ago, just throw it away because you obviously haven’t missed it or the other 15 boxes just like it. Helpful hint #2: Washing the outside of your windows is overrated. Learning how to use a combination of a pressure-washer and dish detergent = priceless. Helpful hint #3: It is a sign that you’ve neglected your fridge too long when you find a jar of pickles that expired in 2007. Helpful hint #4: It is amazing how much a playroom gets used when you take the treadmill, itinerant furniture, and boxes of clothing out of it. Helpful hint #5: Hiding mountains of paperwork in Tupperware bins and labeling them “office supplies” only sounds like a good idea until you have to move said bins.
On Friday we officially put our house on the market. A co-worker looked at our listing online and couldn’t stop exclaiming over how clean, organized, and show-room perfect our house looked in the pictures. I’m all, NO SHIT, that is because I got so delirious I donated, Craig’s Listed, or threw away most of what we owned.
Oh and whatever you do, don’t look in the closets until some time next week.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
That's what friends are for ...
Recently I was having a conversation with some relatives about horror stories of the automobile variety (what do you mean I have to change the oil? Why doesn’t it come with a warning sticker?) and I immediately thought of my dear friend Megan. Megan not only had a series of very unfortunate cars, but stories about those cars that were unrivaled by anyone else I know. As I was taking this mental journey down memory lane, one particular memory beckoned to me, begging to be shared with the blog world.
So, I did what any respectful friend afraid of retribution would do, I sent Megan a text and asked if she would mind if I wrote about her on my blog. Innocently enough, Megan wrote back that she would be “honored” to be written about on my blog. Perhaps I should have clarified that if it were a glowing tribute, or testament to her fantastic character, I likely wouldn’t have asked for permission. Whoopsy daisy.
I digress. But the memory is just too good to keep to myself.
Some time in early high school, Megan and I were having a deep, philosophical discussion about things that surely were important at the time. As the conversation evolved, I took the opportunity to lament upon my irritation with the gas gauge in my car and how inaccurate the “1/2 full” marker really seemed to be.
“I swear, from empty to half lasts forever, but once it hits halfway, that second half seems to go twice as quick.”
Megan eagerly agreed with my proclamation and said, “I think you must have a hole in the bottom half of your gas tank.”
So, I did what any respectful friend afraid of retribution would do, I sent Megan a text and asked if she would mind if I wrote about her on my blog. Innocently enough, Megan wrote back that she would be “honored” to be written about on my blog. Perhaps I should have clarified that if it were a glowing tribute, or testament to her fantastic character, I likely wouldn’t have asked for permission. Whoopsy daisy.
I digress. But the memory is just too good to keep to myself.
Some time in early high school, Megan and I were having a deep, philosophical discussion about things that surely were important at the time. As the conversation evolved, I took the opportunity to lament upon my irritation with the gas gauge in my car and how inaccurate the “1/2 full” marker really seemed to be.
“I swear, from empty to half lasts forever, but once it hits halfway, that second half seems to go twice as quick.”
Megan eagerly agreed with my proclamation and said, “I think you must have a hole in the bottom half of your gas tank.”
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