For a couple of years, I have been struggling to find enough freelance work to bring in enough money to pay for a few of life's luxuries: health insurance and health care, haircuts for me and the boy, a manicure every now and then, clothes, babysitters so Scott and I can get out once in a while. I'm very lucky to be able to stay at home, but it has meant cutting back on a lot of the things I used to take for granted. Because Scott is self-employed, health insurance has been our biggest financial burden and headache. I worry about it a lot. And I pray about finding work so that I can help take some of the strain off my husband's shoulders.
Mostly because finding freelance work is a full-time job in and of itself and I have a young child and a house to take care of, I've found that I rarely have the time I need to find the work I need. I have a few regular clients that keep coming back, but that means one or two projects a quarter.... Not really enough to meet the goals I've set for myself.
Well, suddenly, and thankfully, out of the blue the work is starting to come in. I've got two articles I'm writing for a relocation magazine, plus another possibly on the horizon. Another magazine, Atlanta Dog Life, hired me last fall to write a column about dogs with jobs, but after writing my first article, I was told their funding didn't come through and they were putting the magazine on hold. Two days ago, I got a call from the owner of the first dog I "interviewed" who told me that she had gotten a call from the magazine about advertising. So, I called up the editor and she told me we're back in business and they definitely plan to have me write for them, though I'm not sure if I will still be writing the same column or not.
Now, here's the most exciting event of the week. And the most flattering. Renee Palmer who co-parents Miss America, the first dog I wrote about for ADL is also co-owner of Camp Woof, the open-play boarding facility where we board our darling boy, Cooper. Renee's partner, Patsy McGirl, is the other co-owner. They're awesome and foster a lot of rescues. And Cooper loves staying at Camp Woof.
Anyway, Renee called me yesterday to ask me if I might be interested in authoring a children's book about one of their dogs. It's a long story and I can't go into all of the details, but ultimately, part of the proceeds from the book would go to fund scholarships for disadvantaged African-American students from our community.
I'm so excited and so flattered to be asked to do something like this. Granted, I have no experience writing for children, but I've actually been thinking about it some the last few years. I figure I can try.
So, I'm just very thankful today to have so much wonderful work on my plate. Even though I am still feeling very sick and very tired. I'll just do my best and muddle through. Thank you, God, for all these wonderful blessings raining down upon me all of a sudden!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
I'm Sorry, So Sorry
Okay. Having had all day to think about this, I realized I don't know why I was so intensely angry over a small-minded person acting in a petty manner.
I realized that I, too, was being petty in expressing such vitriol toward someone I barely know just because we don't see eye-to-eye on a particular subject.
So, I'm sorry I subjected y'all to my anger. I'll try to do better next time.
I realized that I, too, was being petty in expressing such vitriol toward someone I barely know just because we don't see eye-to-eye on a particular subject.
So, I'm sorry I subjected y'all to my anger. I'll try to do better next time.
Rockin' the Suburbs
Man, am I pissed!
I am the co-president of my neighborhood association, a job I took thinking it would be a great way to get to know my neighbors and possibly network a little. I was crazy. This unpaid job sucks.
I have neighbors who call me to complain because someone else's dog is barking. Because someone drove through their yard. Because one of their neighbors had a party and cars were parked up and down their street. They all expect ME to do something about it. Are they three? Do they really need mommy to resolve their arguments?
Now, get this! We're an older (30-years plus), well-established neighborhood. Maybe 5% of the residents are the original owners of their homes. Our homeowner's association dues are only $20 a year. A pittance.
Today, I got an e-mail from a guy in the neighborhood who does nothing but complain. Today, he's complaining because the neighborhood association has plans to make a banner to hang on our front entrance congratulating all the 2006 high school graduates who live in the neighborhood. He thinks the kids' parents should pay for the banner. He also suggested that if the neighborhood association paid for it that we should exclude anyone who didn't pay their $20 dues.
A freakin' banner only costs about $75 or $100 dollars to make. Cheap! This dude told me that he thinks the dues should only be spent on things that benefit everyone. He fails to see how this does.
Dude! Does it not benefit you to be a nice guy once in a while? Or how about the fact that it makes our neighborhood look like a warm, friendly, caring place to live?
What a total jerk! I'm so mad right now! I just don't see how people go through their lives being so selfish!
The thing is, this guy always wants to do our neighborhood directory and have his hand in different projects we do. That's all about to change. If he's going to be so selfish, I don't want to use up any of his precious time or resources. I'm going to seek out other volunteers. People who are happy to be involved and do things that benefit everyone who lives in the neighborhood.
Jerk!
I am the co-president of my neighborhood association, a job I took thinking it would be a great way to get to know my neighbors and possibly network a little. I was crazy. This unpaid job sucks.
I have neighbors who call me to complain because someone else's dog is barking. Because someone drove through their yard. Because one of their neighbors had a party and cars were parked up and down their street. They all expect ME to do something about it. Are they three? Do they really need mommy to resolve their arguments?
Now, get this! We're an older (30-years plus), well-established neighborhood. Maybe 5% of the residents are the original owners of their homes. Our homeowner's association dues are only $20 a year. A pittance.
Today, I got an e-mail from a guy in the neighborhood who does nothing but complain. Today, he's complaining because the neighborhood association has plans to make a banner to hang on our front entrance congratulating all the 2006 high school graduates who live in the neighborhood. He thinks the kids' parents should pay for the banner. He also suggested that if the neighborhood association paid for it that we should exclude anyone who didn't pay their $20 dues.
A freakin' banner only costs about $75 or $100 dollars to make. Cheap! This dude told me that he thinks the dues should only be spent on things that benefit everyone. He fails to see how this does.
Dude! Does it not benefit you to be a nice guy once in a while? Or how about the fact that it makes our neighborhood look like a warm, friendly, caring place to live?
What a total jerk! I'm so mad right now! I just don't see how people go through their lives being so selfish!
The thing is, this guy always wants to do our neighborhood directory and have his hand in different projects we do. That's all about to change. If he's going to be so selfish, I don't want to use up any of his precious time or resources. I'm going to seek out other volunteers. People who are happy to be involved and do things that benefit everyone who lives in the neighborhood.
Jerk!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Wake Me When It's Over
I loved being pregnant with Brendan! It was so cool!
This time, I'm miserable. I'm sooooo sick! I don't recall actually throwing up with Brendan, though I felt plenty ill. Today is the fourth day in a row that I've lost my breakfast. The rest of the day, I have simply felt horrible and get really nauseous every time I get hungry. I'm trying to think positively, to remind myself that all of this is a good sign that there are lots of hormones all doing their job and the nausea and exhaustion I feel are signs of a healthy pregnancy progressing normally.
Of course, sleeping is the only thing that helps me. Sleeping is brilliant! I wish I could sleep and sleep and wake up at the end of the first trimester, brimming with energy and good health.
This time, I'm miserable. I'm sooooo sick! I don't recall actually throwing up with Brendan, though I felt plenty ill. Today is the fourth day in a row that I've lost my breakfast. The rest of the day, I have simply felt horrible and get really nauseous every time I get hungry. I'm trying to think positively, to remind myself that all of this is a good sign that there are lots of hormones all doing their job and the nausea and exhaustion I feel are signs of a healthy pregnancy progressing normally.
Of course, sleeping is the only thing that helps me. Sleeping is brilliant! I wish I could sleep and sleep and wake up at the end of the first trimester, brimming with energy and good health.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Annie Get Your Gun: The Easter Bunny's Here
Sometimes it's amazing to me how different members of the same family can be. One of Scott's brothers is a hunter. He goes deer hunting or at least he used to. I'm not sure he has time to anymore now that he and his wife have four kids. Still, he has no issue with guns.
We do. We definitely don't believe that kids should have toy guns to play with, especially realistic looking cap gun rifles like the one the Easter Bunny left our three-year old nephews Easter basket yesterday.
Scott and I were both very concerned about Brendan being around kids playing with guns, pretending to shoot each other and kept him isolated from his cousins so that he wouldn't see it. Scott and his brother argued over why three-year olds shouldn't be playing with realistic-looking guns and especially playing games where they point them at someone and fire. His brother never got it. Both his brothers think we're liberal hippie freaks anyway. Still, his other brother and his wife never let their kids play with guns. Unfortunately, neither of them spoke up.
We took Brendan outside to play and were debating whether we should leave or not. I was just going inside to say my peace when I realized the guns had been put away.
The thing that really got my Irish up, and Scott's as well, was when our five-year old niece went upstairs and told Brendan "I'm going to shoot your Daddy!" No one corrected her or thought there was anything wrong with that at all. Thankfully, Brendan doesn't yet know what it means for someone to get shot. When I asked him if his cousin had said something scary to him, he said no and seemed fine.
It's sad, really. We had just gotten to a point where Brendan was really enjoying being around his cousins. Unfortunately, our values are too different from those of my in-laws that we're not comfortable having him play with them.
At least he has friends, though I'm sad that he might never have close ties to his cousins like his dad has.
We do. We definitely don't believe that kids should have toy guns to play with, especially realistic looking cap gun rifles like the one the Easter Bunny left our three-year old nephews Easter basket yesterday.
Scott and I were both very concerned about Brendan being around kids playing with guns, pretending to shoot each other and kept him isolated from his cousins so that he wouldn't see it. Scott and his brother argued over why three-year olds shouldn't be playing with realistic-looking guns and especially playing games where they point them at someone and fire. His brother never got it. Both his brothers think we're liberal hippie freaks anyway. Still, his other brother and his wife never let their kids play with guns. Unfortunately, neither of them spoke up.
We took Brendan outside to play and were debating whether we should leave or not. I was just going inside to say my peace when I realized the guns had been put away.
The thing that really got my Irish up, and Scott's as well, was when our five-year old niece went upstairs and told Brendan "I'm going to shoot your Daddy!" No one corrected her or thought there was anything wrong with that at all. Thankfully, Brendan doesn't yet know what it means for someone to get shot. When I asked him if his cousin had said something scary to him, he said no and seemed fine.
It's sad, really. We had just gotten to a point where Brendan was really enjoying being around his cousins. Unfortunately, our values are too different from those of my in-laws that we're not comfortable having him play with them.
At least he has friends, though I'm sad that he might never have close ties to his cousins like his dad has.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged
I have a really hard time with this. I want not to judge others and usually I don't. However, when my own insecurities get piqued, I often find myself pointing the finger before it can be pointed at me.
Today was one of those days.
I took Brendan to the park after school. We picked up Chick-fil-A on the way and I was looking forward to a picnic and playing in the sandbox, maybe chasing him around the meadow for a bit of exercise. Unfortunately, the idyllic afternoon I imagined was not to be.
She was there. Alpha Mom. I hate Alpha Mom. Alpha Mom talks more and louder than any other mom in the park. Alpha Mom only packs the finest organic foods for her picnic and looks at your Happy Meal with a curl of the lip.
This particular Alpha Mom droned on and on and on about the kind of beach house she wants to buy in Florida. But not in Destin. How trashy! No, somewhere less redneck. Then about how the McMansion she and her husband built is just too big, with its five bedrooms, three-and-a-half baths, finished basement, and office. About how she and hubby rent out the first house they owned to (gasp) Katrina survivors! About her wedding in Key West. About how all her friends are asking her and her husband to renew their vows next year on the 10th anniversary and have a huge party in Key West. About how friends of theirs didn't get their two-year old into the same elite Montessori school her daughter attends.
Oh! And I learned that Parker, her five year old, is "going to end up in politics, or journalism, or maybe...sales. She's just such a go-getter!" Blech! Is that my morning sickness or am I gagging on my disdain for Alpha Mom!
There was more. She didn't shut up the entire hour we were in the same park. And the whole time she was lording it over the Wannabee moms in her cohort, she was perched atop a lawn chair while everyone else relaxed on the ground on blankets.
When I see a Queen Bee and her hive, it just makes me feel like I'm in hell, uh, I mean, high school, all over again. Don't get me wrong. I'm part of a moms club. We're all friends, but we're all just a lot more relaxed. No one's judging anyone else in our group and none of us are trying to prove ourselves worthy of another's friendship or presence.
Bottom line: Alpha Moms and cliques just piss me off.
Today was one of those days.
I took Brendan to the park after school. We picked up Chick-fil-A on the way and I was looking forward to a picnic and playing in the sandbox, maybe chasing him around the meadow for a bit of exercise. Unfortunately, the idyllic afternoon I imagined was not to be.
She was there. Alpha Mom. I hate Alpha Mom. Alpha Mom talks more and louder than any other mom in the park. Alpha Mom only packs the finest organic foods for her picnic and looks at your Happy Meal with a curl of the lip.
This particular Alpha Mom droned on and on and on about the kind of beach house she wants to buy in Florida. But not in Destin. How trashy! No, somewhere less redneck. Then about how the McMansion she and her husband built is just too big, with its five bedrooms, three-and-a-half baths, finished basement, and office. About how she and hubby rent out the first house they owned to (gasp) Katrina survivors! About her wedding in Key West. About how all her friends are asking her and her husband to renew their vows next year on the 10th anniversary and have a huge party in Key West. About how friends of theirs didn't get their two-year old into the same elite Montessori school her daughter attends.
Oh! And I learned that Parker, her five year old, is "going to end up in politics, or journalism, or maybe...sales. She's just such a go-getter!" Blech! Is that my morning sickness or am I gagging on my disdain for Alpha Mom!
There was more. She didn't shut up the entire hour we were in the same park. And the whole time she was lording it over the Wannabee moms in her cohort, she was perched atop a lawn chair while everyone else relaxed on the ground on blankets.
When I see a Queen Bee and her hive, it just makes me feel like I'm in hell, uh, I mean, high school, all over again. Don't get me wrong. I'm part of a moms club. We're all friends, but we're all just a lot more relaxed. No one's judging anyone else in our group and none of us are trying to prove ourselves worthy of another's friendship or presence.
Bottom line: Alpha Moms and cliques just piss me off.
Pregnancy Brain: What a Long, Strange Week-and-a-Half It's Been
Since getting confirmation of my pregnancy, I have basically had almost no free time to write and when I have, I have either a) been too fuzzy-headed to get my thoughts together to write (they're not joking about the "cloud of pregnancy"); b) too exhausted to write; or c) too busy entertaining Brendan who was on spring break from preschool and decided to officially stop napping. Ugh!
I think the thing I hate most about pregnancy is what it does to your head. I mean, in just a few weeks I seem to have lost half my brain cells. I feel stymied mentally and physically, it feels like someone stuffed something in my head. Clearly, I have lost all power of articulation because that makes no sense. It suffices to say that I have a "cloudy" feeling and just can't get it together.
Yesterday, I forgot that I was responsible for sending the snack to Brendan's preschool. When I got there to pick him up, there was a note on his backpack asking me to send in pretzels and raisins today. I felt horrible. All those cute little two and three-year-olds sitting around waiting for their snack and getting none. Sad.
Actually, the school has back up plans for such events. Thankfully, I'm not the first mom to whom this has happened. I still feel like an idiot.
And wouldn't you know, I can't remember any of the other crazy things I've done the last few days? Pregnancy brain in action!
I think the thing I hate most about pregnancy is what it does to your head. I mean, in just a few weeks I seem to have lost half my brain cells. I feel stymied mentally and physically, it feels like someone stuffed something in my head. Clearly, I have lost all power of articulation because that makes no sense. It suffices to say that I have a "cloudy" feeling and just can't get it together.
Yesterday, I forgot that I was responsible for sending the snack to Brendan's preschool. When I got there to pick him up, there was a note on his backpack asking me to send in pretzels and raisins today. I felt horrible. All those cute little two and three-year-olds sitting around waiting for their snack and getting none. Sad.
Actually, the school has back up plans for such events. Thankfully, I'm not the first mom to whom this has happened. I still feel like an idiot.
And wouldn't you know, I can't remember any of the other crazy things I've done the last few days? Pregnancy brain in action!
Friday, March 31, 2006
Yay! We're Having a Baby!
I went to my GP and he confirmed that I am pregnant. He said that the faint line was probably just because it was so early. I was convinced it was because the baby isn't growing and thusly, there isn't enough HCG present to produce a darker line. Doc thinks I conceived later than I thought and am about a week behind where I thought I might be.
He also reassured me that nothing I've done so far should have had any impact on the baby. S/he will only have just implanted a week or so ago, so not as big a deal as I thought.
I'm relieved. I know there are thousands of things that could still go wrong. We've lost a baby with a chromosomal defect, so I know the kinds of things that can happen even if you do everything right. It's still so early, I could have a miscarriage. I know I shouldn't tell a soul. But this secret is too good to keep.
For now, I don't want to worry about any of that! I want to be happy and embrace the tiny new life growing inside of me. I want to be excited. My husband, by the way, is thrilled. And that makes me very happy.
Oh! Yay! I am just giddy with joy now. I'm turning the worry button off for as long as I can. I'm going to take a power nap. Then shower. Then we're going to our monthly neighborhood dinner party with six other couples while the kids stay with sitters at one of our homes. I'm going to drink fizzy water with limes and eat fondue and laugh and celebrate this wonderful life.
And I can't wait 'til my friends ask me why I'm not drinking wine.
He also reassured me that nothing I've done so far should have had any impact on the baby. S/he will only have just implanted a week or so ago, so not as big a deal as I thought.
I'm relieved. I know there are thousands of things that could still go wrong. We've lost a baby with a chromosomal defect, so I know the kinds of things that can happen even if you do everything right. It's still so early, I could have a miscarriage. I know I shouldn't tell a soul. But this secret is too good to keep.
For now, I don't want to worry about any of that! I want to be happy and embrace the tiny new life growing inside of me. I want to be excited. My husband, by the way, is thrilled. And that makes me very happy.
Oh! Yay! I am just giddy with joy now. I'm turning the worry button off for as long as I can. I'm going to take a power nap. Then shower. Then we're going to our monthly neighborhood dinner party with six other couples while the kids stay with sitters at one of our homes. I'm going to drink fizzy water with limes and eat fondue and laugh and celebrate this wonderful life.
And I can't wait 'til my friends ask me why I'm not drinking wine.
Two Pink Lines and More Freaking Out
I tested again this morning. Same result. A second line so faint I wonder if I'm imagining it. I'm waiting until my GP's office opens and then calling to see if they can do a blood test today.
I went online last night and read all the horrors of FAS. Ninety-nine percent of what I read said that no amount of alcohol is okay at any point during pregnancy and if you drank before you knew you were pregnant, you're just going to have to wait and see what kind of damage you did to your baby. I barely slept last night.
In addition to the daily glass of wine I have with dinner, there have been a couple of occasions in the last two or three weeks where I drank three glasses because we were laughing and talking and having a good time and I got carried away. Then there's the 1/2 dose of Nyquil I took about a week ago when I had a bad cold and the Mucinex I've been taking at night for the nasty cough I haven't been able to shake. And let's not forget the boatloads of coffee and Coke Zero I drink every day.
Everything I read last night said that even if your child escapes the low birth-weight and facial deformities associated with FAS, he or she will have behaviorial and learning difficulties and end up abusing drugs and becoming a juvenile delinquent.
I know there are countless stories of women who drank casually or socially throughout there pregnancies and had perfectly healthy normal babies and many who say that you only have to worry about FAS if you drink heavily throughout your entire pregnancy. But, I can't help but worry. How much would it suck if I did something to cause harm to my baby and I could have prevented it.
Damn, damn, damn.
I went online last night and read all the horrors of FAS. Ninety-nine percent of what I read said that no amount of alcohol is okay at any point during pregnancy and if you drank before you knew you were pregnant, you're just going to have to wait and see what kind of damage you did to your baby. I barely slept last night.
In addition to the daily glass of wine I have with dinner, there have been a couple of occasions in the last two or three weeks where I drank three glasses because we were laughing and talking and having a good time and I got carried away. Then there's the 1/2 dose of Nyquil I took about a week ago when I had a bad cold and the Mucinex I've been taking at night for the nasty cough I haven't been able to shake. And let's not forget the boatloads of coffee and Coke Zero I drink every day.
Everything I read last night said that even if your child escapes the low birth-weight and facial deformities associated with FAS, he or she will have behaviorial and learning difficulties and end up abusing drugs and becoming a juvenile delinquent.
I know there are countless stories of women who drank casually or socially throughout there pregnancies and had perfectly healthy normal babies and many who say that you only have to worry about FAS if you drink heavily throughout your entire pregnancy. But, I can't help but worry. How much would it suck if I did something to cause harm to my baby and I could have prevented it.
Damn, damn, damn.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Butting Heads with God
As a mother, it drives me nuts when Brendan wants to do something that I know he can't quite handle on his own. He and I are two stubbon peas in a pod. As much as I want to help him, he yearns to do it on his own. And he will pull away forcefully, shouting "NO! I DO IT MYSELF!" All the while, I'm getting angry and frustrated because I know it will go much more smoothly/cleanly/efficiently and faster if I help.
Clearly, I know I'm wrong. I know that he has to do things on his own to learn, but because I'm stubborn and impatient and want things done my way, I often find I can't help myself.
Today, I think I must know how God feels as I'm coming at him in the same stubborn, angry, and reproachful way Brendan reacts when I try to help him.
I'm not very good at being open to God's will, though I'll be darned if He doesn't just go ahead and keep asserting it anyway. I want to feel like I'm in control. I want to make the decisions that affect my life. It scares me to feel like someone else is in charge, even if I know deep down that's the case.
Right now, I'm kind of freaking out. I may be pregnant and I'm not ready. Theoretically, I'm ready. I'm ready to say, "Hey! We're trying to get pregnant with our second child" and to enjoy the process that takes us there. I'm ready to have a couple of months with negative pregnancy tests and a sense of disappointment that ultimately gets overshadowed when I actually get pregnant in the third month of trying.
I'm not ready to have gotten pregnant when we weren't trying. It scares me. It's happened to us twice before and both times ended in miscarriage.
I know that if I am pregnant, I should be thrilled and delighted, especially considering all the women who would give anything to be in my shoes. And I will be happy and excited to have another baby, a sibling for my darling boy. But, what about all the things that can go wrong with any pregnancy, even in the best of circumstances. Imagine being 36, someone who has a glass of wine to unwind every night, and who has a never-ending allergy attack and has been popping cold/sinus/cough medicine for the last two weeks to keep from hacking up a lung.
I'm not happy. I'm petrified.
And of course, along with all of this is the beating myself up over how I'll be responsible if something goes wrong. That it will be all my fault if something goes wrong.
I wish I could just let go of my fears and worries and just trust God. Why is that so hard?
Clearly, I know I'm wrong. I know that he has to do things on his own to learn, but because I'm stubborn and impatient and want things done my way, I often find I can't help myself.
Today, I think I must know how God feels as I'm coming at him in the same stubborn, angry, and reproachful way Brendan reacts when I try to help him.
I'm not very good at being open to God's will, though I'll be darned if He doesn't just go ahead and keep asserting it anyway. I want to feel like I'm in control. I want to make the decisions that affect my life. It scares me to feel like someone else is in charge, even if I know deep down that's the case.
Right now, I'm kind of freaking out. I may be pregnant and I'm not ready. Theoretically, I'm ready. I'm ready to say, "Hey! We're trying to get pregnant with our second child" and to enjoy the process that takes us there. I'm ready to have a couple of months with negative pregnancy tests and a sense of disappointment that ultimately gets overshadowed when I actually get pregnant in the third month of trying.
I'm not ready to have gotten pregnant when we weren't trying. It scares me. It's happened to us twice before and both times ended in miscarriage.
I know that if I am pregnant, I should be thrilled and delighted, especially considering all the women who would give anything to be in my shoes. And I will be happy and excited to have another baby, a sibling for my darling boy. But, what about all the things that can go wrong with any pregnancy, even in the best of circumstances. Imagine being 36, someone who has a glass of wine to unwind every night, and who has a never-ending allergy attack and has been popping cold/sinus/cough medicine for the last two weeks to keep from hacking up a lung.
I'm not happy. I'm petrified.
And of course, along with all of this is the beating myself up over how I'll be responsible if something goes wrong. That it will be all my fault if something goes wrong.
I wish I could just let go of my fears and worries and just trust God. Why is that so hard?
Well, Hush Your Mouth!
I am bursting at the seams, I am so proud of my little fella!
As we were leaving preschool today, his friend Emily's mom stopped me. She said that her daughter has started saying "Yes, Ma'am" and "No, Ma'am" all of a sudden. When she questioned Emily as to where she had learned to say those phrases, Emily said, "Brendan."
I'm just so happy he remembers to use his manners at school. For a long time, I felt like I was constantly reminding him, but suddenly, it seems I rarely need to.
Of course, I was shocked that a parent had to ask her child where she learned to speak to an adult respectfully. I didn't say anything, but she must have felt my unease for she quickly said with a shrug, "We're not from the South, so we don't talk like that."
Well, hush your mouth, Cornbread! I bet you don't drink sweet tea, either. That's okay. We still love you, Sug!
As we were leaving preschool today, his friend Emily's mom stopped me. She said that her daughter has started saying "Yes, Ma'am" and "No, Ma'am" all of a sudden. When she questioned Emily as to where she had learned to say those phrases, Emily said, "Brendan."
I'm just so happy he remembers to use his manners at school. For a long time, I felt like I was constantly reminding him, but suddenly, it seems I rarely need to.
Of course, I was shocked that a parent had to ask her child where she learned to speak to an adult respectfully. I didn't say anything, but she must have felt my unease for she quickly said with a shrug, "We're not from the South, so we don't talk like that."
Well, hush your mouth, Cornbread! I bet you don't drink sweet tea, either. That's okay. We still love you, Sug!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
I Can Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight
The PMDD, that is. All day today I've felt dazed, anxious, worried, tired, sad. I cried when I heard a story about Improv Everywhere on This American Life. It's comedy. It's supposed to make one laugh. But the founder of the group, Charlie Todd, said what I thought was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. I'm paraphrasing because I can't remember the exact quote, but basically he says his aim in life is to make people realize that we should expect magical things to happen in our lives and not merely rely on movies or TV to give us the magical, the beautiful, the wonder-ful moments that we'll never forget.
That melted me.
Somehow, though, I have managed not to lose my temper today. I've also kept my panic somewhat in control. I'm hoping it's because my self-prescribed regimen of vitamins and minerals(B-complex with C, a prenatal vitamin, Calcium with Magnesium, Flax Seed Oil, and Lysine) and exercise is helping.
Of course, it could be that I'm pregnant. I'm not late. Much. But I also don't feel the way I usually do before my period.
So, we'll see in a day or two when either I know for sure or I work up the courage to take a pregnancy test.
That melted me.
Somehow, though, I have managed not to lose my temper today. I've also kept my panic somewhat in control. I'm hoping it's because my self-prescribed regimen of vitamins and minerals(B-complex with C, a prenatal vitamin, Calcium with Magnesium, Flax Seed Oil, and Lysine) and exercise is helping.
Of course, it could be that I'm pregnant. I'm not late. Much. But I also don't feel the way I usually do before my period.
So, we'll see in a day or two when either I know for sure or I work up the courage to take a pregnancy test.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Guilt and Sorrow
Brendan came up with something pretty cute today. He has begun to name inanimate objects. His blue bouncy ball is Snuggly. His lamp is Shiny. And the imaginary elephant who lives in our family room is Stevie. And all the while I celebrated his creativity today, my insides ached with guilt and sorrow. Guilt for having a beautiful, healthy little boy whom I take for granted or get frustrated with because he's three and doesn't do all the things I think he should. Sorrow at learning two of my dear friends lost their baby boy at 20 weeks gestation.
Scott and I have lost a baby to miscarriage. It was in the first trimester and we reeled from it. I can't imagine how much worse it is for our friends. I am stymied by the shock and sadness of it and feel at a loss for how to help them. I pray I can find some words or kind gesture that will lessen their pain the slightest bit.
Scott and I have lost a baby to miscarriage. It was in the first trimester and we reeled from it. I can't imagine how much worse it is for our friends. I am stymied by the shock and sadness of it and feel at a loss for how to help them. I pray I can find some words or kind gesture that will lessen their pain the slightest bit.
Monday, March 20, 2006
He Hate Me
Actually, Fate hates me.
I started a book club for my MOMS Club chapter five months ago. I've been to exactly one meeting.
I've read every book. I've reviewed book club questions on-line, pondering how I would answer them. I've thought about what the major themes of the book were and how I related to each character. One month, when there was a long waiting list for the book (The Sunday Wife
) at my library, I checked out the book-on-tape version and loved it. Joan Allen narrated it and I loved listening to her soothing, beautiful voice.
But, in the end, even getting to hear Joan Allen reading a decent novel was disappointing when, in the end, I never got to talk about it with anyone.
Every month I tell the other women in the book club that I'll be there and every month something goes wrong to prevent me from coming. At this point, I'm sure they think I'm lying. Twice, Scott was sick and I didn't think I could leave Brendan with him. Once, I forgot to tell Scott and decided it wasn't fair to spring it on him at the last minute. And tonight, Brendan fell just as I was about to walk out the door. He scraped his back on our brick hearth and was really upset. By the time I got him calmed down enough that I could put him down, it was 30 minutes into our meeting time. I knew that if I tried to leave, he'd freak out again, so I gave up.
Why doesn't Fate want me to talk about good books with other women? Oh, well. At least I'm reading. It could be worse.
I started a book club for my MOMS Club chapter five months ago. I've been to exactly one meeting.
I've read every book. I've reviewed book club questions on-line, pondering how I would answer them. I've thought about what the major themes of the book were and how I related to each character. One month, when there was a long waiting list for the book (The Sunday Wife
) at my library, I checked out the book-on-tape version and loved it. Joan Allen narrated it and I loved listening to her soothing, beautiful voice. But, in the end, even getting to hear Joan Allen reading a decent novel was disappointing when, in the end, I never got to talk about it with anyone.
Every month I tell the other women in the book club that I'll be there and every month something goes wrong to prevent me from coming. At this point, I'm sure they think I'm lying. Twice, Scott was sick and I didn't think I could leave Brendan with him. Once, I forgot to tell Scott and decided it wasn't fair to spring it on him at the last minute. And tonight, Brendan fell just as I was about to walk out the door. He scraped his back on our brick hearth and was really upset. By the time I got him calmed down enough that I could put him down, it was 30 minutes into our meeting time. I knew that if I tried to leave, he'd freak out again, so I gave up.
Why doesn't Fate want me to talk about good books with other women? Oh, well. At least I'm reading. It could be worse.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
This Makes Me Sad
I heard this story on CNN this morning and it really made me feel sad and guilty. I remember when Andrea Yates killed her children. Like everyone else who has never had a child and suffered from post-partum depression, I was shocked, disgusted, and I judged her. How could a mother harm her own child? I just didn't get it.
And really, I still don't. However, having given birth and suffered from a lengthy and severe bout of the baby blues, I come a lot closer to understanding than I ever did before. There were moments after Brendan's birth when I felt like I was literally going to come out of my skin. I felt like I didn't even know myself and I felt like my son deserved a better mother than I was capable of being. Still, it never crossed my mind (thankfully) to hurt him.
I'm lucky. I happen to be very open about my emotions, though I was more guarded than usual in sharing my negative feelings after the birth of my son. I was conflicted. On the one hand, I knew I should be overjoyed at having a beautiful, healthy son. On the other, having a child was a major shock to the system! For all our planning, we had no idea how difficult it would be having a newborn and how isolated we would feel, especially me. My mother had died two years before Brendan's birth and it hit me like a ton of bricks. The one time in her life when a daughter really needs her mom and I didn't have mine.
Still, I had a loving husband who tried hard even if he couldn't fully comprehend what I was going through. I had a mother-in-law to give advice. And most importantly, I wasn't trying to deal with five children all under the age of six. My body and soul had time to recuperate without being assaulted by another pregnancy too soon. My husband didn't coerce me into leaving my career and then tell me I could have nothing to do with our neighbors or other members of society. I wasn't forced to homeschool my children because my husband was afraid of having our children influenced by modern society.
Who knows what a fragile mind is capable of when assaulted by hormones, a multitude of children, lack of sleep, and there's no one to turn to? Now, I know.... Andrea Yates could have talked to her mother, a doctor, or gone to her minister. But, as someone whose family had a history of mental illness, I'm sure she was well aware of the stigmas associated with that. Without the loving support she needed at home, I doubt she was comfortable going to strangers or friends or family members and saying, "Ya know, last night I had the strongest urge to drown my children in the bathtub." Like so many other women, I'm sure she thought, "I can handle this. I'm the mommy and I have to be strong. What will everyone think if I tell them how I really feel." I imagine, too, that her fundamentalist faith urged her to rely as much on God as on the medication she quit taking with her doctor's approval three weeks before murdering her children, as well.
Yes, Andrea Yates did a horrible thing that I can barely even think about without physically cringing. She deserves to be punished, but she deserved treatment for her mental illness as well. We should all remember that she didn't do it by herself either. Russell Yates is equally culpable for helping create the environment that led to the death of his children. He may be celebrating his honeymoon and the start of a new life today as his former wife awaits the start of a new trial, but he'll have to live the rest of his life knowing he did nothing to prevent the deaths of his children.
And the rest of us who would so quickly jump to judge? Well, I'd say, there but for the grace of God go we. We should all be aware of that and do the things we can to make sure other moms suffering from PPD or the baby blues get the help they need. Call your friends and family members who've just had babies. Make or buy a meal and drop it off. Offer to take an older child to the park so mom can focus on a new baby. Stop by and watch the new baby once a week so mom can take a nap or a bath. Wash and fold a load of laundry for her. Run some errands. Ask her how she's doing and really listen. Don't judge her or patronize her if she says she's having a hard time since the baby came. Reassure her that she's normal and help her get the help she needs. If you think she's a danger to herself or her kids, tell her husband, her doctor, or someone else better equipped to help. Just be there and let her know you care for her and her child(ren).
It's a shame no one did that for Andrea Yates or her children.
And really, I still don't. However, having given birth and suffered from a lengthy and severe bout of the baby blues, I come a lot closer to understanding than I ever did before. There were moments after Brendan's birth when I felt like I was literally going to come out of my skin. I felt like I didn't even know myself and I felt like my son deserved a better mother than I was capable of being. Still, it never crossed my mind (thankfully) to hurt him.
I'm lucky. I happen to be very open about my emotions, though I was more guarded than usual in sharing my negative feelings after the birth of my son. I was conflicted. On the one hand, I knew I should be overjoyed at having a beautiful, healthy son. On the other, having a child was a major shock to the system! For all our planning, we had no idea how difficult it would be having a newborn and how isolated we would feel, especially me. My mother had died two years before Brendan's birth and it hit me like a ton of bricks. The one time in her life when a daughter really needs her mom and I didn't have mine.
Still, I had a loving husband who tried hard even if he couldn't fully comprehend what I was going through. I had a mother-in-law to give advice. And most importantly, I wasn't trying to deal with five children all under the age of six. My body and soul had time to recuperate without being assaulted by another pregnancy too soon. My husband didn't coerce me into leaving my career and then tell me I could have nothing to do with our neighbors or other members of society. I wasn't forced to homeschool my children because my husband was afraid of having our children influenced by modern society.
Who knows what a fragile mind is capable of when assaulted by hormones, a multitude of children, lack of sleep, and there's no one to turn to? Now, I know.... Andrea Yates could have talked to her mother, a doctor, or gone to her minister. But, as someone whose family had a history of mental illness, I'm sure she was well aware of the stigmas associated with that. Without the loving support she needed at home, I doubt she was comfortable going to strangers or friends or family members and saying, "Ya know, last night I had the strongest urge to drown my children in the bathtub." Like so many other women, I'm sure she thought, "I can handle this. I'm the mommy and I have to be strong. What will everyone think if I tell them how I really feel." I imagine, too, that her fundamentalist faith urged her to rely as much on God as on the medication she quit taking with her doctor's approval three weeks before murdering her children, as well.
Yes, Andrea Yates did a horrible thing that I can barely even think about without physically cringing. She deserves to be punished, but she deserved treatment for her mental illness as well. We should all remember that she didn't do it by herself either. Russell Yates is equally culpable for helping create the environment that led to the death of his children. He may be celebrating his honeymoon and the start of a new life today as his former wife awaits the start of a new trial, but he'll have to live the rest of his life knowing he did nothing to prevent the deaths of his children.
And the rest of us who would so quickly jump to judge? Well, I'd say, there but for the grace of God go we. We should all be aware of that and do the things we can to make sure other moms suffering from PPD or the baby blues get the help they need. Call your friends and family members who've just had babies. Make or buy a meal and drop it off. Offer to take an older child to the park so mom can focus on a new baby. Stop by and watch the new baby once a week so mom can take a nap or a bath. Wash and fold a load of laundry for her. Run some errands. Ask her how she's doing and really listen. Don't judge her or patronize her if she says she's having a hard time since the baby came. Reassure her that she's normal and help her get the help she needs. If you think she's a danger to herself or her kids, tell her husband, her doctor, or someone else better equipped to help. Just be there and let her know you care for her and her child(ren).
It's a shame no one did that for Andrea Yates or her children.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Whoo-hoo! What a Great Day!
Admittedly, I have not been super-productive today, but I am having an absolutely brilliant day! Whooooo! Hooooo! Yeehaw!
Brendan woke at 3:00 a.m. as usual, but simply came and climbed into bed with Scott and me. We all went back to sleep almost instantly. I awoke at 6:30 and dozed off and on listening to NPR and CNN simultaneously (alarm radio and TV were both on) until 7:30. Got up, showered, dressed (including make-up) and was downstairs by 8:00. Brendan woke shortly afterward and demanded breakfast. He was happy with cereal, so that was fast. I made coffee and my own breakfast while he ate cereal and watched Blue's Clues.
While I tidied up the kitchen, B. played trains and had me come rescue him from the "mountain" a.k.a., the end table, every 10 minutes. Then, he played and entertained himself while I vacuumed both the upstairs and downstairs, put on a load of laundry, folded another load of laundry, made his bed and ours, and made a picnic lunch to take to the park. I also got some reading done in there. By 11:15 we were in the park.
It's a gorgeous, sunny, warm day. We played on the playground, blew bubbles, ate a delicious lunch (Brendan ate all his bell pepper and carrots! Yay for veggies he likes!) hiked on the awesome trails in the woods of the park, saw a waterfall, looked for turtles, fed the ducks, played on the playground again, then came home. Brendan wanted to have quiet time and was asleep within 10 minutes.
I did another load of laundry, listed two items on eBay, followed up on some e-mail, and best of all, worked out! A great workout that has me totally energized and feeling like I can get back in shape relatively quickly. I used to workout daily but then this fall when Brendan stopped napping, I fell off the wagon and have felt like ish ever since. If I can just make it a priority, I think within two weeks, I could be back to my old every day habit.
I may not have gotten much done, but I feel great! Now, I'm relaxing with a glass of wine, enjoying my blabbering on, Not that anyone gives a damn. But I do!
You have to savor days like this! Be thankful and share your joy!
Yay!
Brendan woke at 3:00 a.m. as usual, but simply came and climbed into bed with Scott and me. We all went back to sleep almost instantly. I awoke at 6:30 and dozed off and on listening to NPR and CNN simultaneously (alarm radio and TV were both on) until 7:30. Got up, showered, dressed (including make-up) and was downstairs by 8:00. Brendan woke shortly afterward and demanded breakfast. He was happy with cereal, so that was fast. I made coffee and my own breakfast while he ate cereal and watched Blue's Clues.
While I tidied up the kitchen, B. played trains and had me come rescue him from the "mountain" a.k.a., the end table, every 10 minutes. Then, he played and entertained himself while I vacuumed both the upstairs and downstairs, put on a load of laundry, folded another load of laundry, made his bed and ours, and made a picnic lunch to take to the park. I also got some reading done in there. By 11:15 we were in the park.
It's a gorgeous, sunny, warm day. We played on the playground, blew bubbles, ate a delicious lunch (Brendan ate all his bell pepper and carrots! Yay for veggies he likes!) hiked on the awesome trails in the woods of the park, saw a waterfall, looked for turtles, fed the ducks, played on the playground again, then came home. Brendan wanted to have quiet time and was asleep within 10 minutes.
I did another load of laundry, listed two items on eBay, followed up on some e-mail, and best of all, worked out! A great workout that has me totally energized and feeling like I can get back in shape relatively quickly. I used to workout daily but then this fall when Brendan stopped napping, I fell off the wagon and have felt like ish ever since. If I can just make it a priority, I think within two weeks, I could be back to my old every day habit.
I may not have gotten much done, but I feel great! Now, I'm relaxing with a glass of wine, enjoying my blabbering on, Not that anyone gives a damn. But I do!
You have to savor days like this! Be thankful and share your joy!
Yay!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Do Children Get Clumsier During Growth Spurts?
While I can't find any scientific evidence to back me up on this, my observations have led me to believe that toddlers get clumsy whenever they're having a growth spurt. It took me a while to put the pieces together, but I've noticed that whenever Brendan goes through a clumsy phase, after a couple of days I'll notice he seems taller.
In the last week, it seems like he's been tripping and bumping his head a lot. He's hit his head hard enough at school to require ice twice in the last week. :Yesterday, I nearly fainted when I saw the bump on his head when I picked him up at school. He had a ginormous bump with a long, narrow dark purple bruise in the center of it. It was one of those things that's so bad, the teacher tries to intercept you before you see it so you won't panic.
When I asked him what happened, Brendan told me that he was trying to hug his friend Nicholas and fell of his chair. He hit his head on the edge of the table. I guess that's what being sweet will get ya! Poor little guy!
He has also tripped over his own feet a few times in the last several days, which, when examined alone or in conjunction with all the head bumps might just mean he's a klutz like his mama. However, generally, Brendan is pretty athletic and coordinated for a little guy and not prone to too many accidents. Examined in conjunction with an increased appetite and the three-hour nap he took on Sunday along with sleeping better at night, and I think he's growing. Yay!
Still, I wish I could find something to back up my theory. All I have found on-line suggests that kids going through or entering puberty get clumsier.
Intuitively it makes sense. Suddenly there's more of you and you have to get a feel for your new body and that extra inch or extra pound. Figure out where it all goes. Realize you don't have to swing your leg quite as high to climb on the chair. Find your center of gravity.
Hopefully in a day or two, B. will have adapted. I just pray we don't end up in the ER before then.
In the last week, it seems like he's been tripping and bumping his head a lot. He's hit his head hard enough at school to require ice twice in the last week. :Yesterday, I nearly fainted when I saw the bump on his head when I picked him up at school. He had a ginormous bump with a long, narrow dark purple bruise in the center of it. It was one of those things that's so bad, the teacher tries to intercept you before you see it so you won't panic.
When I asked him what happened, Brendan told me that he was trying to hug his friend Nicholas and fell of his chair. He hit his head on the edge of the table. I guess that's what being sweet will get ya! Poor little guy!
He has also tripped over his own feet a few times in the last several days, which, when examined alone or in conjunction with all the head bumps might just mean he's a klutz like his mama. However, generally, Brendan is pretty athletic and coordinated for a little guy and not prone to too many accidents. Examined in conjunction with an increased appetite and the three-hour nap he took on Sunday along with sleeping better at night, and I think he's growing. Yay!
Still, I wish I could find something to back up my theory. All I have found on-line suggests that kids going through or entering puberty get clumsier.
Intuitively it makes sense. Suddenly there's more of you and you have to get a feel for your new body and that extra inch or extra pound. Figure out where it all goes. Realize you don't have to swing your leg quite as high to climb on the chair. Find your center of gravity.
Hopefully in a day or two, B. will have adapted. I just pray we don't end up in the ER before then.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Is This Possible?
Last night I think Brendan called me "Dummy." While this is shocking enough, what happened afterward is the part that really blew my mind and made both Scott and me realize we have an evil genius on our hands.
Remember, he's only three. A little young to lie and he's never shown a particular inclination in that direction before.
So, what did he do, you might ask? Well, after he called me "Dummy," I immediately put him in time out. When I went back in a few minutes, he asked me why he was in time out and I explained that he used an "ugly" word that we don't use in our house. That's when he told me he was just saying a Spanish word. He said, "I called you Dummyo, Mommy. That's Spanish."
While I had a very strong suspicion he was not being honest, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was all I could do not to crack up. Scott pointed out that he thought I was being duped. And I know I was. However, he was so earnest in telling me that he was using a Spanish word and so clever, I let it slide.
Next time, I won't be so generous or forgiving. It also helped that I don't think he knew what he was saying.
Remember, he's only three. A little young to lie and he's never shown a particular inclination in that direction before.
So, what did he do, you might ask? Well, after he called me "Dummy," I immediately put him in time out. When I went back in a few minutes, he asked me why he was in time out and I explained that he used an "ugly" word that we don't use in our house. That's when he told me he was just saying a Spanish word. He said, "I called you Dummyo, Mommy. That's Spanish."
While I had a very strong suspicion he was not being honest, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was all I could do not to crack up. Scott pointed out that he thought I was being duped. And I know I was. However, he was so earnest in telling me that he was using a Spanish word and so clever, I let it slide.
Next time, I won't be so generous or forgiving. It also helped that I don't think he knew what he was saying.
Thursday, March 9, 2006
From Mommy to Mom in 60 seconds flat
I knew that eventually this day would come. I just didn't anticipate it happening so soon. Today, Brendan called me "Mom" instead of "Mommy." Ack!
I didn't expect him to do that until he was at least five, maybe even six. Unfortunately, his friend Lily, who is six months older, just started calling her mother (my friend Laura) "Mom." I should have known this was coming last week when Brendan announced, "I call you Mommy, not Mom!" He has obviously been giving it some consideration.
Still, when I called to him to hurry this morning so that we could get to preschool on time and he responded, "I'm coming, Mom!" my heart stopped. No! You can't grow up this fast. I want to be your mommy. To protect you. To cuddle you. And nurture you. And yes, baby you from time to time. You can be a boy. But I will always be your mommy.
Naturally, because I'm me, I responded, "My name is Mommy or Mama, not Mom." This, of course, cracked Brendan up. And because he has his daddy's sense of humor, he started in with a sing-song chorus of "Mom, mom, mom! You're Mom! You're my Mom!"
I had to smile in spite of myself. But inside, it's a different story.
I didn't expect him to do that until he was at least five, maybe even six. Unfortunately, his friend Lily, who is six months older, just started calling her mother (my friend Laura) "Mom." I should have known this was coming last week when Brendan announced, "I call you Mommy, not Mom!" He has obviously been giving it some consideration.
Still, when I called to him to hurry this morning so that we could get to preschool on time and he responded, "I'm coming, Mom!" my heart stopped. No! You can't grow up this fast. I want to be your mommy. To protect you. To cuddle you. And nurture you. And yes, baby you from time to time. You can be a boy. But I will always be your mommy.
Naturally, because I'm me, I responded, "My name is Mommy or Mama, not Mom." This, of course, cracked Brendan up. And because he has his daddy's sense of humor, he started in with a sing-song chorus of "Mom, mom, mom! You're Mom! You're my Mom!"
I had to smile in spite of myself. But inside, it's a different story.
A Sunny Day: Nature's Miracle Cure
Yesterday afternoon I spent a couple of hours outside planting the bulbs I bought to plant last fall. I never got around to it and on Sunday I noticed they had begun to sprout. So, why not plant them, I thought.
Before going outdoors, my mind roiled with fear and worry over everything from the state of my house to my weight to how much TV Brendan was watching. However, the moment Brendan and I walked out into the warm sunshine, all my cares simply melted away.
Brendan rode his trike in the driveway while I dug in the dirt, unearthing slithery worms and creating planting beds for a variety of tulips, daffodils, daylilies, and purple drumsticks. We had fun and the warm balm of sunshine, blue skies, birdsong, and friendly neighbors somehow worked out all the kinks in my mind. When I came inside two hours later, I felt like a new woman.
After a shower, I cooked a delicious dinner, tidied up a bit, and looked around my house. It's not nearly as messy as it seemed that morning. And I feel like I can manage my other concerns. All I need are a few sunny days to keep me sane.
Before going outdoors, my mind roiled with fear and worry over everything from the state of my house to my weight to how much TV Brendan was watching. However, the moment Brendan and I walked out into the warm sunshine, all my cares simply melted away.
Brendan rode his trike in the driveway while I dug in the dirt, unearthing slithery worms and creating planting beds for a variety of tulips, daffodils, daylilies, and purple drumsticks. We had fun and the warm balm of sunshine, blue skies, birdsong, and friendly neighbors somehow worked out all the kinks in my mind. When I came inside two hours later, I felt like a new woman.
After a shower, I cooked a delicious dinner, tidied up a bit, and looked around my house. It's not nearly as messy as it seemed that morning. And I feel like I can manage my other concerns. All I need are a few sunny days to keep me sane.
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
Manifest Destiny
After a week or so of feeling great, I've had the wind knocked out of my sails. Just when Scott and I have agreed to stop trying not to get pregnant and feel like we're ready for another baby, we learn that the company he works for on a contract basis is being bought by another company.
Scott remains optimistic, thinking that his work speaks for itself and that if they re-evaluate contractors, he'll do okay. He's also much more optimistic about the idea of the possibilities that can arise if he is laid off.
I waver between optimism and abject fear. On the one hand, sometimes it takes getting laid off or some great change in life in order to propel us forward. Something really incredible could come out of this. But on the other hand, there's that fiery lump of fear in the pit of my stomach that burns through my core, constantly making me ask "What if...".
How I wish I could let go of all fear and fully embrace faith! I wish my "what ifs" were of the positive and hopeful variety: What if Scott gets laid off and then takes the time to finish his album and it becomes an overnight success and sells thousands of copies? What if he launches his own consulting firm and has more time to spend at home with Brendan and me? What if I'm propelled forward to take my freelance business to the next level? What if we move to a new city that we just adore and make tons of new friends there?
Rather, I find myself stifled by fear, though I try to put on a positive face and only say positive things aloud. Inside my mind boils and bubbles with bleak possibilities.
I think it's time to revisit my old pal Wayne Dyer. I practiced some of his techniques for powerful positive thinking and manifesting my desires in the past, but I really have a hard time maintaining focus. And, with a child, I have trouble finding the time I need to meditate, pray, and focus. I'm sure some folks manage just fine. But, right now, it's all I can manage just to keep my household afloat. Of course, maybe if I visualized things a little differently, all the things I want would just come to pass.
Any thoughts?
Scott remains optimistic, thinking that his work speaks for itself and that if they re-evaluate contractors, he'll do okay. He's also much more optimistic about the idea of the possibilities that can arise if he is laid off.
I waver between optimism and abject fear. On the one hand, sometimes it takes getting laid off or some great change in life in order to propel us forward. Something really incredible could come out of this. But on the other hand, there's that fiery lump of fear in the pit of my stomach that burns through my core, constantly making me ask "What if...".
How I wish I could let go of all fear and fully embrace faith! I wish my "what ifs" were of the positive and hopeful variety: What if Scott gets laid off and then takes the time to finish his album and it becomes an overnight success and sells thousands of copies? What if he launches his own consulting firm and has more time to spend at home with Brendan and me? What if I'm propelled forward to take my freelance business to the next level? What if we move to a new city that we just adore and make tons of new friends there?
Rather, I find myself stifled by fear, though I try to put on a positive face and only say positive things aloud. Inside my mind boils and bubbles with bleak possibilities.
I think it's time to revisit my old pal Wayne Dyer
. I practiced some of his techniques for powerful positive thinking and manifesting my desires in the past, but I really have a hard time maintaining focus. And, with a child, I have trouble finding the time I need to meditate, pray, and focus. I'm sure some folks manage just fine. But, right now, it's all I can manage just to keep my household afloat. Of course, maybe if I visualized things a little differently, all the things I want would just come to pass. Any thoughts?
PMDD
Two weeks ago, I went to the doctor after being sick for five days with what I thought might be food poisoning. While there, I decided to ask the doctor about a problem I've been having for some time. For over a year, I've been experiencing extreme anxiety and severe mood swings the week prior to getting my period. The last couple of months, I've noticed it starting around the time I ovulate and continuing until I get my period. Additionally, I've also felt confused and unable to focus on anything. I wrote it off to PMS and tried to battle it the best I could. My mother-in-law witnessed one of my meltdowns last month and suggested I talk to my doctor. So I did. Turns out, I have an extreme form of PMS called PMMD. It affects between 2-9% of all women of reproductive age (no one knows for sure because they can't even agree on whether or not it's a "real" condition.).
Unfortunately, the treatments are birth control pills, progesterone therapy, or SSRIs -- Prozac or Zoloft. None of those are acceptable options to me. So, I've been researching the issue and have found that some women respond really well to calcium supplements, increased Omega-3, and B vitamins. I'm trying a combination of the three and trying to get more exercise to see if any of it helps. If not, I don't know what I'll do.
Sadly, the condition is referenced in the DSM-IV, the handbook of mental disorders put together by the American Psychiatric Association. Rather than treating it as a naturally occurring medical condition, natural (though extreme) hormone surges are being treated as a mental disorder. Another way to label women as crazy instead of legitimizing their experiences and giving them the support they need. Men experience similar hormonal surges and cycles, but no one labels them crazy.
All that said, I just want to feel better. I want to find a way to control the hormones without putting anything too harsh into my body. I definitely think diet and lifestyle are the way to go.
Unfortunately, the treatments are birth control pills, progesterone therapy, or SSRIs -- Prozac or Zoloft. None of those are acceptable options to me. So, I've been researching the issue and have found that some women respond really well to calcium supplements, increased Omega-3, and B vitamins. I'm trying a combination of the three and trying to get more exercise to see if any of it helps. If not, I don't know what I'll do.
Sadly, the condition is referenced in the DSM-IV, the handbook of mental disorders put together by the American Psychiatric Association. Rather than treating it as a naturally occurring medical condition, natural (though extreme) hormone surges are being treated as a mental disorder. Another way to label women as crazy instead of legitimizing their experiences and giving them the support they need. Men experience similar hormonal surges and cycles, but no one labels them crazy.
All that said, I just want to feel better. I want to find a way to control the hormones without putting anything too harsh into my body. I definitely think diet and lifestyle are the way to go.
Saturday, March 4, 2006
My Heart Melts
Brendan is napping right now, curled up in his dad's favorite chair. I can see him breathing and he looks so small and sweet. His cheeks are flushed and his lips rosy. His blond hair curls up at his temples and he looks every bit of a cherub. I want to hold him and kiss the sweet spot on top of his head. All the frustrations of the morning have melted away and I regret being so wrapped up in household chores that I didn't sit down and play with him more.
Of course, I always feel that way. It's a battle for me, finding the right balance between keeping the house in some semblance of cleanliness and order and finding time to be a fun mom. I wonder what the ideal amount of time playing with one's child is. Back when he napped it was easier. He'd nap and I'd clean. Once my chores were finished if he was still napping, I got to have some time to myself. Now that he rarely naps or takes only a brief afternoon nap, I find I have to do housework while he's awake if I want the house to remain above the level of pigsty.
Sadly, none of my friends have this problem. Or so it seems. I am the only one of my friends in our neighborhood who does not have a housekeeper or maid who comes in once or twice a month. It's crazy. Stay-at-home moms with housekeepers. I thought cleaning house was part of the job description. Not that I'd complain if I could afford to have a maid. But would I? My friends spend between $120 and $180 a month to have someone clean their homes. I can think of a lot of other ways I'd spend that kind of money. That said, would it be worth it if I had an extra 2-5 hours a week not engaged in cleaning, laundry, or other chores that I could devote to my son? I don't know. That's precisely the problem.
How much time do kids need with their parents? I don't remember my mom or grandmother ever spending time playing with me or reading to me unless I was sick. I could read at three, so I read to myself. And I played by myself constantly unless cousins were visiting.
How much time do you spend playing with your kids each day? I'd love to hear how others balance household duties with giving children the time and attention they need. Does it make a difference to you that cleaning and cooking are ways you are caring for your family? Let me know...
Of course, I always feel that way. It's a battle for me, finding the right balance between keeping the house in some semblance of cleanliness and order and finding time to be a fun mom. I wonder what the ideal amount of time playing with one's child is. Back when he napped it was easier. He'd nap and I'd clean. Once my chores were finished if he was still napping, I got to have some time to myself. Now that he rarely naps or takes only a brief afternoon nap, I find I have to do housework while he's awake if I want the house to remain above the level of pigsty.
Sadly, none of my friends have this problem. Or so it seems. I am the only one of my friends in our neighborhood who does not have a housekeeper or maid who comes in once or twice a month. It's crazy. Stay-at-home moms with housekeepers. I thought cleaning house was part of the job description. Not that I'd complain if I could afford to have a maid. But would I? My friends spend between $120 and $180 a month to have someone clean their homes. I can think of a lot of other ways I'd spend that kind of money. That said, would it be worth it if I had an extra 2-5 hours a week not engaged in cleaning, laundry, or other chores that I could devote to my son? I don't know. That's precisely the problem.
How much time do kids need with their parents? I don't remember my mom or grandmother ever spending time playing with me or reading to me unless I was sick. I could read at three, so I read to myself. And I played by myself constantly unless cousins were visiting.
How much time do you spend playing with your kids each day? I'd love to hear how others balance household duties with giving children the time and attention they need. Does it make a difference to you that cleaning and cooking are ways you are caring for your family? Let me know...
Friday, March 3, 2006
There's No Place Like Atlanta in the Springtime
I love Atlanta. At least I do on gorgeous days like today. The sky is a perfect, beautiful blue with just a few wispy white clouds blowing by. The Bradford Pear trees have burst into bloom and the gorgeous Redbuds and my favorite, Tulip Poplars, give my neighborhood the infusion of pink it so desperately needs. Gorgeous yellow daffodils dance in the March breeze and my heart sings. I love this time. I love this place.
Thursday, March 2, 2006
If it ain't one thing, it's another...
My grandmother used to say that all the time when I was a child. It would seem things were always going wrong for us back then. I'm not sure I knew quite how bad off we were. How poor. How close we were from the "poor house," as my grandmother might have put it.
Trust me when I say I knew we were poor. The other kids at school certainly made me aware of that. And a few years ago, when we went back to my hometown for my mother's funeral, Scott made it painfully clear how poor I was. In fact, I think it was the first time I really knew exactly how poor I was. As we drove through the neighborhood where I lived from my birth until I left for college, Scott said, "Wow! You told me you were poor. You never said you lived in a slum."
I just managed to keep myself in a state of denial I think. I had to in order to maintain any shred of dignity as I walked the halls among the throngs of Izod and Polo clad yuppies-in-training. Somehow, despite burning up inside with humiliation because I felt less than human among what I thought of as rich kids, I managed to hold my own and not drown in my own anger and bitterness. I managed to pretend I was their equal and to be treated nicely by most of them. Because I was in the top 5% of my class academically (#15 out of 425), I managed to earn their respect and pleas for help with homework. I found a comfortable niche with a few other smart kids and lovable oddballs who didn't quite fit in. But in a happy way, not all dark and angsty. More John Hughes, less Columbine, than you might imagine.
Now, when I find myself repeating my grandmother's words, I'm saying it in reference to Brendan catching a cold on the heels of my own recovery from a virus. (And just when we almost have him sleeping through the night in his own bed.) Not because my mom wrecked the car and we can't afford to get it fixed. Or because our crazy white trash neighbors poisoned our dog.
I feel so lucky. How did I get from there to here? And why? Sometimes, I believe I'm the luckiest woman in the world. And I'm so thankful. I really, really am. My life, while it's not exactly what I imagined way back then, is so much nicer and more perfect than my mom's was, or my grandmother's, or anyone that I knew growing up. Well, except that really rich lady I babysat for.
And I love it. I love my life. But I wonder how I keep my son grounded. How do I keep him from turning into one of those kids I both envied and hated in high school?
We try not to spoil him, but by the standards I grew up with, it's already too late. He already has more toys than I had in my whole life and he has the fewest toys of all his friends. Seriously. He eats much better food than I did. And without a doubt lives in a nicer house than I ever imagined, and it's just an ordinary, 30-year old middle-class house in a middle-class subdivision.
I guess someday when he's old enough to understand, I'll sit him down and explain my origins and hope he understands. I'll continue to teach him about acts of charity and have him participate with me as we find ways to help others. Mostly, though, I want to instill in him a sense of respect for his fellow man, no matter how rich or how poor that other person is. In doing so, I hope, somewhere along the line, something my son does will make a difference in the life of someone who could use a hand.
Trust me when I say I knew we were poor. The other kids at school certainly made me aware of that. And a few years ago, when we went back to my hometown for my mother's funeral, Scott made it painfully clear how poor I was. In fact, I think it was the first time I really knew exactly how poor I was. As we drove through the neighborhood where I lived from my birth until I left for college, Scott said, "Wow! You told me you were poor. You never said you lived in a slum."
I just managed to keep myself in a state of denial I think. I had to in order to maintain any shred of dignity as I walked the halls among the throngs of Izod and Polo clad yuppies-in-training. Somehow, despite burning up inside with humiliation because I felt less than human among what I thought of as rich kids, I managed to hold my own and not drown in my own anger and bitterness. I managed to pretend I was their equal and to be treated nicely by most of them. Because I was in the top 5% of my class academically (#15 out of 425), I managed to earn their respect and pleas for help with homework. I found a comfortable niche with a few other smart kids and lovable oddballs who didn't quite fit in. But in a happy way, not all dark and angsty. More John Hughes, less Columbine, than you might imagine.
Now, when I find myself repeating my grandmother's words, I'm saying it in reference to Brendan catching a cold on the heels of my own recovery from a virus. (And just when we almost have him sleeping through the night in his own bed.) Not because my mom wrecked the car and we can't afford to get it fixed. Or because our crazy white trash neighbors poisoned our dog.
I feel so lucky. How did I get from there to here? And why? Sometimes, I believe I'm the luckiest woman in the world. And I'm so thankful. I really, really am. My life, while it's not exactly what I imagined way back then, is so much nicer and more perfect than my mom's was, or my grandmother's, or anyone that I knew growing up. Well, except that really rich lady I babysat for.
And I love it. I love my life. But I wonder how I keep my son grounded. How do I keep him from turning into one of those kids I both envied and hated in high school?
We try not to spoil him, but by the standards I grew up with, it's already too late. He already has more toys than I had in my whole life and he has the fewest toys of all his friends. Seriously. He eats much better food than I did. And without a doubt lives in a nicer house than I ever imagined, and it's just an ordinary, 30-year old middle-class house in a middle-class subdivision.
I guess someday when he's old enough to understand, I'll sit him down and explain my origins and hope he understands. I'll continue to teach him about acts of charity and have him participate with me as we find ways to help others. Mostly, though, I want to instill in him a sense of respect for his fellow man, no matter how rich or how poor that other person is. In doing so, I hope, somewhere along the line, something my son does will make a difference in the life of someone who could use a hand.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Back from the dead, so to speak
I'm back. I have no excuse for my hiatus other than being consumed with life and being under the weather.
On Monday of last week, I spent close to four hours trying to find a sitter so that Scott and I could go see Daniel Lanois at The Earl. We found out about the show very last minute and since most of our sitters are high school kids, I knew none of them would be able to come out on a Tuesday night and stay until midnight or later. The effort was worth it and at the very last minute, I found an Agnes Scott student who was free and didn't charge an arm and a leg.
It was worth it. We ate at a hole in the wall Mexican place in East Atlanta and then strolled over to The Earl. The opening act was called Telegram and we saw their last two songs, the latter of which was brilliant. I need to look them up.
Lanois was great, though he played a lot of new stuff that hasn't been recorded yet. The best of those was one he played during the encore. It was called Nomad and it rocked a little more that some of the other stuff. I was hoping to hear more off Shine, but still it was a great show. If you're not familiar with his music, check him out. Of course, if you saw Slingblade, you've heard his music. Some of the music most associated with that movie is Lanois's.
We also had a sitter previously booked for Friday so we could do dinner and a movie. Unfortunately, it turned into dinner and food poisoning. We ate at a Cuban restaurant that we have enjoyed in the past, though both of us on separate occasions have gotten sick after eating there and just wrote it off to undercooked beans or eating too much, etc. This time, there was little room for doubt that the Tito's mama's empanadas were the culprit. After deciding that there were no movies we wanted to see, we drove around Atlanta looking at all our old haunts from our single days and comparing stories. I felt sicker by the minute, but didn't have the heart to tell Scott I needed to go home. So, we ended up going to Manuel's for a drink. Manuel's was one of the first bars I went to Atlanta and remains a favorite now that I'm thirtyish and fit in there better than anywhere else. Not that we go to bars. Ever. But, it seemed like somethng to do. I drank half a bourbon and Coke and boy, was that a mistake. I felt light-headed and woozy immediately. We drove about 10 minutes toward home when I had to ask Scott to pull over so I wouldn't hurl in the car. I feel really bad for whoever parks in Reserved Parking space #2 at Emory Law School. Although, fortunately, it rained later that night, so I'm sure it was all washed away by Monday.
By the time we got home, I had a 103 degree fever and chills. I'm still feeling pretty yucky and wondering how much longer this can last. Fortunately, neither Scott nor Brendan has succumed to this, leading me to feel pretty certain it really is food posioning and not a virus.
Happy days to you all! Hope you all feel far better than I do right now!
On Monday of last week, I spent close to four hours trying to find a sitter so that Scott and I could go see Daniel Lanois at The Earl. We found out about the show very last minute and since most of our sitters are high school kids, I knew none of them would be able to come out on a Tuesday night and stay until midnight or later. The effort was worth it and at the very last minute, I found an Agnes Scott student who was free and didn't charge an arm and a leg.
It was worth it. We ate at a hole in the wall Mexican place in East Atlanta and then strolled over to The Earl. The opening act was called Telegram and we saw their last two songs, the latter of which was brilliant. I need to look them up.
Lanois was great, though he played a lot of new stuff that hasn't been recorded yet. The best of those was one he played during the encore. It was called Nomad and it rocked a little more that some of the other stuff. I was hoping to hear more off Shine, but still it was a great show. If you're not familiar with his music, check him out. Of course, if you saw Slingblade, you've heard his music. Some of the music most associated with that movie is Lanois's.
We also had a sitter previously booked for Friday so we could do dinner and a movie. Unfortunately, it turned into dinner and food poisoning. We ate at a Cuban restaurant that we have enjoyed in the past, though both of us on separate occasions have gotten sick after eating there and just wrote it off to undercooked beans or eating too much, etc. This time, there was little room for doubt that the Tito's mama's empanadas were the culprit. After deciding that there were no movies we wanted to see, we drove around Atlanta looking at all our old haunts from our single days and comparing stories. I felt sicker by the minute, but didn't have the heart to tell Scott I needed to go home. So, we ended up going to Manuel's for a drink. Manuel's was one of the first bars I went to Atlanta and remains a favorite now that I'm thirtyish and fit in there better than anywhere else. Not that we go to bars. Ever. But, it seemed like somethng to do. I drank half a bourbon and Coke and boy, was that a mistake. I felt light-headed and woozy immediately. We drove about 10 minutes toward home when I had to ask Scott to pull over so I wouldn't hurl in the car. I feel really bad for whoever parks in Reserved Parking space #2 at Emory Law School. Although, fortunately, it rained later that night, so I'm sure it was all washed away by Monday.
By the time we got home, I had a 103 degree fever and chills. I'm still feeling pretty yucky and wondering how much longer this can last. Fortunately, neither Scott nor Brendan has succumed to this, leading me to feel pretty certain it really is food posioning and not a virus.
Happy days to you all! Hope you all feel far better than I do right now!
Friday, February 10, 2006
Five Things Making Me Happy Today
In no particular order...
1. Brendan singing "Pop Goes the Weasel" as he awoke this morning. If you can wake up singing, you haven't a care in the world!
2. Duke's win a couple of nights ago against UNC. Thank you, J.J. Redick.
3. The fact that it might actually snow here on Saturday! Yay! Snow!
4. Sore muscles from working out for the first time in a week. Before last week, I hadn't worked out in three months. Before that, I used to work out five times a week. I miss it.
5. Battlestar Galactica. The inner geek is revealed.
What makes your heart rejoice today?
1. Brendan singing "Pop Goes the Weasel" as he awoke this morning. If you can wake up singing, you haven't a care in the world!
2. Duke's win a couple of nights ago against UNC. Thank you, J.J. Redick.
3. The fact that it might actually snow here on Saturday! Yay! Snow!
4. Sore muscles from working out for the first time in a week. Before last week, I hadn't worked out in three months. Before that, I used to work out five times a week. I miss it.
5. Battlestar Galactica. The inner geek is revealed.
What makes your heart rejoice today?
Thursday, February 9, 2006
Achin' To Be
I'm not sure how obviously my dark mood of gloom and doom has shone through my posts lately. Maybe not much. I'm used to being a sunny, happy person and that is the demeanor I try to project. But lately, motherhood has worn me down.
Sad that the job I thought I'd be the best at has proven the hardest and the one I seem to be the least good at. I used to be a pretty good wife, and a cute one, too. Seems I'm no longer very good at that one either.
Despite my best efforts, the woman I used to be has been subsumed, eaten away in my efforts to be a really great mom. I've given too much of myself away, coddled without being cuddled myself. I've given one too many Matchbox cars and stayed up until 3 a.m. one too many mornings without giving anything to myself.
I know I sound selfish. I admire those moms who can go for days without a shower, wearing nothing but crusty sweatpants, and those who don't crave meaningful conversations with other adults. And I admire the moms who parent on auto-pilot, making snap decisions without anguishing over whether or not they're permanently damaging the little one's psyche. I marvel at the mothers who are happy to listen to nothing but Elmo or Barney.
Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I still have Laurie Berkner, some Harry Belafonte favorites, and a few of my nostalgic favorite tunes from the Muppet Show sandwiched into my iPod between The Replacements and Van Morrison. Most days it's okay. But when I realize I've heard Day-Oh or The Dinosaur Song three times in a row without a break, that's when I start to forget who I am, much less who I once was.
I have to recover at least some portion of that woman I used to be. I've realized I don't laugh as much as I used to and I don't get to enjoy music the way I once did. To that end, I've decided there are going to be some changes around here.
I'm working on saying no a little more, on encouraging independence and "big-boyness." I'm also thinking about little things I can do for myself so that I can feel human again, and less like the mommy-robot. I bought myself some flowers at the market today for the first time in over a year, something I used to do weekly. I've decided the TV can stay off while we listen to music of my choosing. I accept that I'm not a monster if I say I can't lie down and "cuddle a minute" when I put the little guy to bed.
I'm even going to try and find a sitter for the weekend so I can have a date with my husband. I miss him. And I know he misses me.
I imagine there are some who might read this and think I'm a horrible selfish bitch. But, I want my son to grow up to respect all women as individuals with their own wants, and thoughts, and needs, and desires, and means of expressing themselves. Not as his caretakers. And I want my son to realize that his parents love for one another is as important than their love for him...if it weren't for that love, he wouldn't exist. And if that love should be neglected, his life would take an entirely different path.
It's time I stop feeling guilty for being a person and start being the person I want to be. The woman I was always meant to be.
Sad that the job I thought I'd be the best at has proven the hardest and the one I seem to be the least good at. I used to be a pretty good wife, and a cute one, too. Seems I'm no longer very good at that one either.
Despite my best efforts, the woman I used to be has been subsumed, eaten away in my efforts to be a really great mom. I've given too much of myself away, coddled without being cuddled myself. I've given one too many Matchbox cars and stayed up until 3 a.m. one too many mornings without giving anything to myself.
I know I sound selfish. I admire those moms who can go for days without a shower, wearing nothing but crusty sweatpants, and those who don't crave meaningful conversations with other adults. And I admire the moms who parent on auto-pilot, making snap decisions without anguishing over whether or not they're permanently damaging the little one's psyche. I marvel at the mothers who are happy to listen to nothing but Elmo or Barney.
Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I still have Laurie Berkner, some Harry Belafonte favorites, and a few of my nostalgic favorite tunes from the Muppet Show sandwiched into my iPod between The Replacements and Van Morrison. Most days it's okay. But when I realize I've heard Day-Oh or The Dinosaur Song three times in a row without a break, that's when I start to forget who I am, much less who I once was.
I have to recover at least some portion of that woman I used to be. I've realized I don't laugh as much as I used to and I don't get to enjoy music the way I once did. To that end, I've decided there are going to be some changes around here.
I'm working on saying no a little more, on encouraging independence and "big-boyness." I'm also thinking about little things I can do for myself so that I can feel human again, and less like the mommy-robot. I bought myself some flowers at the market today for the first time in over a year, something I used to do weekly. I've decided the TV can stay off while we listen to music of my choosing. I accept that I'm not a monster if I say I can't lie down and "cuddle a minute" when I put the little guy to bed.
I'm even going to try and find a sitter for the weekend so I can have a date with my husband. I miss him. And I know he misses me.
I imagine there are some who might read this and think I'm a horrible selfish bitch. But, I want my son to grow up to respect all women as individuals with their own wants, and thoughts, and needs, and desires, and means of expressing themselves. Not as his caretakers. And I want my son to realize that his parents love for one another is as important than their love for him...if it weren't for that love, he wouldn't exist. And if that love should be neglected, his life would take an entirely different path.
It's time I stop feeling guilty for being a person and start being the person I want to be. The woman I was always meant to be.
Same As It Ever Was
As I grappled with my conflicting emotions and the varying perspectives of all my parenting resources yesterday afternoon, it dawned on me that my problem is not my inability to choose a course of action and stick with it. My problem is my inability to say no.
Wednesday, February 8, 2006
Just Call Me Hamlet
When I became pregnant, it was a foregone conclusion that Scott and I would practice intentional parenting, as opposed to accidental parenting. I read books and telegraphed the information to Scott the best I could. I carefully weighed every decision from what to feed him, where he should sleep, and what he should eat, to less obvious choices like what he should wear.
I felt much more capable of making the right choices when he was an infant. There's not that much to it. You feed them, keep them clean and dry, help them learn how to sleep, and love them. It's pretty hard to screw that up.
With each progressive stage of childhood, however, my decision-making ability has been eroded. Despite having pretty good instincts, I choose to second-guess every move I make and end up stymied by my inability to decide. I read books, parenting web sites, talk to friends, ask my mother-in-law, ask my sisters-in-law, discuss it all with Scott, and then find myself so overloaded with contrary opinions and advice that I just don't know what to do.
Why do I do it, then? It might seem obvious to anyone else that I should just shut up and take charge. Maybe it is obvious. But I am just so dag-blasted worried about screwing up my child that I worry about every little thing.
Take potty-training, for instance. Brendan is three. I am mortified that he isn't potty-trained yet, despite having friends all around me saying that three is the right age for training. I should have done it when he was two and not as stubborn. I wanted to, but I tried a little, he didn't respond, and after listening to everyone around me, I decided to back off. Now he's freakin' three-years old! And not trained and it's all my fault.
And I'm mad at myself. And I'm mad at him. He's so stubborn (just like me, as Scott pointed out last night). I can't even get him to sit on the potty, much less use it.
So, today, I had the genius idea of showing him the new Thomas train I got for him as a reward. He immediately jumped off the bed and ran to the potty, sat down, jumped up after only one second, shouting, "I pee-peed! I pee-peed!"
When I tried to calmly and rationally explain that he did not actually pee, he FREAKED! I finally got him calm by distracting him. Gave him a lot of liquids and hoped we'd have some success. He sat on the potty for about 10 min. and nothing happened. I gave him lots of praise and affection only to have him freak out again when I said he couldn't have the train until he actually successfully used the potty.
Ultimately, he had another accident which I tried to use as a teaching opportunity. Instead, he freaked out again when I tried to get him to practice walking to the potty. He ended up crying himself to sleep, begging for the dog-gone train.
Mind you, I was calm. I didn't even raise my voice in anger or frustration this time. And still, I have failed. I wish I had not tried to bribe him. What the hell was I thinking? I wish Brendan were less stubborn and I were more patient.
And I wish for once, I could make a parenting decision and KNOW that it was the right one and not wonder if what I have done has crushed my child's soul and marked him for life.
I felt much more capable of making the right choices when he was an infant. There's not that much to it. You feed them, keep them clean and dry, help them learn how to sleep, and love them. It's pretty hard to screw that up.
With each progressive stage of childhood, however, my decision-making ability has been eroded. Despite having pretty good instincts, I choose to second-guess every move I make and end up stymied by my inability to decide. I read books, parenting web sites, talk to friends, ask my mother-in-law, ask my sisters-in-law, discuss it all with Scott, and then find myself so overloaded with contrary opinions and advice that I just don't know what to do.
Why do I do it, then? It might seem obvious to anyone else that I should just shut up and take charge. Maybe it is obvious. But I am just so dag-blasted worried about screwing up my child that I worry about every little thing.
Take potty-training, for instance. Brendan is three. I am mortified that he isn't potty-trained yet, despite having friends all around me saying that three is the right age for training. I should have done it when he was two and not as stubborn. I wanted to, but I tried a little, he didn't respond, and after listening to everyone around me, I decided to back off. Now he's freakin' three-years old! And not trained and it's all my fault.
And I'm mad at myself. And I'm mad at him. He's so stubborn (just like me, as Scott pointed out last night). I can't even get him to sit on the potty, much less use it.
So, today, I had the genius idea of showing him the new Thomas train I got for him as a reward. He immediately jumped off the bed and ran to the potty, sat down, jumped up after only one second, shouting, "I pee-peed! I pee-peed!"
When I tried to calmly and rationally explain that he did not actually pee, he FREAKED! I finally got him calm by distracting him. Gave him a lot of liquids and hoped we'd have some success. He sat on the potty for about 10 min. and nothing happened. I gave him lots of praise and affection only to have him freak out again when I said he couldn't have the train until he actually successfully used the potty.
Ultimately, he had another accident which I tried to use as a teaching opportunity. Instead, he freaked out again when I tried to get him to practice walking to the potty. He ended up crying himself to sleep, begging for the dog-gone train.
Mind you, I was calm. I didn't even raise my voice in anger or frustration this time. And still, I have failed. I wish I had not tried to bribe him. What the hell was I thinking? I wish Brendan were less stubborn and I were more patient.
And I wish for once, I could make a parenting decision and KNOW that it was the right one and not wonder if what I have done has crushed my child's soul and marked him for life.
Tuesday, February 7, 2006
Thomas the Tank Engine Cake
I thought I'd share some photos from the party.
I love this cake. It really turned out so cute! Brendan loved it. Of course, it was a battle keeping all the little boys at the party from grabbing Thomas off the top of the cake.
Birthday Party, Part Deux
The party was a roaring success, thank you very much for asking!
Ten kids between the ages of two and eight cavorting with delight. Running through a giant caterpillar obstacle course that sucks you into its mouth and then, uh...excretes you. Sliding, bouncing, jumping. Great fun for all.
Until the two unruly, wild, hateful little brats from another party showed up and starting taunting, teasing, and bullying all the smaller kids. These two hooligans (and I use that term loosely as I have the utmost respect for English soccer fans) made both Brendan and his best friend, Matthew, cry by stealing the ball they were playing with and then luring them closer with it so they could yank it away again. They also jumped off of one of the inflatables onto Matthew, knocking him to the ground. Both Scott and Matthew's dad yelled at them on separate occasions. Of course, their mother was a gem. She yelled back at Matthew's dad, saying, "I thought jumping was the whole point of this place."
Otherwise, the party was great. Brendan got the Thomas theme he had been talking about for months. The cake was precious. So cute and it actually tasted great, too. All in all, it was one of the best kid parties I've ever attended and I'm so glad we decided not to have it at home.
Ten kids between the ages of two and eight cavorting with delight. Running through a giant caterpillar obstacle course that sucks you into its mouth and then, uh...excretes you. Sliding, bouncing, jumping. Great fun for all.
Until the two unruly, wild, hateful little brats from another party showed up and starting taunting, teasing, and bullying all the smaller kids. These two hooligans (and I use that term loosely as I have the utmost respect for English soccer fans) made both Brendan and his best friend, Matthew, cry by stealing the ball they were playing with and then luring them closer with it so they could yank it away again. They also jumped off of one of the inflatables onto Matthew, knocking him to the ground. Both Scott and Matthew's dad yelled at them on separate occasions. Of course, their mother was a gem. She yelled back at Matthew's dad, saying, "I thought jumping was the whole point of this place."
Otherwise, the party was great. Brendan got the Thomas
theme he had been talking about for months. The cake was precious. So cute and it actually tasted great, too. All in all, it was one of the best kid parties I've ever attended and I'm so glad we decided not to have it at home.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
The Birthday Party
In a couple of hours we'll be heading over to BounceNBob's for Brendan's third birthday party. For some reason, I am way too nervous about this.
As I mentioned in a previous post, birthdays are a really big deal to me. My family rarely celebrated my birthday because it was very close to Christmas. Birthday gifts, when I got them, were often necessities -- a bathrobe or tennis shoes or a scientific calculator. In other words, birthdays were not much fun. So, it has become my aim to ensure that the people I love have really great birthdays and get doted on during their special day.
Last year, Scott and I decided that we would do a party for Brendan every other year. Having had a huge first birthday party, last year was an off-year. I invited a few kids from the neighborhood over to play that day and baked cupcakes. That, in turn, means that 2006 was the year of the party.
After spending an inordinate amount of time debating with myself and Scott over whether we should have the party at home or somewhere else, we decided to do it somewhere else. Brendan, too, insisted that he did not want his party at his house. That's when the insanity really set in.
I must have researched every child-friendly birthday party venue in Atlanta. Seriously. My first choice was Hobbit Hall, an adorable children's bookstore in Roswell. Their parties included a storyteller reading the child's favorite book or books on his favorite subject. Then, the children dress in party hats and parade through the store and the outdoor garden area. Unfortunately, Hobbit Hall closed recently, breaking the hearts of children and mothers throughout Atlanta.
Freak that I am, I created a spreadsheet listing all the features (good and bad) of the five birthday party sites I wanted to compare and pored over it for a week. Ultimately, we settled on BounceNBob's. Brendan has a great affinity for anything that involves jumping, tackling, diving, and running around like a lunatic, so it seemed like the ideal place. Unlike the countless other indoor playgrounds that have sprung up throughout the ATL like mushrooms in a cow pasture, Bob's caters to toddlers and preschoolers with all of their inflatables on the smaller side.
Of course, on Thursday, Brendan tells us -- in tears, no less -- that he doesn't want his party at BounceNBob's. He wants his friends to come to his house. "Too late," we declared with quavering hearts, wondering what on earth we'll do if he freaks out at his party.
So, here we are, ready to go very soon, and it looks as if he's very excited about the whole thing! We'll see how it goes.
As I mentioned in a previous post, birthdays are a really big deal to me. My family rarely celebrated my birthday because it was very close to Christmas. Birthday gifts, when I got them, were often necessities -- a bathrobe or tennis shoes or a scientific calculator. In other words, birthdays were not much fun. So, it has become my aim to ensure that the people I love have really great birthdays and get doted on during their special day.
Last year, Scott and I decided that we would do a party for Brendan every other year. Having had a huge first birthday party, last year was an off-year. I invited a few kids from the neighborhood over to play that day and baked cupcakes. That, in turn, means that 2006 was the year of the party.
After spending an inordinate amount of time debating with myself and Scott over whether we should have the party at home or somewhere else, we decided to do it somewhere else. Brendan, too, insisted that he did not want his party at his house. That's when the insanity really set in.
I must have researched every child-friendly birthday party venue in Atlanta. Seriously. My first choice was Hobbit Hall, an adorable children's bookstore in Roswell. Their parties included a storyteller reading the child's favorite book or books on his favorite subject. Then, the children dress in party hats and parade through the store and the outdoor garden area. Unfortunately, Hobbit Hall closed recently, breaking the hearts of children and mothers throughout Atlanta.
Freak that I am, I created a spreadsheet listing all the features (good and bad) of the five birthday party sites I wanted to compare and pored over it for a week. Ultimately, we settled on BounceNBob's. Brendan has a great affinity for anything that involves jumping, tackling, diving, and running around like a lunatic, so it seemed like the ideal place. Unlike the countless other indoor playgrounds that have sprung up throughout the ATL like mushrooms in a cow pasture, Bob's caters to toddlers and preschoolers with all of their inflatables on the smaller side.
Of course, on Thursday, Brendan tells us -- in tears, no less -- that he doesn't want his party at BounceNBob's. He wants his friends to come to his house. "Too late," we declared with quavering hearts, wondering what on earth we'll do if he freaks out at his party.
So, here we are, ready to go very soon, and it looks as if he's very excited about the whole thing! We'll see how it goes.
Thursday, February 2, 2006
Happy Third Birthday, Little Guy!
Three years ago at this time, I paced the floors of DeKalb Medical Center's Labor and Delivery ward, trying to will my labor along with each step. We had been at the hospital for about three-and-a-half hours and despite the fact that my water had broken six hours before, I still was not dilated more than 1 cm. After months of one-on-one birthing classes with our doula/birth educator and countless hours of meditating, doing yoga, and practicing pain tolerance techniques, I suddenly felt very fearful about my body's ability to cooperate with my mind and my will to accomplish my goal of a drug-and-intervention-free birth.
Adding to my fears was the OB on call. My worst nightmare, Dr. Sourpuss, was the worst kind of doctor. The one who distrusts her patients and doesn't listen to them. Despite having a birthplan on hand and in the hands of the nursing staff, I feared that if she had the chance, I'd be under the knife faster than you could say lawsuit.
Thankfully, I had an incredible doula who advocated for me. Who guided both me and Scott when my contractions were coming every two minutes and lasting for two minutes but getting me no closer to holding a child in my arms. Devon, our doula, performed Reikii and massage, kept me company while I was in the tub trying to relax, and made the nurses listen when I said I needed to sleep, having only had three hours of sleep before going into labor.
Finally, one of the nurses offered me a sedative that she said was safe for my child. She promised no pain relief, but said it might let me rest for a while. I took it, though I felt it was in part a failure. I dozed off quickly. After what seemed hours, but was really only an hour-and-a-half, I woke. The first thing I was aware of was Gillian Welch singing "Time the Revelator" coming from Scott's computer. The next thing I sensed was the most incredible urge to push. Exactly as all the books described it.
Scott, Devon, and Scott's mom were all talking somewhere to my side. Before I opened my eyes, I said, "I'm ready to push." I think it took them a moment to realize what I said, so I repeated myself. Suddenly, all three of them descended upon me. Devon told me to relax and she'd get the nurse. When the nurse came in, I told her, "I'm ready to push." Her response was to give me a strange look and then to say, "Well, I can check you, but the last time I checked you were still only around 1.5 cm. I doubt you've progressed that far so quickly."
I felt elated when she checked me and came up with a look of total surprise on her face. She turned to the other nurse and said, "We need to find her doctor." Turning back to me, she said, "Hold on, Honey! You're at 8 cm. It's about time. We need to get your doctor in here."
After two hours of pushing, my perfect little angel came into the world. It didn't all work out quite as blissfully as I had envisioned it, but here he was. Finally!
Now, in the blink of an eye, three years have passed. Where did they go? He's so grown-up and funny and smart. I miss the sweet, tiny, infant who would smile sweetly up at his mama as I held him and nursed him or just stared at his pretty little face. But despite the most challenging moments with this headstrong, persistent, and oh-so-active boy, I feel so blessed.
Mothering this guy has been, and continues to be, the wildest ride I've ever been on. A roller-coaster of emotion that takes me to ever-greater heights and sinks my heart with despair. All on a daily basis.
So, to Brendan, on his third birthday, I say, "Thank you for choosing me and your dad to be the ones who guide your soul through this world." We are, I hope, better people for it. More so, I hope you will be better for it, as well.
Happy Birthday, Buddy!
Adding to my fears was the OB on call. My worst nightmare, Dr. Sourpuss, was the worst kind of doctor. The one who distrusts her patients and doesn't listen to them. Despite having a birthplan on hand and in the hands of the nursing staff, I feared that if she had the chance, I'd be under the knife faster than you could say lawsuit.
Thankfully, I had an incredible doula who advocated for me. Who guided both me and Scott when my contractions were coming every two minutes and lasting for two minutes but getting me no closer to holding a child in my arms. Devon, our doula, performed Reikii and massage, kept me company while I was in the tub trying to relax, and made the nurses listen when I said I needed to sleep, having only had three hours of sleep before going into labor.
Finally, one of the nurses offered me a sedative that she said was safe for my child. She promised no pain relief, but said it might let me rest for a while. I took it, though I felt it was in part a failure. I dozed off quickly. After what seemed hours, but was really only an hour-and-a-half, I woke. The first thing I was aware of was Gillian Welch singing "Time the Revelator" coming from Scott's computer. The next thing I sensed was the most incredible urge to push. Exactly as all the books described it.
Scott, Devon, and Scott's mom were all talking somewhere to my side. Before I opened my eyes, I said, "I'm ready to push." I think it took them a moment to realize what I said, so I repeated myself. Suddenly, all three of them descended upon me. Devon told me to relax and she'd get the nurse. When the nurse came in, I told her, "I'm ready to push." Her response was to give me a strange look and then to say, "Well, I can check you, but the last time I checked you were still only around 1.5 cm. I doubt you've progressed that far so quickly."
I felt elated when she checked me and came up with a look of total surprise on her face. She turned to the other nurse and said, "We need to find her doctor." Turning back to me, she said, "Hold on, Honey! You're at 8 cm. It's about time. We need to get your doctor in here."
After two hours of pushing, my perfect little angel came into the world. It didn't all work out quite as blissfully as I had envisioned it, but here he was. Finally!
Now, in the blink of an eye, three years have passed. Where did they go? He's so grown-up and funny and smart. I miss the sweet, tiny, infant who would smile sweetly up at his mama as I held him and nursed him or just stared at his pretty little face. But despite the most challenging moments with this headstrong, persistent, and oh-so-active boy, I feel so blessed.
Mothering this guy has been, and continues to be, the wildest ride I've ever been on. A roller-coaster of emotion that takes me to ever-greater heights and sinks my heart with despair. All on a daily basis.
So, to Brendan, on his third birthday, I say, "Thank you for choosing me and your dad to be the ones who guide your soul through this world." We are, I hope, better people for it. More so, I hope you will be better for it, as well.
Happy Birthday, Buddy!
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
Sorry for the Whining
I know my last two posts saw me wallowing in the self-pity pool. Sorry!
So, what am I looking forward to today to take my mind off my selfish needs and desires? Let me tell ya...
First, Brendan and I are going to bake cupcakes to take to his school tomorrow. Tomorrow is his birthday. He will be three and I am very excited about his birthday. More so, it seems, than he.
After we get the cupcakes in the oven, we're going to make train cut-outs to use as nametags on the goodie bags I am making for his party. In accordance with the Thomas the Tank Engine theme for his party, I'm using bandanas to hold the items I bought to fill the goodie bags. We'll tie them up with some ribbon and then I'll add the train-shaped name tags. I hope they're as cute in reality as they are in my mind. We'll see I guess.
Okay. I feel better already!
So, what am I looking forward to today to take my mind off my selfish needs and desires? Let me tell ya...
First, Brendan and I are going to bake cupcakes to take to his school tomorrow. Tomorrow is his birthday. He will be three and I am very excited about his birthday. More so, it seems, than he.
After we get the cupcakes in the oven, we're going to make train cut-outs to use as nametags on the goodie bags I am making for his party. In accordance with the Thomas the Tank Engine theme for his party, I'm using bandanas to hold the items I bought to fill the goodie bags. We'll tie them up with some ribbon and then I'll add the train-shaped name tags. I hope they're as cute in reality as they are in my mind. We'll see I guess.
Okay. I feel better already!
Another Opportunity, Perhaps?
Here's one of those quandaries I hate: the non-paying gig that might, possibly, somewhere down the line turn into the chance of a paying job.
I met last night with the founder of a local organization called Foundation for Community Arts. The organization has a very ambitious aim, which I can totally get behind. They need some help with their marketing efforts, a name change, help obtaining grants. All things I would love to work on and have experience with.
The problem? They can't afford to pay me now. It would be done on a volunteer basis. Of course, if I pursue grants for them, I can charge a percentage of whatever money I obtain for them and I'm okay with that. The question is, do I have time to do the volume of work required to win a grant with only the hope of getting paid? It's hard to make yourself commit to something like that when you're spread thin anyway.
I'll have to pray about this. Something I'm struggling with right now anyway. I'm really wondering where God wants me right now. I need to work, but it seems as if I keep having the carrot of the perfect job dangled in front of me only to have it snatched away just when it's within my grasp.
Maybe this is where I'm meant to be. Using my mad skills to help my community. Wouldn't that be nice?
I met last night with the founder of a local organization called Foundation for Community Arts. The organization has a very ambitious aim, which I can totally get behind. They need some help with their marketing efforts, a name change, help obtaining grants. All things I would love to work on and have experience with.
The problem? They can't afford to pay me now. It would be done on a volunteer basis. Of course, if I pursue grants for them, I can charge a percentage of whatever money I obtain for them and I'm okay with that. The question is, do I have time to do the volume of work required to win a grant with only the hope of getting paid? It's hard to make yourself commit to something like that when you're spread thin anyway.
I'll have to pray about this. Something I'm struggling with right now anyway. I'm really wondering where God wants me right now. I need to work, but it seems as if I keep having the carrot of the perfect job dangled in front of me only to have it snatched away just when it's within my grasp.
Maybe this is where I'm meant to be. Using my mad skills to help my community. Wouldn't that be nice?
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Que Sera, Sera
Just a wee bit bummed. Last November I answered an ad for a writer to write about parenting issues for a new web site. I was, apparently, one of over 1,000 applicants for the job (it was a nationwide search). It was the perfect job: part-time, telecommuting, writing about a topic close to my heart.
I made it through three rounds of the application process. They cut it down to 70 applicants for 15 positions. The next stage of the interview process, the final stage, was to be a phone interview.
I really thought I had this job. I used visualization techniques to see myself getting the job, doing the job, etc. I found out today that I wasn't even going to get a phone interview. They've made their decisions, hired their 15.
I'm totally bummed. I was perfect for this job.
I just hope that the people hired to fill those positions need it more than I do.
I made it through three rounds of the application process. They cut it down to 70 applicants for 15 positions. The next stage of the interview process, the final stage, was to be a phone interview.
I really thought I had this job. I used visualization techniques to see myself getting the job, doing the job, etc. I found out today that I wasn't even going to get a phone interview. They've made their decisions, hired their 15.
I'm totally bummed. I was perfect for this job.
I just hope that the people hired to fill those positions need it more than I do.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Hazy Days
As we all know being sick sucks. (On a tangent, every time I use the word "sucks" I hear my mother's voice lecturing to me about how I shouldn't say it. It's the only "swear" word, she ever lectured me about.).
Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Being sick does suck. And it's only made worse by not getting any sleep. Worse than getting no sleep is getting fractured, restless sleep filled with vivid, unsettling dreams that stay with you long after you wake.
That would be today's experience for me. Brendan woke up and came to our bed around 2:00 a.m. I could still hear Scott downstairs playing some of the latest songs he's written, but don't think that's what woke B. He usually wakes between 1:00 and 3:00 lately and comes into our bed anyway. Usually he goes right back to sleep. Last night, however, he was awake until after 5:00 a.m. Wild. Cuddly. Funny. And wide awake.
Because I had taken a dose of Thera-Flu right before going to bed, I kept dozing back to sleep every few minutes. I awoke once when Brendan was tapping on my forehead to wake me. When I opened my eyes, he was staring into them, smiling. I asked what he was doing and he said,"Waking you up." Thanks, guy!
Like a fool, I let him watch the episodes of Caillou and Thomas the Tank Engine we have recorded on the DVR in our room, thinking he'd relax and go back to sleep. I think they just wound him up. Ultimately, Scott came upstairs and at around 5:00 suggested we put on some music. Thank you, Dish Network, for having Sirius channels as part of your programming! I put on the Acoustic Café and two songs later (Gillian Welch and Dave Alvin), Brendan was sound asleep. I drifted away a few minutes later, but woke up from a dream in which I slept until two in the afternoon and forgot to pick up Brendan from preschool.
In the dream, I had to walk to the school and got lost because I was in a different city and didn't know my way around. I ran into a friend and was embarrassed to admit I was lost. She helped me find my way, but gave me strange looks as if I were crazy for sleeping so long and being lost.
In another, even more bizarre dream, Scott very enthusiastically told me he's ready for another baby. This is an on-going discussion for us, so no real shock it would emerge in a dream. Just strange that in the dream, he was really excited about it and I was okay with it and agreed it was time. The dream had a sweet, pleasant, reassuring quality to it. But, on waking, it seems a distant goal. I don't think either of us is truly ready. At least, I don't think we are. But then, I guess no one is ever truly ready for having a child.
And today, with so little sleep and a cold to boot, I cringe at the thought of having to care for a newborn and a three-year old. Fortunately, for today, I don't have to.
I get to go rest until it's time to pick up my little guy. Hopefully, I won't fall asleep and wake up in a strange city two hours after I'm supposed to pick him up.
Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Being sick does suck. And it's only made worse by not getting any sleep. Worse than getting no sleep is getting fractured, restless sleep filled with vivid, unsettling dreams that stay with you long after you wake.
That would be today's experience for me. Brendan woke up and came to our bed around 2:00 a.m. I could still hear Scott downstairs playing some of the latest songs he's written, but don't think that's what woke B. He usually wakes between 1:00 and 3:00 lately and comes into our bed anyway. Usually he goes right back to sleep. Last night, however, he was awake until after 5:00 a.m. Wild. Cuddly. Funny. And wide awake.
Because I had taken a dose of Thera-Flu right before going to bed, I kept dozing back to sleep every few minutes. I awoke once when Brendan was tapping on my forehead to wake me. When I opened my eyes, he was staring into them, smiling. I asked what he was doing and he said,"Waking you up." Thanks, guy!
Like a fool, I let him watch the episodes of Caillou and Thomas the Tank Engine we have recorded on the DVR in our room, thinking he'd relax and go back to sleep. I think they just wound him up. Ultimately, Scott came upstairs and at around 5:00 suggested we put on some music. Thank you, Dish Network, for having Sirius channels as part of your programming! I put on the Acoustic Café and two songs later (Gillian Welch and Dave Alvin), Brendan was sound asleep. I drifted away a few minutes later, but woke up from a dream in which I slept until two in the afternoon and forgot to pick up Brendan from preschool.
In the dream, I had to walk to the school and got lost because I was in a different city and didn't know my way around. I ran into a friend and was embarrassed to admit I was lost. She helped me find my way, but gave me strange looks as if I were crazy for sleeping so long and being lost.
In another, even more bizarre dream, Scott very enthusiastically told me he's ready for another baby. This is an on-going discussion for us, so no real shock it would emerge in a dream. Just strange that in the dream, he was really excited about it and I was okay with it and agreed it was time. The dream had a sweet, pleasant, reassuring quality to it. But, on waking, it seems a distant goal. I don't think either of us is truly ready. At least, I don't think we are. But then, I guess no one is ever truly ready for having a child.
And today, with so little sleep and a cold to boot, I cringe at the thought of having to care for a newborn and a three-year old. Fortunately, for today, I don't have to.
I get to go rest until it's time to pick up my little guy. Hopefully, I won't fall asleep and wake up in a strange city two hours after I'm supposed to pick him up.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
A Good Old-fashioned Rant: Screw Barnes & Noble!
Okay...I have never been a Barnes & Noble fan. Their employees are pretentious writer-wannabes; their stores have an air of stuffiness and they have some sort of policy to prevent customers from accessing the cash registers to pay for things because the registers are always surrounded by rack after rack of tacky tiny books and journals and crap that nobody really wants.
Oh! And then there's the fact that Barnes and Noble giftcards always have Shakespeare on them. Who gave them the right to co-opt the Bard's image for their tacky crap?
Then, of course, is the fact that Barnes and Noble (and the other giant chain bookstores) seem intent on putting small, independents out of business, just like they did to my beloved Oxford Books, with its tiny upstairs coffeeshop, the Cup and Chaucer.
But do you know what's making my blood boil right now, what really chaps my hide?
It's the same blasted inane policy that caused me to lose my ish in the middle of a freakin' Sprint PCS store when I was seven months pregnant. Then, I screamed and yelled at the store manager, causing my saner half to try pulling me from the store while I was still yelling at the mickeyfickey!
It's the concept some retail outlets and employees have that an item sold at one of their chains cannot be returned at another. Now, I'm not talking franchises. I'm talking about corporately-owned retail outlets. The idiot at the Sprint store refused to take back a defective phone my husband had received for Christmas. My poor husband who didn't even want a cell phone, but was getting one so I could call him if I went into labor. After trying for two days to get the thing activated, someone from Sprint customer service told us to return to a store. The store manager then refused to take the return because it wasn't sold at his store and would come off his store's totals.
Okay. I get it. I was a retail sales manager for Rich's Department Stores. I tracked my department's numbers daily. I know that every return counts against you, especially if it came from another store. But guess what? You don't get to tell the customer no! And do your freakin' job right and you'll be selling me a more expensive phone anyway, you idiot!
So...how does this relate to Barnes and Noble? Well, if you return an item to a store and get a store credit as I just did today, they want you to use that store credit at the store where you returned the item so that their totals all come out even. This is what I was told today after trying to use my store credit to purchase something on-line and then being told that it wouldn't work.
I called Barnes and Noble customer no-service. After throwing out a few too many words a mommy like me should be ashamed of using, having a supervisor threaten to hang up on me because of said language, I ended up being told that I could only use the store credit at the store where I returned the item.
Nevermind the fact that the thing I want to buy costs $39 on-line, but $69.99 in the store.
Screw the customer. That's what I always say.
AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGG! I am so very, very angry about this screw-the-customer-with-our-stupid-policies nonsense that so many of these mega-stores have. I mean, when I got off the phone I really wanted to throw something or hit a Barnes and Noble employee! Really. And I'm not a violent person.
But now I feel better. Tell the world! Don't shop at Barnes and Noble! Use Amazon if you can't get to a small store. Keep a programmer in business.
Oh! And then there's the fact that Barnes and Noble giftcards always have Shakespeare on them. Who gave them the right to co-opt the Bard's image for their tacky crap?
Then, of course, is the fact that Barnes and Noble (and the other giant chain bookstores) seem intent on putting small, independents out of business, just like they did to my beloved Oxford Books, with its tiny upstairs coffeeshop, the Cup and Chaucer.
But do you know what's making my blood boil right now, what really chaps my hide?
It's the same blasted inane policy that caused me to lose my ish in the middle of a freakin' Sprint PCS store when I was seven months pregnant. Then, I screamed and yelled at the store manager, causing my saner half to try pulling me from the store while I was still yelling at the mickeyfickey!
It's the concept some retail outlets and employees have that an item sold at one of their chains cannot be returned at another. Now, I'm not talking franchises. I'm talking about corporately-owned retail outlets. The idiot at the Sprint store refused to take back a defective phone my husband had received for Christmas. My poor husband who didn't even want a cell phone, but was getting one so I could call him if I went into labor. After trying for two days to get the thing activated, someone from Sprint customer service told us to return to a store. The store manager then refused to take the return because it wasn't sold at his store and would come off his store's totals.
Okay. I get it. I was a retail sales manager for Rich's Department Stores. I tracked my department's numbers daily. I know that every return counts against you, especially if it came from another store. But guess what? You don't get to tell the customer no! And do your freakin' job right and you'll be selling me a more expensive phone anyway, you idiot!
So...how does this relate to Barnes and Noble? Well, if you return an item to a store and get a store credit as I just did today, they want you to use that store credit at the store where you returned the item so that their totals all come out even. This is what I was told today after trying to use my store credit to purchase something on-line and then being told that it wouldn't work.
I called Barnes and Noble customer no-service. After throwing out a few too many words a mommy like me should be ashamed of using, having a supervisor threaten to hang up on me because of said language, I ended up being told that I could only use the store credit at the store where I returned the item
.Nevermind the fact that the thing I want to buy costs $39 on-line, but $69.99 in the store.
Screw the customer. That's what I always say.
AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGG! I am so very, very angry about this screw-the-customer-with-our-stupid-policies nonsense that so many of these mega-stores have. I mean, when I got off the phone I really wanted to throw something or hit a Barnes and Noble employee! Really. And I'm not a violent person.
But now I feel better. Tell the world! Don't shop at Barnes and Noble! Use Amazon if you can't get to a small store. Keep a programmer in business.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Truly, Madly, Deeply
Ten years ago this week (Jan. 17, 1996), I met my husband Scott. I truly can't explain what happened. Nothing like it had ever happened to me before.
I answered an ad in Creative Loafing, a local weekly that includes classifieds for jobs, roommates, etc. And no, it wasn't a personal ad. Scott and his roommates were looking for a fourth person to share their house and I was looking for an escape from my psycho roommate, Kim. So, after responding to nine other ads and getting nowhere, I called the first ad that had caught my eye. It read something like this:
Three liberal males seek male or female to share four bedroom, three bath home with pool. Pets welcome.
It was the pool that won me over.
I called the number listed and when the hurried-sounding guy on the other end of the line said I could see the place if I was there in 15 minutes, I jumped in my car and rushed over, speeding through a school zone and getting yelled at by an angry mom in the process.
When I arrived, the guy who opened the door very nearly made me sink to my knees he was so cute. A wild mop of curly red hair, something mischievous in his eyes, and a sexy smile. Three hours later and I left with a promise that I'd hear about the room the next day.
At that point, I didn't care about the room. All I cared about was getting to know this incredible guy. But not like that. As cute as he was, all I could think about was being friends with this guy. So smart and funny and a music lover. More than that, a musician.
He called the next day and I didn't get the room. Thankfully. But I did get his heart. We went out the next night, and as they say, the rest is history. Ten years and more than a few adventures later, I'm married to my best friend. We have a beautiful son and a pretty great life.
To celebrate the anniversary of the day we met, Scott got me out of the house so that he could record a song for me. It's one of my favorites, a song my mom used to sing for me when I was a little girl. The title is my middle name.
He sent it to me in an e-mail with little fanfare, just a note that read, "You didn't think I'd forget, did you?"
It made me cry.
I feel like the luckiest woman alive.
I answered an ad in Creative Loafing, a local weekly that includes classifieds for jobs, roommates, etc. And no, it wasn't a personal ad. Scott and his roommates were looking for a fourth person to share their house and I was looking for an escape from my psycho roommate, Kim. So, after responding to nine other ads and getting nowhere, I called the first ad that had caught my eye. It read something like this:
Three liberal males seek male or female to share four bedroom, three bath home with pool. Pets welcome.
It was the pool that won me over.
I called the number listed and when the hurried-sounding guy on the other end of the line said I could see the place if I was there in 15 minutes, I jumped in my car and rushed over, speeding through a school zone and getting yelled at by an angry mom in the process.
When I arrived, the guy who opened the door very nearly made me sink to my knees he was so cute. A wild mop of curly red hair, something mischievous in his eyes, and a sexy smile. Three hours later and I left with a promise that I'd hear about the room the next day.
At that point, I didn't care about the room. All I cared about was getting to know this incredible guy. But not like that. As cute as he was, all I could think about was being friends with this guy. So smart and funny and a music lover. More than that, a musician.
He called the next day and I didn't get the room. Thankfully. But I did get his heart. We went out the next night, and as they say, the rest is history. Ten years and more than a few adventures later, I'm married to my best friend. We have a beautiful son and a pretty great life.
To celebrate the anniversary of the day we met, Scott got me out of the house so that he could record a song for me. It's one of my favorites, a song my mom used to sing for me when I was a little girl. The title is my middle name.
He sent it to me in an e-mail with little fanfare, just a note that read, "You didn't think I'd forget, did you?"
It made me cry.
I feel like the luckiest woman alive.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Why Do Women Blog?
Recently, I stumbled across excerpts from a New York Times piece that was critical of mommy blogs.
Originally published in January '05, the article offers up criticism of what the reporter, David Hochman, refers to as "baby blogs." Hochman talks about the self-absorption of the parents who chronicle the daily trials and tribulations of parenthood, saying that the blog is really a means for the parent to bitch about her own life.
Today's parents - older, more established and socialized to voicing their emotions - may be uniquely equipped to document their children's' lives, but what they seem most likely to complain and marvel about is their own. The baby blog in many cases is an online shrine to parental self-absorption.
Well, duh! With the exception of a very few political blogs, are there any on-line journals that aren't devoted to the self-absorption of the blogger? Don't we all just write about the things we feel most passionately about? If we're professional writers (as many bloggers are), aren't we just using the medium as either a means of expression or a tool to sharpen our skills or both?
I'm not all that critical of what Hochman actually wrote. I, personally, don't want to read a blog that chronicles every diaper change and bottle of someone else's child. That said, I do like the sense of knowing there are others out there like myself who love their children dearly, but hold on to the hope they can maintain some sense of their unique spirit, and not be swallowed up entirely by parenthood. I like knowing there are other people out there like myself, who aren't perfect, but who continue to strive. People who are willing to share their experiences in the hope of helping another mom or dad, just doing the best they can.
Of course, I have been thinking about why I write this blog since I created it. Why I wanted to do it in the first place. It actually took me a long time to commit to writing here even after I set up the account.
Oddly enough, today I came across this article that discusses how female bloggers are changing the face of the medium and affecting other types of media, as well. No real insights there, but the writer discusses some of the reasons women blog. Again, nothing really earth-shattering, but it did help me to admit to myself why I blog or to at least clarify the idea for me.
I am a writer. It's who I am, as much as it is what I do. I've wanted to write for a living since I was 14 years old. And I've been pursuing that aim for the entirety of my adult life. From college newspaper editor to PR flunkie to ad copywriter and Director of Marketing, I have pursued jobs that allowed me to use the one real talent I have.
Now that I stay at home with my son, I miss that. Part of who I am was made redundant, as the British like to say, when I became a mother. Oh, I have the occasional freelance job, but there's nothing like writing every day in the hope that someone will hear what you have to say and quite possibly be helped by something you've said.
Originally published in January '05, the article offers up criticism of what the reporter, David Hochman, refers to as "baby blogs." Hochman talks about the self-absorption of the parents who chronicle the daily trials and tribulations of parenthood, saying that the blog is really a means for the parent to bitch about her own life.
Today's parents - older, more established and socialized to voicing their emotions - may be uniquely equipped to document their children's' lives, but what they seem most likely to complain and marvel about is their own. The baby blog in many cases is an online shrine to parental self-absorption.
Well, duh! With the exception of a very few political blogs, are there any on-line journals that aren't devoted to the self-absorption of the blogger? Don't we all just write about the things we feel most passionately about? If we're professional writers (as many bloggers are), aren't we just using the medium as either a means of expression or a tool to sharpen our skills or both?
I'm not all that critical of what Hochman actually wrote. I, personally, don't want to read a blog that chronicles every diaper change and bottle of someone else's child. That said, I do like the sense of knowing there are others out there like myself who love their children dearly, but hold on to the hope they can maintain some sense of their unique spirit, and not be swallowed up entirely by parenthood. I like knowing there are other people out there like myself, who aren't perfect, but who continue to strive. People who are willing to share their experiences in the hope of helping another mom or dad, just doing the best they can.
Of course, I have been thinking about why I write this blog since I created it. Why I wanted to do it in the first place. It actually took me a long time to commit to writing here even after I set up the account.
Oddly enough, today I came across this article that discusses how female bloggers are changing the face of the medium and affecting other types of media, as well. No real insights there, but the writer discusses some of the reasons women blog. Again, nothing really earth-shattering, but it did help me to admit to myself why I blog or to at least clarify the idea for me.
I am a writer. It's who I am, as much as it is what I do. I've wanted to write for a living since I was 14 years old. And I've been pursuing that aim for the entirety of my adult life. From college newspaper editor to PR flunkie to ad copywriter and Director of Marketing, I have pursued jobs that allowed me to use the one real talent I have.
Now that I stay at home with my son, I miss that. Part of who I am was made redundant, as the British like to say, when I became a mother. Oh, I have the occasional freelance job, but there's nothing like writing every day in the hope that someone will hear what you have to say and quite possibly be helped by something you've said.
Monday, January 16, 2006
In the Name of the Father...
When he was a newborn, I used to hold my son and marvel at the tiny miracle he was. It was hard to believe I had played a role in bringing something so...so innocent and perfect and beautiful into the world. Whether it was hormonally-induced or not I don't know, but I would sometimes find myself so overcome with love for him and joy at his being that I could do nothing but hold him, stare at his beautiful blue eyes, and cry.
In those moments, I found myself praying, "Thank you, Lord, for this gift. Thank you for trusting me with this tiny, perfect soul. I pray that you will give me the strength, the wisdom, and the grace to be worthy of this child's love." Holding Brendan, I truly felt God's presence. Back then, in addition to these spontaneous prayers, I found I could indulge my spirit easily, writing when my son napped. Praying and practicing a few meditations before he woke in the mornings. Reading this or that book on parenting, or motherhood, or just a simple, good work of fiction when I got the chance. All of those contributed to my spiritual well-being.
Now that Brendan is older, it is, of course, harder. Daily life leads little time to express my thanksgiving, though, I do find myself constantly asking for help. Not something to be dismissed, but not an entirely joyful experience. In addition to my own spiritual longings, I find that I feel increasingly responsible for teaching him about God and I have a growing longing to see my son have a meaningful connection to God, be it through Nature, Art/Creation, or the Church, or as I have experienced God through all those things.
Thankfully, I do believe that God knows us and the longings of our hearts. Even though I may feel spiritually disconnected and sense the lack in my life, I know that when things do settle down as Brendan gets older, I will be able to once again indulge my spirit with the things that truly matter to my soul. Until then, I will go through the motions of mealtime blessings, holiday rituals, going to Church, praying in a truly, deeply meaningful way whenever I can, weeping at a perfect sunset, and freezing to death so I can glimpse the silvery moon on a crystal clear January night. Hopefully, Brendan will pick up on the fact that these things, as ordinary as they seem, do matter and are a way to bridge the gap between the seen and unseen, the mundane and the Divine.
And I will continue to seek God's divine presence in my son and in myself every time I look at his beautiful face.
In those moments, I found myself praying, "Thank you, Lord, for this gift. Thank you for trusting me with this tiny, perfect soul. I pray that you will give me the strength, the wisdom, and the grace to be worthy of this child's love." Holding Brendan, I truly felt God's presence. Back then, in addition to these spontaneous prayers, I found I could indulge my spirit easily, writing when my son napped. Praying and practicing a few meditations before he woke in the mornings. Reading this or that book on parenting, or motherhood, or just a simple, good work of fiction when I got the chance. All of those contributed to my spiritual well-being.
Now that Brendan is older, it is, of course, harder. Daily life leads little time to express my thanksgiving, though, I do find myself constantly asking for help. Not something to be dismissed, but not an entirely joyful experience. In addition to my own spiritual longings, I find that I feel increasingly responsible for teaching him about God and I have a growing longing to see my son have a meaningful connection to God, be it through Nature, Art/Creation, or the Church, or as I have experienced God through all those things.
Thankfully, I do believe that God knows us and the longings of our hearts. Even though I may feel spiritually disconnected and sense the lack in my life, I know that when things do settle down as Brendan gets older, I will be able to once again indulge my spirit with the things that truly matter to my soul. Until then, I will go through the motions of mealtime blessings, holiday rituals, going to Church, praying in a truly, deeply meaningful way whenever I can, weeping at a perfect sunset, and freezing to death so I can glimpse the silvery moon on a crystal clear January night. Hopefully, Brendan will pick up on the fact that these things, as ordinary as they seem, do matter and are a way to bridge the gap between the seen and unseen, the mundane and the Divine.
And I will continue to seek God's divine presence in my son and in myself every time I look at his beautiful face.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Goals for the New Year
Perhaps because it falls so close to the beginning of the year, I have found in recent years, that my birthday has become the time that I ponder what lies ahead and try to set some goals for myself. Last year, I was fairly successful getting in better shape and losing some weight. Of course, I stalled out after a while.
So, what are this year's goals?
Well, I'd like to lose even more weight and have a more defined and toned body. I think I'll start with the Stripilates workout. All the reviews I've read of it are really positive. I just want to feel sexy again and I think this might help.
Next, I'd like to adopt a more positive outlook and just generally allow myself to be happier. I'll have to figure out how exactly to accomplish that. I'll get back to you with more concrete ideas when I have them.
Of course, getting Brendan potty trained is a major goal and I do think it might decrease my tension level once it's done. Right now, I'm following some of the ideas found on Dr. Greene's site.
And finally, one of my major goals is for Scott and I to spend more time together alone. It can be a weekly date night. It can (please, oh, please!) be a weekend trip. Whatever it is, we need it. The couple of hours we get each night after Brendan is in bed and before I crash, just aren't enough. I miss the way things used to be with my husband. I know having children changes that dynamic, but I am determined not to fall into the "mommy trap." wherein I sacrifice everything, including my marriage and my sanity, for the sake of my children.
Truly, a believe that a happy, thriving marriage makes mommy a better mommy, daddy a better daddy, and the kids will benefit as much as anyone else.
So, what are this year's goals?
Well, I'd like to lose even more weight and have a more defined and toned body. I think I'll start with the Stripilates
workout. All the reviews I've read of it are really positive. I just want to feel sexy again and I think this might help. Next, I'd like to adopt a more positive outlook and just generally allow myself to be happier. I'll have to figure out how exactly to accomplish that. I'll get back to you with more concrete ideas when I have them.
Of course, getting Brendan potty trained is a major goal and I do think it might decrease my tension level once it's done. Right now, I'm following some of the ideas found on Dr. Greene's site.
And finally, one of my major goals is for Scott and I to spend more time together alone. It can be a weekly date night. It can (please, oh, please!) be a weekend trip. Whatever it is, we need it. The couple of hours we get each night after Brendan is in bed and before I crash, just aren't enough. I miss the way things used to be with my husband. I know having children changes that dynamic, but I am determined not to fall into the "mommy trap." wherein I sacrifice everything, including my marriage and my sanity, for the sake of my children.
Truly, a believe that a happy, thriving marriage makes mommy a better mommy, daddy a better daddy, and the kids will benefit as much as anyone else.
Happy Birthday to Me!
For me, birthdays have always been a mixed blessing. Part celebration, part time to mourn.
As a child, I mourned the fact that I didn't have parties and get fabulous gifts the way so many other kids did. I hated my mom for that, thinking her inept and insensitive. Now, as an adult planning my son's birthday parties, I realize the effort and expense that goes into them and I know that it would have been terribly difficult for a single mom working two jobs to make ends meet to pull it off.
She tried a couple of times. When I was in kindergarten she made a cake and brought it to school for my class. My poor clueless, selfish mom. She made some kind of banana nut cake from a mix that happened to be her favorite. None of the other kids liked it and I'm sure they teased me about it. Another year, she actually made cupcakes. That year, my birthday fell on Friday the 13th and it snowed so heavily school was closed. I cried so hard. My one chance to feel normal and fate snatches it away from me.
In the years since, I have vowed not to let triskaidekaphobia rob me of my fun and have made many a concerted effort to have the Friday birthdays be the best!
So, here we are today...Friday, January 13, 2006. I'm 36 today and waffling between mourning the 30s that have flown by so quickly and celebrating this wonderful life I have!
Thankfully, my amazing husband doesn't let me feel mopey for long. He and our sweet boy gave me my gifts last night (Dior's Pure Poison perfume set with bath gel and lotion and an amazing Henri Bindel Quince scented candle!) and they sang "Happy Birthday" to me. In fact, Brendan has been singing it to me all week. He keeps asking about my party. It's darling really.
The best gift, really, has been all the love and tender support Scott has shown me this week. I had an amazing job interview for a sales job at the site where he and I got married, Primrose Cottage. The sales manager loved me and offered me the job on the spot. Scott indulged me while I fantasized about nannies and housekeepers and a life outside this house before turning the job down because it didn't pay enough.
Last night, when I had a moment of sadness accepting the fact that I'm closer to 40 than 30 now and thinking of all I don't have and haven't done, he reminded me that at that moment I was younger and older than at any other point in my life. And as a simple as that sounds, that means a lot to me.
Then, of course, I also have the words of Pierce Brosnan, which Scott shared with me in my birthday card last year: "To my eye, women get sexier around 35. They know a thing or two, and knowledge is always alluring."
When I think about all I do have, the gifts and blessings that have come to me, I know what a lucky woman I am and I am so grateful! A sweet, thoughtful husband, a precious son, my beautiful dog and crazy cat, a warm, safe, beautiful house, friends, family, the life that lies ahead of me.
So, here's to 36! It's better than the alternatives!
As a child, I mourned the fact that I didn't have parties and get fabulous gifts the way so many other kids did. I hated my mom for that, thinking her inept and insensitive. Now, as an adult planning my son's birthday parties, I realize the effort and expense that goes into them and I know that it would have been terribly difficult for a single mom working two jobs to make ends meet to pull it off.
She tried a couple of times. When I was in kindergarten she made a cake and brought it to school for my class. My poor clueless, selfish mom. She made some kind of banana nut cake from a mix that happened to be her favorite. None of the other kids liked it and I'm sure they teased me about it. Another year, she actually made cupcakes. That year, my birthday fell on Friday the 13th and it snowed so heavily school was closed. I cried so hard. My one chance to feel normal and fate snatches it away from me.
In the years since, I have vowed not to let triskaidekaphobia rob me of my fun and have made many a concerted effort to have the Friday birthdays be the best!
So, here we are today...Friday, January 13, 2006. I'm 36 today and waffling between mourning the 30s that have flown by so quickly and celebrating this wonderful life I have!
Thankfully, my amazing husband doesn't let me feel mopey for long. He and our sweet boy gave me my gifts last night (Dior's Pure Poison
perfume set with bath gel and lotion and an amazing Henri Bindel Quince scented candle!) and they sang "Happy Birthday" to me. In fact, Brendan has been singing it to me all week. He keeps asking about my party. It's darling really. The best gift, really, has been all the love and tender support Scott has shown me this week. I had an amazing job interview for a sales job at the site where he and I got married, Primrose Cottage. The sales manager loved me and offered me the job on the spot. Scott indulged me while I fantasized about nannies and housekeepers and a life outside this house before turning the job down because it didn't pay enough.
Last night, when I had a moment of sadness accepting the fact that I'm closer to 40 than 30 now and thinking of all I don't have and haven't done, he reminded me that at that moment I was younger and older than at any other point in my life. And as a simple as that sounds, that means a lot to me.
Then, of course, I also have the words of Pierce Brosnan, which Scott shared with me in my birthday card last year: "To my eye, women get sexier around 35. They know a thing or two, and knowledge is always alluring."
When I think about all I do have, the gifts and blessings that have come to me, I know what a lucky woman I am and I am so grateful! A sweet, thoughtful husband, a precious son, my beautiful dog and crazy cat, a warm, safe, beautiful house, friends, family, the life that lies ahead of me.
So, here's to 36! It's better than the alternatives!
Thursday, January 5, 2006
The Art of Feeling Guilty
I think there's a real reason moms are known for dishing out the guilt. It's because they do. However, there's also a reason they're so good at it.
I've only been a mom for three years (and nine months, if you're counting gestation) and I've already managed to create enough guilt for myself to last a lifetime. I might as well spread the wealth.
Hell, I came home from the hospital feeling guilty because I couldn't breastfeed my son. I spent two sleepless nights in the hospital with him screaming bloody murder because he was hungry and I had no idea. I tried nursing him, but he would pull away, leading me to believe he was full. Poor guy was trying to tell me he wasn't getting anything. I wasn't producing enough colostrum or milk to sate his hungry little belly. And the nurses were no help. Not one of them ever suggested it might be hunger. They told me he was upset because I was upset. Welcome to the Wide, Wide World of Guilt.
After Brendan spent several hours under the bililights and our pediatrician convinced me that I had no choice but to supplement our breastfeeding with formula, we came home where I tried to discern what had gone wrong and how I could increase my milk production. And that was my first mistake.
Everywhere I turned for support, advice, or comfort, I found nothing but guilt, guilt, and more guilt. On one breastfeeding support board, I actually had another mother tell me that I was poisoning my son by giving him formula. She (and several others) suggested that I stop giving him formula immediately and only offer him the breast. She said that within five days my milk should come in. But when I tried this, he would try to nurse, staying on the breast for up to 30 or 45 minutes, only to start screaming his little head off within a few minutes because he was still hungry. I simply could not bear to see my son starving in this manner. I would pump fruitlessly and desperately, never getting more than 1/2 an ounce of breastmilk even after pumping for an hour with a good electric pump. I ended up going back to supplementing with formula after only two days, questioning the decision and counting myself as a failure and a quitter because I couldn't deal with a little crying from a starving newborn.
I was doing the very best I could. Yet, because a select group of women deemed themselves the arbiters of good mothering, I found myself so consumed with guilt and shame that I spent the first month of my son's life in misery because my body wouldn't do it's job. Never mind the fact that he was thriving.
I still feel sad that I wasn't able to exclusively nurse my son. In hindsight, I realize that I did absolutely everything within my power to nurture my son. If I hadn't supplemented with formula, who knows what complications might have resulted from a lack of proper nutrition in those first few weeks? Instead he thrived! He grew into a happy and contented little fellow who began sleeping through the night when he was eight weeks old.
He's three now and has never had an ear infection. I'm convinced this is a direct result of being on soy formula and not having any dairy until he was 12 months old. He has been incredibly healthy despite my only nursing him for 12 weeks.
Sadly, it has taken me this long to come to terms with this issue. And how many other issues have been wrapped expertly in the layer of guilt I apply to everything that isn't perfect?
Fortunately, I've discovered I'm not alone in this. Every mom I speak with on this topic finds herself conflicted when it comes to issues of parenting. One neighbor went back to work because she didn't feel fulfilled as a stay-at-home mother and would often find herself screaming at her kids out of frustration and anger. But then, when she returned to work she felt guilty for putting her own sanity ahead of what she had been told was best for her kids. Despite every ounce of evidence to the contrary -- she was a far better mother when she was working because she was a happier person -- she left her job after only a few months. She couldn't accept the fact that it's okay for a parent to put herself first sometimes and that having a stay-at-home parent is not necessarily the best option for every family, even if finances allow it.
Another mother I know, eats herself up with guilt whenever she yells at her kids. I'll admit I do the same thing. No sane parent enjoys yelling at her kids. But we're human and we make mistakes. The best we can do is admit when we're wrong and apologize for the way we might have mishandled a situation. Guilt, however, is simply not helpful. In fact, I'd venture to say it's quite harmful to us and our relationships with our children.
First, if end up yelling at our kids because they're not listening or following directions, and then we let ourselves become consumed with guilt, the next time we need to correct a child, we may find ourselves hesitating and not taking appropriate action. The kid will sense your fickleness and frailty and you'd better believe they'll take advantage of it.
I don't really have answers. Just hope. Hope that I can win the battle with guilt. Hope that I can encourage friends and loved ones who might be fighting the same battle.
Psychotherapist and social worker Debra Rosenberg extends the hand of hope in her book Motherhood Without Guilt. She explores the underlying causes of "mommy guilt" and offers practical, constructive approaches for escaping the cycles of guilt. Key to her approach, I believe, is reinforcing the notion that women need to take care of themselves in order to take proper care of their families.
Now, if only we can all indulge ourselves in a little "me time" without feeling bad, we'll be well on our way toward ridding ourselves of the plague of guilt.
I've only been a mom for three years (and nine months, if you're counting gestation) and I've already managed to create enough guilt for myself to last a lifetime. I might as well spread the wealth.
Hell, I came home from the hospital feeling guilty because I couldn't breastfeed my son. I spent two sleepless nights in the hospital with him screaming bloody murder because he was hungry and I had no idea. I tried nursing him, but he would pull away, leading me to believe he was full. Poor guy was trying to tell me he wasn't getting anything. I wasn't producing enough colostrum or milk to sate his hungry little belly. And the nurses were no help. Not one of them ever suggested it might be hunger. They told me he was upset because I was upset. Welcome to the Wide, Wide World of Guilt.
After Brendan spent several hours under the bililights and our pediatrician convinced me that I had no choice but to supplement our breastfeeding with formula, we came home where I tried to discern what had gone wrong and how I could increase my milk production. And that was my first mistake.
Everywhere I turned for support, advice, or comfort, I found nothing but guilt, guilt, and more guilt. On one breastfeeding support board, I actually had another mother tell me that I was poisoning my son by giving him formula. She (and several others) suggested that I stop giving him formula immediately and only offer him the breast. She said that within five days my milk should come in. But when I tried this, he would try to nurse, staying on the breast for up to 30 or 45 minutes, only to start screaming his little head off within a few minutes because he was still hungry. I simply could not bear to see my son starving in this manner. I would pump fruitlessly and desperately, never getting more than 1/2 an ounce of breastmilk even after pumping for an hour with a good electric pump. I ended up going back to supplementing with formula after only two days, questioning the decision and counting myself as a failure and a quitter because I couldn't deal with a little crying from a starving newborn.
I was doing the very best I could. Yet, because a select group of women deemed themselves the arbiters of good mothering, I found myself so consumed with guilt and shame that I spent the first month of my son's life in misery because my body wouldn't do it's job. Never mind the fact that he was thriving.
I still feel sad that I wasn't able to exclusively nurse my son. In hindsight, I realize that I did absolutely everything within my power to nurture my son. If I hadn't supplemented with formula, who knows what complications might have resulted from a lack of proper nutrition in those first few weeks? Instead he thrived! He grew into a happy and contented little fellow who began sleeping through the night when he was eight weeks old.
He's three now and has never had an ear infection. I'm convinced this is a direct result of being on soy formula and not having any dairy until he was 12 months old. He has been incredibly healthy despite my only nursing him for 12 weeks.
Sadly, it has taken me this long to come to terms with this issue. And how many other issues have been wrapped expertly in the layer of guilt I apply to everything that isn't perfect?
Fortunately, I've discovered I'm not alone in this. Every mom I speak with on this topic finds herself conflicted when it comes to issues of parenting. One neighbor went back to work because she didn't feel fulfilled as a stay-at-home mother and would often find herself screaming at her kids out of frustration and anger. But then, when she returned to work she felt guilty for putting her own sanity ahead of what she had been told was best for her kids. Despite every ounce of evidence to the contrary -- she was a far better mother when she was working because she was a happier person -- she left her job after only a few months. She couldn't accept the fact that it's okay for a parent to put herself first sometimes and that having a stay-at-home parent is not necessarily the best option for every family, even if finances allow it.
Another mother I know, eats herself up with guilt whenever she yells at her kids. I'll admit I do the same thing. No sane parent enjoys yelling at her kids. But we're human and we make mistakes. The best we can do is admit when we're wrong and apologize for the way we might have mishandled a situation. Guilt, however, is simply not helpful. In fact, I'd venture to say it's quite harmful to us and our relationships with our children.
First, if end up yelling at our kids because they're not listening or following directions, and then we let ourselves become consumed with guilt, the next time we need to correct a child, we may find ourselves hesitating and not taking appropriate action. The kid will sense your fickleness and frailty and you'd better believe they'll take advantage of it.
I don't really have answers. Just hope. Hope that I can win the battle with guilt. Hope that I can encourage friends and loved ones who might be fighting the same battle.
Psychotherapist and social worker Debra Rosenberg extends the hand of hope in her book Motherhood Without Guilt
. She explores the underlying causes of "mommy guilt" and offers practical, constructive approaches for escaping the cycles of guilt. Key to her approach, I believe, is reinforcing the notion that women need to take care of themselves in order to take proper care of their families.Now, if only we can all indulge ourselves in a little "me time" without feeling bad, we'll be well on our way toward ridding ourselves of the plague of guilt.
Friday, December 30, 2005
And You Thought Bumpershoot Was a Cool Word
Like all kids, Brendan has come up with quite a few words of his own creation. Some were mere mispronunciations, like "mutmo," which eventually evolved into oatmeal. For months, Cooper, our dog, was called "Cooptu," and car is still often, "tar."
My favorites, though, are the words that combine two other words or thoughts, into one new, unusual word. Try as we may, we can't convince Brendan that the device that protects you from the rain is not actually a "rainbrella." Nor does he believe us when we tell him that it's actually a telescope and not a "piratescope."
Truth be told, I don't try all that hard to correct him. I work on the mispronunciations. But the quirky words and phrases, I know, will fade away on their own. He's showing signs of pre-reading. He constantly asks what letter everything starts with and his favorite letter is "B." "I start with B," he shouts gleefully. And I know my days of laughing at his oddball words are to be short-lived.
So, for now, I'll enjoy every one of his adorable expressions and pray I can keep the days at bay when he'll roll his eyes in embarrassment when I remind him to take his "rainbrella."
My favorites, though, are the words that combine two other words or thoughts, into one new, unusual word. Try as we may, we can't convince Brendan that the device that protects you from the rain is not actually a "rainbrella." Nor does he believe us when we tell him that it's actually a telescope and not a "piratescope."
Truth be told, I don't try all that hard to correct him. I work on the mispronunciations. But the quirky words and phrases, I know, will fade away on their own. He's showing signs of pre-reading. He constantly asks what letter everything starts with and his favorite letter is "B." "I start with B," he shouts gleefully. And I know my days of laughing at his oddball words are to be short-lived.
So, for now, I'll enjoy every one of his adorable expressions and pray I can keep the days at bay when he'll roll his eyes in embarrassment when I remind him to take his "rainbrella."
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