As with many mom-blogs, I have to begin this entry with the disclaimer that yes, despite the following evidence, I really do love my children.
That said, my story begins in with a two year old who likes to play with Mommy's cell phone. The fun, as many of you may know, is in imitation. She'll greet the non-existent recipient of her pretend call politely, usually order a cheeseburger, with "fren-fries," close with a gentle "bye-bye," then announce to the room at large the substance of the call. "It was Grandpa. I got da burger. Wit cheese." She'll proclaim before repeating the call to Grandma, Nana, Gandad, Daddy (even if Daddy is in the room), Owen, and whatever daycare friends she can remember. This, in itself, is not really worth mentioning. However, once her audience (=me) gets bored with this scenario, she'll often drift into a bit of a trance (sometimes sesame street induced) and start, well, drooling or licking the phone. While I try to curb this behavior, it seems I was not diligent in the matter.
At one point, my phone announced "Car Kit." This, I learned after a brief Internet search, was verizon speak for "your phone got sucked on by your toddler." Really. I'm not kidding. Someone else had the exact same problem when her 18 month old got her little mits (and mouth) on her phone. Solution, take out battery and wipe off the battery connections.
Well, as time went on, I started getting complaints about my phone. "Hello. Are you on the moon?" became a regular greeting from my callers. Irritating thought it was, I wasn't annoyed enough with the problem to talk to the cell phone people. That is, until "Car Kit" again announced the presence of my daughter's drool... or so I thought.
When "Car Kit" appears on the cell screen, the sounds don't work. Everything else appears to function as normal. It looks like you're dialing an emergency call, but no, you won't hear them, they won't hear you. Sooo, it is imperative that the phone is taken to a technician for assistance. So I went to the Verizon store -- a place that requires all employees to look like young business students. It's like they are prepared at any point for a camera crew to come in for their next brochures. These people are pretty. I guess they save the dorks for the mall outlets. Anyway. Cute as they are, they don't always deliver good news. Upon seeing the "car kit" error message, decent-looking technician 1 took the phone from me and punched a lot of buttons. "Let me see if I can help you with this so you won't have to wait for the the (guy-who-knows-what-he's-doing)." No dice. DLT-1 is very confused at why he can't hear the prompts -- even though I told him he wouldn't be able to.
Anyway, once I got to DLT-2 (who was hired, I think, because he flirts with all the housewives) took one look at it and said, I'm paraphrasing here, "you're screwed, don't let your kid suck on your phone you moron." Damn. "But we can give you a replacement for $50." So I took the replacement, vowing to keep this phone away from the little people in our household (easy, now is not the time for short jokes).
Two days after the replacement order, we arrived home to find a "Sorry we missed you" note from FedEx. This note is usually helpful as the first line tells you when you can go to the store and pick up your urgent package. Unfortunately, our FedEx delivery person filled that blank ("you may pick up you package after (blank) today") with "not today." So, after calling FedEx to double check that the package was indeed our requested phone, I signed the paper to have it left on our doorstep.
It arrived on Day 3. That evening, I took the phone to the Verison store to have my information transfered and the new phone activated. "You know," DLT-3 says, "We could have fixed the car kit message. Why did you decide to get a whole new phone?"
Come again?
So I wait while DLT-3 tries to fix the phone only to find out that it was, in fact, sucked to death.
Info transfered. And now I have a new phone (well, not "now" now, but "now" as it "at this point in the story.")
Two days go by while I happily use my new phone. Then comes Monday. Ah Monday. You know why you get a bad wrap Monday? It's because shitty (foreshadowing pun intended) things happen on Mondays and then you just have the rest of the week to look forward to.
Mid-Monday-morning, I get a call. After scrambling to figure out why there is a choo-choo sound following me for a few minutes, I realize my new phone is "ringing" in my back pocket. I make a mental note to change the ringer and answer the call. Work needs me to come in. Ok, no problem. I sit on the couch for another ten minutes while watching the end of the show I was watching. While I'm sitting there, I am mindlessly rubbing the fingerprints off the little camera on my precious new phone. Show ends and I announce to my little "cherubs" that it's time to go to Mommy's work. I send Rhianna to go potty while I go get Owen's shoes. Rhianna announces she's all done and I go in, help her wipe, and then take my turn. Owen follows me in and is hanging by my left side (this will be important later).
Ready to go checklist: juice for toddlers, check; snacks for emergencies, check; diapers, check; wipes, check; wallet, check; phone (reaching into LEFT sweatshirt pocket), missing. Huh, WHERE could it have gone? After searching for about 20 minutes, I email Dave to call me thinking I'll hear it ring. I've now turned the entire downstairs upside down and can't find the phone. Getting nervous about the amount of time that has passed since the request from work came in, I figure that I've gone nowhere, it must be here somewhere so I'll find it later. (Which I will.)
Off to work. At every chance I get, I ransack the diaper bag thinking I must have put it in there. No dice. So I do my duties at work, get Dave for lunch, bitch a little about misplacing my phone. Bla bla bla. The kids and I go home and they take a nap. I look around for my phone some more to no avail. Kids wake up.
After playing for a few minutes, Rhianna announces she needs to go potty. Go for it. She pretty much does this herself most of the time now so I just let her go until the announcement of "Mamma! No flush toilet!" Huh???
I go in to see a small amount of soggy toiletpaper floating around and otherwise (well, other than the water) empty bowl. Hmm. What would YOU do? Well, I feel like I followed my instinct when it said "Try again to flush." Upon trying to flush the toilet again, it did the scary almost-overflow thing that plugged toilets usually do. Next step, the plunger.
The first trouble with the plunger is that now that it has been used in front of them, both kids know the purpose of the plunger and think this should be a regular activity. The second is that they usually end up unveiling a disgusting, toilet-plugging pile of poo. Oh well, gotta unplug the toilet somehow. So in I go.
Plunge One. Nothing.
Plunge two. Gurgle. I try the flush again. Some water goes down, but definitely not that satisfying "glug-glug" of a properly flushed toilet.
Plunge three. Something dark. (Insert preparing-for-something-yucky face.)
Wait. Poop isn't metallic.
I go to the computer, "Dave?"
"yeah?"
"I found the phone."
I repeat, I really do love my kids. I have to. Otherwise they might not have lived.
PS, Kara, if you're reading this, I have, for the record, just completed my first official "dad-zen breath." And I'm pretty sure I had the concentric square forehead and everything.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Eye to eye
Eye to eye
For most of my life, I’ve had pretty good vision. Literally. Not until mid-way through college did the subject of glasses ever arise. And when it did, it was not a high-priority item. As an art major, I was not required much reading and, well, let’s just say that artistic vision does not require 20/20 eyesight. Take Van Gogh, whose effed up eyesight (glaucoma was it?) inspired such renown artistic contributions to modern art history as Starry Night. Anyhow, I’m getting off-topic. My point is, on the whole, I see fairly well.
My first eye-exam after which I was recommended glasses for reading/computer work/etc. was …maybe…2000? A few years later, having lost those glasses, I noticed my vision seemed to have changed so I had my eyes checked a second time. Here are your glasses Bridget. Well, after a few years of not wearing those glasses (and losing them), I noticed my vision bothering me yet again. By this point I was pregnant with Rhianna. I decided to wait until after my pregnancy because pregnancy screws with everything so I wasn’t sure if it was my eyes or my hormones. Before I remembered I was supposed to get my eyes checked, I was pregnant with Owen and about 2 months or so after I had him I found my first pair of glasses (the 2000 pair) in an old coat pocket.
You know how glasses are shaped to the wearer’s face? Mine, having been through who-knows-what in the pocket of my ex-ski jacket, would only only fit my face is if my head were a pancake. So I took them to an optical center to have them fixed.
Rebecca, the lovely lady working at the optical center, was clearly not having a stellar day when I arrived and asked if she could bend my frames so that I could see out of both lenses at once. She was helpful and polite, but as the frame of my long-lost pair of glasses snapped in her hands as she was trying to fix them, I could tell it was the icing on the cake of a terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-day. Trying to make amends, she offered to replace the frames. That'd be great Rebecca. Oh wait, wey don’t carry that frame – and lenses don’t fit in just any frame. So we’ll have to pick a new pair of frames. Sure. Oh wait, you don’t have a prescription on file within the past two years. You’ll need to make an appointment with the eye doctor. Sigh. I leave the broken 2000 glasses and lenses with Rebecca and tell her I’ll get back to her about the eye exam.
So after debating for several days whether or not to concede the $60 (I’m cheap, and so is Costco Optical) to get an eye exam, I decided that, given that my eyes seemed significantly less fatigued using the 2000 glasses and that my job is basically to stare at a computer screen for eight hours per day, it was in my best interests to get the damn eye exam.
Here comes the fun part.
I get to the eye exam – now, remember that this is only my third trip to the eye doctor, so I really don’t know what to expect.
My appointment was at 10. At 9:40 I was still in a meeting at work. I impolitely duck out of the meeting and sprint to my car. I spend the 15 minute car-trip to Costco debating whether or not I have time to run to the bathroom before having to decide between “1” or “2” for the 20 minutes. I arrived about 5-till. Uhm. Yeah. Costco doesn’t open until 10. Didn’t know that. And now my bladder is pissed. So I sprint under the gian garage doors as soon as they are opened to the far end of the store to the ladies restroom. After all, I figure if I have to pee too badly, I won’t be able to concentrate on my eyes anyway.
Whew. Relief. Off to the optical center. Hmm. That’s funny, someone ought to be working here. At 10:05 the Pissed-Off Receptionist arrives. She’s pissed off because no one has opened her office and, who knows, maybe she hasn’t had an orgasm this century. Whatever the reason, she abruptly throws a clipboard at me and instructs me to complete a form.
“Have you been a patient here before?” Part of this is odd to me because “patient” and Costco just don’t seem to jive. Anyway.
“Yes, but it’s been quite a while.”
“That must be why I couldn’t find your chart. *Old* files are kept somewhere else." She emphasizes the old, I think, to imply that they are efficient while I, unable to keep my prescription up-to-date, am not.
"Would it be under another name?"
“Maybe.” Spell maiden name. Apparently this was the height of annoyance for POR because she lifted her ass off her chair to search through the file cabinets with all the enthusiasm of a cranky toddler requested to mind her manners. I was actually surprised POR didn’t throw a hissy fit right then. But I guess she’s the more passive aggressive type. Finding my chart, she rips the clipboard out of my hand and explains only new “patients” are allowed the special clipboard. I’ve been demoted.
At 10:10, Dr. F. EyeExam arrives. I know nothing about this woman up until this point except that she is an eye doctor and, irritatingly, late. Regardless, I'm anxious to have a wall separate me and POR, so I introduce myself. I quickly learn that Dr. F. is a person whose arrival would never go unnoticed. Her appearance (aside from her lipstick) is unremarkable, but the stress level in the tiny little office immediately escalated as she entered the room. As she ordered me to the “big chair” in the next room, I wondered if being at the mercy of Dr. F. would really be an improvement to POR. After all, POR's office had a clear an unobstructed exit.
After making a few remarks to POR about not getting to bed until 2am the previous morning and how she’d “make it through” the next few appointment, Dr. F. closes herself in the exam room with me.
"Have you ever had glasses before?"
"Yes."
"Well, where are they?"
"They're..."
"Why didn't you BRING them? THAT would have been some help."
"Well, I came here a few weeks ago to get my old glasses adjusted and they broke so..."
"WHERE are they? I need those glasses."
"They are at the counter in your optical center."
"POR! GET ME THOSE GLASSES" Dr. F. yells as she's heading out the door. "This woman claims her glasses are at the counter."
(Uhm, excuse me? "Claims?" As if I came up with this convoluted story just to piss her off.)
"POR will bring me the glasses," she informs me as she, again, closes the door to the cramped exam room. She mumbles for a few minutes to herself, then says, "Where are those glasses!?"
So Dr. F. marches out of the exam room and returns a few seconds later with my broken glasses.
"I don't care about the frames," Dr. F. abruptly explains, "I need the lenses.
"You see," she checks my chart, "Bridget. I'm a scientist."
I'm thinking, uhm, no. My girlfriend who is getting her Ph.D. in microbiology is a scientist. You are an optimologist.
"We need data. This," she holds up my lense, now removed from it's broken skeleton, "is DATA. Do you understand? DATA!"
Whoa. Chill out fruitcake. It's an eye exam and 7 year old glasses. Let's not pull anything.
After 15 minutes of "Camera 1?" or "Camera 2?" Dr. Fruitcake EyeExam gets out another tool she will use to look at the tissue in my eye. At length she explains that the camera1/camera2 is really only about a third of what she does and people just don't understand that. She went to school for this after all.
I guess they didn't have any lessons on chair-side manners in Eye-School.
For most of my life, I’ve had pretty good vision. Literally. Not until mid-way through college did the subject of glasses ever arise. And when it did, it was not a high-priority item. As an art major, I was not required much reading and, well, let’s just say that artistic vision does not require 20/20 eyesight. Take Van Gogh, whose effed up eyesight (glaucoma was it?) inspired such renown artistic contributions to modern art history as Starry Night. Anyhow, I’m getting off-topic. My point is, on the whole, I see fairly well.
My first eye-exam after which I was recommended glasses for reading/computer work/etc. was …maybe…2000? A few years later, having lost those glasses, I noticed my vision seemed to have changed so I had my eyes checked a second time. Here are your glasses Bridget. Well, after a few years of not wearing those glasses (and losing them), I noticed my vision bothering me yet again. By this point I was pregnant with Rhianna. I decided to wait until after my pregnancy because pregnancy screws with everything so I wasn’t sure if it was my eyes or my hormones. Before I remembered I was supposed to get my eyes checked, I was pregnant with Owen and about 2 months or so after I had him I found my first pair of glasses (the 2000 pair) in an old coat pocket.
You know how glasses are shaped to the wearer’s face? Mine, having been through who-knows-what in the pocket of my ex-ski jacket, would only only fit my face is if my head were a pancake. So I took them to an optical center to have them fixed.
Rebecca, the lovely lady working at the optical center, was clearly not having a stellar day when I arrived and asked if she could bend my frames so that I could see out of both lenses at once. She was helpful and polite, but as the frame of my long-lost pair of glasses snapped in her hands as she was trying to fix them, I could tell it was the icing on the cake of a terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-day. Trying to make amends, she offered to replace the frames. That'd be great Rebecca. Oh wait, wey don’t carry that frame – and lenses don’t fit in just any frame. So we’ll have to pick a new pair of frames. Sure. Oh wait, you don’t have a prescription on file within the past two years. You’ll need to make an appointment with the eye doctor. Sigh. I leave the broken 2000 glasses and lenses with Rebecca and tell her I’ll get back to her about the eye exam.
So after debating for several days whether or not to concede the $60 (I’m cheap, and so is Costco Optical) to get an eye exam, I decided that, given that my eyes seemed significantly less fatigued using the 2000 glasses and that my job is basically to stare at a computer screen for eight hours per day, it was in my best interests to get the damn eye exam.
Here comes the fun part.
I get to the eye exam – now, remember that this is only my third trip to the eye doctor, so I really don’t know what to expect.
My appointment was at 10. At 9:40 I was still in a meeting at work. I impolitely duck out of the meeting and sprint to my car. I spend the 15 minute car-trip to Costco debating whether or not I have time to run to the bathroom before having to decide between “1” or “2” for the 20 minutes. I arrived about 5-till. Uhm. Yeah. Costco doesn’t open until 10. Didn’t know that. And now my bladder is pissed. So I sprint under the gian garage doors as soon as they are opened to the far end of the store to the ladies restroom. After all, I figure if I have to pee too badly, I won’t be able to concentrate on my eyes anyway.
Whew. Relief. Off to the optical center. Hmm. That’s funny, someone ought to be working here. At 10:05 the Pissed-Off Receptionist arrives. She’s pissed off because no one has opened her office and, who knows, maybe she hasn’t had an orgasm this century. Whatever the reason, she abruptly throws a clipboard at me and instructs me to complete a form.
“Have you been a patient here before?” Part of this is odd to me because “patient” and Costco just don’t seem to jive. Anyway.
“Yes, but it’s been quite a while.”
“That must be why I couldn’t find your chart. *Old* files are kept somewhere else." She emphasizes the old, I think, to imply that they are efficient while I, unable to keep my prescription up-to-date, am not.
"Would it be under another name?"
“Maybe.” Spell maiden name. Apparently this was the height of annoyance for POR because she lifted her ass off her chair to search through the file cabinets with all the enthusiasm of a cranky toddler requested to mind her manners. I was actually surprised POR didn’t throw a hissy fit right then. But I guess she’s the more passive aggressive type. Finding my chart, she rips the clipboard out of my hand and explains only new “patients” are allowed the special clipboard. I’ve been demoted.
At 10:10, Dr. F. EyeExam arrives. I know nothing about this woman up until this point except that she is an eye doctor and, irritatingly, late. Regardless, I'm anxious to have a wall separate me and POR, so I introduce myself. I quickly learn that Dr. F. is a person whose arrival would never go unnoticed. Her appearance (aside from her lipstick) is unremarkable, but the stress level in the tiny little office immediately escalated as she entered the room. As she ordered me to the “big chair” in the next room, I wondered if being at the mercy of Dr. F. would really be an improvement to POR. After all, POR's office had a clear an unobstructed exit.
After making a few remarks to POR about not getting to bed until 2am the previous morning and how she’d “make it through” the next few appointment, Dr. F. closes herself in the exam room with me.
"Have you ever had glasses before?"
"Yes."
"Well, where are they?"
"They're..."
"Why didn't you BRING them? THAT would have been some help."
"Well, I came here a few weeks ago to get my old glasses adjusted and they broke so..."
"WHERE are they? I need those glasses."
"They are at the counter in your optical center."
"POR! GET ME THOSE GLASSES" Dr. F. yells as she's heading out the door. "This woman claims her glasses are at the counter."
(Uhm, excuse me? "Claims?" As if I came up with this convoluted story just to piss her off.)
"POR will bring me the glasses," she informs me as she, again, closes the door to the cramped exam room. She mumbles for a few minutes to herself, then says, "Where are those glasses!?"
So Dr. F. marches out of the exam room and returns a few seconds later with my broken glasses.
"I don't care about the frames," Dr. F. abruptly explains, "I need the lenses.
"You see," she checks my chart, "Bridget. I'm a scientist."
I'm thinking, uhm, no. My girlfriend who is getting her Ph.D. in microbiology is a scientist. You are an optimologist.
"We need data. This," she holds up my lense, now removed from it's broken skeleton, "is DATA. Do you understand? DATA!"
Whoa. Chill out fruitcake. It's an eye exam and 7 year old glasses. Let's not pull anything.
After 15 minutes of "Camera 1?" or "Camera 2?" Dr. Fruitcake EyeExam gets out another tool she will use to look at the tissue in my eye. At length she explains that the camera1/camera2 is really only about a third of what she does and people just don't understand that. She went to school for this after all.
I guess they didn't have any lessons on chair-side manners in Eye-School.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Epiphany
So I always have been annoyed at those vacuum commercials of the stay-at-home-mom vacuuming with orgasmic excitement. I felt they were playing into the stereotypical role models and woman as wife and homemaker with no greater joy or goals in life than a freshly cleaned carpet. It was contrived happiness based on a patriarchal idea of womankind.
I was wrong.
She is truly and blissfully happy to be vaccuming. You want to know why? Because the noise of the vaccum drowns out the temper tantrum of the toddler in the background.
And some days, there is no greater pleasure.
I was wrong.
She is truly and blissfully happy to be vaccuming. You want to know why? Because the noise of the vaccum drowns out the temper tantrum of the toddler in the background.
And some days, there is no greater pleasure.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
A few highlights from my blogging absence:
- Finished our Christmas stockings (all four, Yay!!)
- Rhianna had her first haircut (by yours truely in an effort to combat the mullet)
- Owen is a stable stander -- no steps yet
- I attended my first real rock concert (Daughtry) and found it.... loud :)
The last month has been full of "to dos" that leave little time for fun things. Like blogging. I'm hoping to get back here and keep you all updated on our lives and maybe throw in a laugh here and there.
Here's a few pictures. The first two are from Sweet Pea.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Oh the shame.
First and foremost, I have to state that I am, like many, deeply disappointed that an upstanding news vehicle (the New York Times) dared publish Harry Potter plot spoilers of the latest installment of the series. Shame shame shame. Fortunately, most HP fans in my circle refuse to indulge this lack of integrity I can only find paralleled in common tabloid publications. Dangle that carrot if you must, but the hunger will only be quelled by the literary feast the author offers to her devoted fans in just a few days.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Homegrown
That's right, I grew the flower all by myself. I'm very pround of my little marigold.
It's been a long time since I've blogged -- not for lack of content, but of time. Work has picked up and the weather has been so darn nice that we've been trying to spend as much time as possible outside. I've also started reading a really thought provoking book called "Parenting Beyond Belief." It's a collection of essays about raising honest and loving children without indoctrining them into a specific dogma. I hope to blog more about the subject and essays as I delve further into the book.
More soon.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Sorry it's been a while since I've been able to update you here. The big birthday party took up a lot of time and it seems that work is starting to pick up. Anyhow, here are a few pictures from the weekend. Rhianna is taking this two-year-old thing seriously -- as you can see in the picture. Potty training continues about the same as it was -- though we did get her Elmo panties which she is very excited about so maybe that will get us over the hump. Owen is starting to move a little while. He's decided to embrace his belly by using the commando scoot instead of the traditional crawl. Hope to update more soon!
Monday, May 07, 2007
Future lawyer?
Mom: Time for dinner Rhianna.
Rhianna: Ninner?
M: Yes, dinner. Can you go to your chair?
R: Chair?
M: Go to your chair for dinner.
R: Ninner?
M: Yep, time for dinner.
(Rhianna climbs in chair.)
R: Copporn?
M; No, no popcorn for dinner.
R: Mhy? (Why)
M: We’re having chicken.
R: Ticken?
M: Yes, chicken.
R: Mommy?
M: What sweetheart?
R: Ticken? Ninner?
M: Yes, chicken for dinner.
R: Mhy?
(deep breath)
R: Mommy?
M: What Rhianna?
R: Ouwie (how do you spell that?)
M: Did you get an owie?
R: Yeah…. Mommy?
M: What sweetheart?
R: Owah?
M: Owen’s in his chair sweety.
R: Chair?
M: Yes, Chair.
R: Owah chair?
M: Owen's chair.
R: Oh. Owah Ninner?
M: Yes, Owen’s eating his dinner.
R: Ticken? Ninner? Owah?
M: No, Owen’s not having chicken.
R: No ticken?
M: No chicken, he’s too young for chicken.
R: Oh.
(pause)
R: Copporn?
Rhianna: Ninner?
M: Yes, dinner. Can you go to your chair?
R: Chair?
M: Go to your chair for dinner.
R: Ninner?
M: Yep, time for dinner.
(Rhianna climbs in chair.)
R: Copporn?
M; No, no popcorn for dinner.
R: Mhy? (Why)
M: We’re having chicken.
R: Ticken?
M: Yes, chicken.
R: Mommy?
M: What sweetheart?
R: Ticken? Ninner?
M: Yes, chicken for dinner.
R: Mhy?
(deep breath)
R: Mommy?
M: What Rhianna?
R: Ouwie (how do you spell that?)
M: Did you get an owie?
R: Yeah…. Mommy?
M: What sweetheart?
R: Owah?
M: Owen’s in his chair sweety.
R: Chair?
M: Yes, Chair.
R: Owah chair?
M: Owen's chair.
R: Oh. Owah Ninner?
M: Yes, Owen’s eating his dinner.
R: Ticken? Ninner? Owah?
M: No, Owen’s not having chicken.
R: No ticken?
M: No chicken, he’s too young for chicken.
R: Oh.
(pause)
R: Copporn?
Friday, May 04, 2007
What you would hear from the next stall
Last weekend, we took Rhianna and Owen to swimming lessons. Right before it was time to get in the water, I took Rhianna to the bathroom. She went first and was very vocal in the stall.
"Wimsuit mommy."
-Yes, you're wearing your swimsuit.
"Wimmin?"
-We're going swimming after we're done in the potty.
"Wadder?"
-Yes, we swim in the water.
"POTTY!"
-Good job! Ok, now it's mommy's turn.
..... (silence as mom takes off her swimsuit to go potty)....
"Mommy! (she points) BOOBIES!!"
"Wimsuit mommy."
-Yes, you're wearing your swimsuit.
"Wimmin?"
-We're going swimming after we're done in the potty.
"Wadder?"
-Yes, we swim in the water.
"POTTY!"
-Good job! Ok, now it's mommy's turn.
..... (silence as mom takes off her swimsuit to go potty)....
"Mommy! (she points) BOOBIES!!"
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
Smooth Move
The big move went well. I'm amazed at how quickly this house feels like "home." The kids and cat adjusted well to the new place and Dave and I are also getting settled in. We now have a DVR as well. Very exciting. I have actually been able to watch a few shows from beginning to end without having to miss major segments because someone (who shall remain nameless) puked "mixed garden vegetables" on the new carpet. Yeah. Owen won the first-to-barf-in-the-new-house contest.
In happy news, some friends of ours just got a new baby boy! They have been on the list to adopt a baby for 10 months and received the "your son was born this morning" call last Friday. We were lucky to get to visit them on Wednesday evening and meet their son. They are, of course, thrilled. As I watched them in their tired-yet-ecstatic new parent-ness (they also have a 2-year-old so it's not all completely new), I found myself in shock over their experience. Granted, they knew they would get a child sometime, but there was really no warning. Thursday night was business as usual and then BAM, phone rings early Friday morning with the come-get-your-baby directive. At least with pregnancy you have some vague idea of when to expect your child to arrive.
Anyhow, he is a sweet little boy so far and is now a week old. It's pretty amazing to see him and remember that Owen, just a short while ago, was so tiny.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Stella got a swirley
Any enthusiasm about the potty is great when you're potty training. We should have anticipated Rhianna would, at some point, help "dolly" go potty. Unfortunately, we didn't and baby Stella got a swirly. Oh well. At least it wasn't Owen.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
We hold the keys
We are now the proud owners of a stand-alone home. I'll try to post some pictures once we've moved in a few more things. We took a few boxes over last night and assessed the situation.
The current hot-topic is, as always, where the cat-box should go. This is a difficult decision. As we have an indoor cat, we can't put it somewhere easy like, say, the garage. No, we have to find a nice, discreet place in our pristine new home for crap. Cat crap. Ah well, such is life. We decided which kid gets which room and I instructed Dave to keep all the essential kitchen items on the first shelf of the kitchen cabinets as I can't reach the rest. Rhianna liked the swingset and is able to climb the ladder to the slide all by herself. She was a little distressed when the slide betrayed her by shooting her off the end of it, leaving her airborne for about 2 feet before gravity kicked in an dropped her right on her little bottom. Thunk. Tears. Try again.
We plan to move small car-loads all week and then do our major move on Saturday.
The current hot-topic is, as always, where the cat-box should go. This is a difficult decision. As we have an indoor cat, we can't put it somewhere easy like, say, the garage. No, we have to find a nice, discreet place in our pristine new home for crap. Cat crap. Ah well, such is life. We decided which kid gets which room and I instructed Dave to keep all the essential kitchen items on the first shelf of the kitchen cabinets as I can't reach the rest. Rhianna liked the swingset and is able to climb the ladder to the slide all by herself. She was a little distressed when the slide betrayed her by shooting her off the end of it, leaving her airborne for about 2 feet before gravity kicked in an dropped her right on her little bottom. Thunk. Tears. Try again.
We plan to move small car-loads all week and then do our major move on Saturday.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Linolium or carpet?
There is solidarity bewteen potty training mothers. When one announces her child had an accident, another sympathetically asks, "linolium or carpet?" Mother one replies, "Carpet." A mutual and understanding sigh will follow.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Little boys and their.... nipples?
After surviving the trip to and from my parents' house in Minnesota, our family remains happy and healthy for the most part. Rhianna has graduated from speaking a limited vocabulary one word at a time to putting two words together much of the time and using a vocabulary that seems to be growing daily. Owen is sitting on his own, grasping toys, standing (with help), eating baby food, barfing... oh wait, that's not a new skill. Anyhow, they both seem to be doing just great. Suddenly Owen is starting to become a potential person instead of a perpetual blob.
I haven't been as surprised at the gross baby stuff with Owen as I was with Rhianna. After all, scary baby penis or not, diaper rash, pretty much looks the same and formula/baby food spit up smells just as bad the second time around. Tonight, however, Owen came up with something new. A nipple zit. Technically, it's probably an ingrown hair, but seriously. First of all, he barely has hair on his head so it's not really necessary that he start sprouting excess man-fuzz on alternate body parts. If I find ear fuzz, I'm calling the doctor. Second, it's right near the nipple and is a little red and puffy so it makes it look like he has a pre-adolecent boobie-bud. I try not to endorse gender roles but I did find myself a little embarrassed about my son's baby boobie.
In other news, the big move is next week. We close on Tuesday on our new house (with a yard, Yay!!!) and will start carting stuff over there during the week and plan to officially move in on Saturday. It hasn't sunk in at all that we will soon be living in a new house. I'm sure it will feel like "ours" as soon as at least three of our family members have barfed in it. My bets are on Owen, Caesar, then Rhianna.
I haven't been as surprised at the gross baby stuff with Owen as I was with Rhianna. After all, scary baby penis or not, diaper rash, pretty much looks the same and formula/baby food spit up smells just as bad the second time around. Tonight, however, Owen came up with something new. A nipple zit. Technically, it's probably an ingrown hair, but seriously. First of all, he barely has hair on his head so it's not really necessary that he start sprouting excess man-fuzz on alternate body parts. If I find ear fuzz, I'm calling the doctor. Second, it's right near the nipple and is a little red and puffy so it makes it look like he has a pre-adolecent boobie-bud. I try not to endorse gender roles but I did find myself a little embarrassed about my son's baby boobie.
In other news, the big move is next week. We close on Tuesday on our new house (with a yard, Yay!!!) and will start carting stuff over there during the week and plan to officially move in on Saturday. It hasn't sunk in at all that we will soon be living in a new house. I'm sure it will feel like "ours" as soon as at least three of our family members have barfed in it. My bets are on Owen, Caesar, then Rhianna.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Polar opposites
Girl. 22 mos. 21 lbs, 14 oz (just under the fifth percentile). 30 inches (way under the charts). Diagnosis: normal development.
Boy. 6 mos. 18 lbs, 4 oz (fiftieth percentile). 28.75 inches (NINETY-FIFTH percentile). Diagnosis: normal development.
Boy. 6 mos. 18 lbs, 4 oz (fiftieth percentile). 28.75 inches (NINETY-FIFTH percentile). Diagnosis: normal development.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Do you speak Booger?
Language has as much to do with comprehension as it does expression. After all, you can speak fluent French, but that won't do you a lot of good if the person to whom you're speaking doesn't understand a word. Fortunately, when a toddler is learning about language, they can add some non-verbal cues to help you interpret their not-so-articulate moments.
Rhianna is learning new words daily. Some she pronounces correctly but doesn't understand. Some, she understands but can't pronounce. And a few she both understands and pronounces correctly -- and even throws some non-verbals in with them. She recently aquired "bummer" which she knows is supposed to be said with a squunched up face after she tells us she had "hard poop." I'm not sure she really understands what it means, but it's funny to watch her face when she says it.
In order to understand her speech, you have understand that, as a toddler who is just learning to speak, one word can be an entire language. There really is no need for sentences, just the need for a mother who understands. Let me explain to you the language of Booger (Rhianna's most articulate word to date).
"Boogers!" = "I've got boogers!"
"Boogers!" (with pointer finger up) = "I picked my boogers."
"Boogers!" (points to tissues) = "I'd like Kleenex for my boogers."
"Boogers!" (points to Owen) = "Owen's got boogers."
"Boogers!" (finger up nose) = "Surely there are some boogers up here."
"Boogers!" (innocent look) = "I just smeared boogers somewher you won't find until after I go to bed."
"Boogers!" (within a foot of Owen with pointer finger up) = "I just picked Owen's boogers."
"Boogers!" (innocent look within a foot of Owen) = "I just smeared Owen's boogers somewhere they shouldn't be."
"Boogers!" (looking at pointer finger) = "I just ate my boogers."
"Boogers!" (looking at pointer finger within a foot of Owen) = "I just ate Owen's boogers."
"Boogers!" = "I like saying 'boogers'."
Rhianna is learning new words daily. Some she pronounces correctly but doesn't understand. Some, she understands but can't pronounce. And a few she both understands and pronounces correctly -- and even throws some non-verbals in with them. She recently aquired "bummer" which she knows is supposed to be said with a squunched up face after she tells us she had "hard poop." I'm not sure she really understands what it means, but it's funny to watch her face when she says it.
In order to understand her speech, you have understand that, as a toddler who is just learning to speak, one word can be an entire language. There really is no need for sentences, just the need for a mother who understands. Let me explain to you the language of Booger (Rhianna's most articulate word to date).
"Boogers!" = "I've got boogers!"
"Boogers!" (with pointer finger up) = "I picked my boogers."
"Boogers!" (points to tissues) = "I'd like Kleenex for my boogers."
"Boogers!" (points to Owen) = "Owen's got boogers."
"Boogers!" (finger up nose) = "Surely there are some boogers up here."
"Boogers!" (innocent look) = "I just smeared boogers somewher you won't find until after I go to bed."
"Boogers!" (within a foot of Owen with pointer finger up) = "I just picked Owen's boogers."
"Boogers!" (innocent look within a foot of Owen) = "I just smeared Owen's boogers somewhere they shouldn't be."
"Boogers!" (looking at pointer finger) = "I just ate my boogers."
"Boogers!" (looking at pointer finger within a foot of Owen) = "I just ate Owen's boogers."
"Boogers!" = "I like saying 'boogers'."
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Mayonnaise and coffee
Yesterday, I needed to re-read this email. Hope it finds you all well.
When things in your life seem almost too much too handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.
A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him.
When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full they agreed it was.
The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into t he jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."
The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- your God, family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.
"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.
"Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal.
"Take care of the golf balls first -- the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.
The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always
room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."
When things in your life seem almost too much too handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.
A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him.
When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full they agreed it was.
The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into t he jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."
The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things -- your God, family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.
"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.
"Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal.
"Take care of the golf balls first -- the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.
The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always
room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
On bottoms and mother-ease
Last Friday, Dave and I enjoyed our second "date-night" -- the second Friday of each month, our daycare keeps the kids until 8 so we get to enjoy three workless, childless hours. We decided to spend one of our Christmas gift certificates on a nice dinner. I sat in the booth after we'd finished our dinner and watched waiters, waitresses and patrons stroll past our table. Now, you have to realize that after 3 years of drinking almost no alcohol, I my mind was drifting freely after two glasses of red wine. And as the people walked by, I couldn't help but notice their bottoms. Specifically the difference between the male and female bottoms. By the "difference" I mean that current fashion suggests that men have NO bottoms and women have ....significant bottoms.
Take a poll the next time you're out in public. Note the bottom "crease" showing through the pants that defines the bottom. Compare how many women creases you see versus male creases. Even the loose-fitting women's pants still define the bottom in some way -- be it the crease, the pockets place atop each cheek, or the fit of the waist (shamelessly revealing the crack and shoving out the love handles or nicely tailored pleats defining the shape of the bottom leading up to the to the womanly waist). Their male counterparts, however, rarely show evidence of the existance of any existence of body parts between the waist and the knees. The pocket are placed to hide camouflauge the crease and the waist, well, defies all laws of physics to make the pants stay up. Sure, here and there, you encounter a significant male bottom that can't be camouflaged by the fashionable rump-less rags, but these are few and far between.
Aside from this Earth-shattering realization during my date on Friday, I stumbled on an item to add to my "you know you're a mother when" list (which I someday will publish in full). Ready?
You know you're a mother when your chosen word for "butt" is "bottom" -- even when you're a little drunk. Not "ass", "hiney", or "rear", but the toddler-friendly, "bottom". Ah, Motherhood how you've changed me.
Take a poll the next time you're out in public. Note the bottom "crease" showing through the pants that defines the bottom. Compare how many women creases you see versus male creases. Even the loose-fitting women's pants still define the bottom in some way -- be it the crease, the pockets place atop each cheek, or the fit of the waist (shamelessly revealing the crack and shoving out the love handles or nicely tailored pleats defining the shape of the bottom leading up to the to the womanly waist). Their male counterparts, however, rarely show evidence of the existance of any existence of body parts between the waist and the knees. The pocket are placed to hide camouflauge the crease and the waist, well, defies all laws of physics to make the pants stay up. Sure, here and there, you encounter a significant male bottom that can't be camouflaged by the fashionable rump-less rags, but these are few and far between.
Aside from this Earth-shattering realization during my date on Friday, I stumbled on an item to add to my "you know you're a mother when" list (which I someday will publish in full). Ready?
You know you're a mother when your chosen word for "butt" is "bottom" -- even when you're a little drunk. Not "ass", "hiney", or "rear", but the toddler-friendly, "bottom". Ah, Motherhood how you've changed me.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Cinnamon toast
Just when you think you know someone, they throw you a curve ball.
A year or so ago, it occurred to me that everyone makes cinnamon toast differently. It's a simple thing really and while everyone seems to know about cinnamon toast, very few people make it the same way. So if you're looking for a fun discussion in your office, ask everyone how they make cinnamon toast.
My preferred method is using a toaster oven. Toast the bread lightly, then spread the butter over the toasted bread. Dump (a lot of) sugar evenly on the toast. Sprinkle cinnamon so the top is covered in a brown dusting. Try to avoid clumps. Return toast to toaster. Sometimes you have to turn the toaster back on, but most of the time it is still warm enough so that, after a minute or so, the sugar turns... clear? -- so that it doesn't look white any more. Then you know it's done. If you're a creme brule fan, you can put the toaster on broil for about 30 second and the sugar will get crusty. Eat all the bread's crust first because the center bite is the best one so save that until last. Before leaving the house, check teeth for leftovers.
In college when I didn't have a toaster oven, I used the microwave for 10 seconds for the final heat.
My husband has a different method altogether. He toasts the bread in the oven with the broiler. He likes this because it leaves the bottom side of the bread un-toasted (which, by the way, I think is weird). Other that that though, I thought everything was the same. This morning, I found out that I was mistaken. He broils, the butters, then CINNAMONs -- before the sugar!! Very strange. Who puts the cinnamon pre-sugar? Sugar's purpose is to provide and nice caloric bed for the cinnamon, not to blanket it in. I have to be honest, I didn't try the bas-ackwards Dave version so I can't say whether or not the sugar-cinnamon switch has any taste effect.
Nonetheless, it's was startling. Geez. You think you know someone.
A year or so ago, it occurred to me that everyone makes cinnamon toast differently. It's a simple thing really and while everyone seems to know about cinnamon toast, very few people make it the same way. So if you're looking for a fun discussion in your office, ask everyone how they make cinnamon toast.
My preferred method is using a toaster oven. Toast the bread lightly, then spread the butter over the toasted bread. Dump (a lot of) sugar evenly on the toast. Sprinkle cinnamon so the top is covered in a brown dusting. Try to avoid clumps. Return toast to toaster. Sometimes you have to turn the toaster back on, but most of the time it is still warm enough so that, after a minute or so, the sugar turns... clear? -- so that it doesn't look white any more. Then you know it's done. If you're a creme brule fan, you can put the toaster on broil for about 30 second and the sugar will get crusty. Eat all the bread's crust first because the center bite is the best one so save that until last. Before leaving the house, check teeth for leftovers.
In college when I didn't have a toaster oven, I used the microwave for 10 seconds for the final heat.
My husband has a different method altogether. He toasts the bread in the oven with the broiler. He likes this because it leaves the bottom side of the bread un-toasted (which, by the way, I think is weird). Other that that though, I thought everything was the same. This morning, I found out that I was mistaken. He broils, the butters, then CINNAMONs -- before the sugar!! Very strange. Who puts the cinnamon pre-sugar? Sugar's purpose is to provide and nice caloric bed for the cinnamon, not to blanket it in. I have to be honest, I didn't try the bas-ackwards Dave version so I can't say whether or not the sugar-cinnamon switch has any taste effect.
Nonetheless, it's was startling. Geez. You think you know someone.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Cool moms are fat.
A couple of days ago, I read an article (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/01/08/AR2007010800982.html) that basically concludes that the coolest moms are, by definition, thin. The general idea is that if you take pride in your self, you will be thin, fit and active and therefore the best role model for the youngins. I've been thinking since then about how to respond.
I understand the idea and relate to a certain degree. After all, I don't want my daughter to look in the mirror at herself as critically as I look at myself. I also want my kids to take responsibility for their bodies and health. I want them to eat well and play hard. So to a certain degree, I can agree with the premise.
However, I know some amazing moms who are stilly carrying around a few leftover pregnancy pounds and I honestly don't think that has any effect on their coolness. In fact, if you are as proud of our post-pardum self as your never quite-thin-enough pre-pregnancy self, I think that is just as excellent in terms of role model potential. I don't know that I will ever have my most-perfect body. Despite that, I feel I can be a good role model to my children by showing them that, despite the "imperfections" that every body has, your body is something to respect.
So I can't agree that all cool moms are thin. Active, enthusiastic, sure. I think I could even buy "fit, but thin? I'm not so sure. Thoughts?
I understand the idea and relate to a certain degree. After all, I don't want my daughter to look in the mirror at herself as critically as I look at myself. I also want my kids to take responsibility for their bodies and health. I want them to eat well and play hard. So to a certain degree, I can agree with the premise.
However, I know some amazing moms who are stilly carrying around a few leftover pregnancy pounds and I honestly don't think that has any effect on their coolness. In fact, if you are as proud of our post-pardum self as your never quite-thin-enough pre-pregnancy self, I think that is just as excellent in terms of role model potential. I don't know that I will ever have my most-perfect body. Despite that, I feel I can be a good role model to my children by showing them that, despite the "imperfections" that every body has, your body is something to respect.
So I can't agree that all cool moms are thin. Active, enthusiastic, sure. I think I could even buy "fit, but thin? I'm not so sure. Thoughts?
Thursday, February 01, 2007
All the advise I didn't want
As much as the turnaround in my office has been disruptive to our routine, I have to say the process of highering (is that spelled right?) a new office assistant, writer, marketing specialist and fiscal manager, has introduced me to quite a few interesting people. The most recent addition is woman who's temporarily filling in for our (also temporary) front desk "first responder." Now, to introduce her (inappropriately) the first thing I'll tell you is that she's pregnant. With twins. And while my experiences of the last two years certainly can't compare to the challenge of bringing two babies into the world at one time, I found myself bubbling over with all the advice and personal anecdotes that other women seemed incapable of keeping to themselves when I was pregnant. I don't remember minding hearing their stories as long as I didn't feel like they were putting judgement on my choices so hopefully she felt the same way. Just in case, I'll use this forum to catch my pregnancy "word vomit" (a phrase from the movie "Mean Girls" that I find particularly concise).
And with that, here are some of the things I couldn't help but say to my new first-time-pregnant friend that I feel should really be communicated to every newly pregnant woman:
1. Pregnancy bites. I know there are women who love every minute of the weight gain, disappearing waist, constant peeing and other joys of the miracle of making another life. But, LOUD AND CLEAR, that's not everyone -- and from what I can tell -- it's not even most people. Don't second guess your potential mothering skills if you find this process (which ends with a room full of people staring at your crotch) less than endearing. You'll have plenty of opportunities to win you're "unMother-of-the-Year" awards once you're little bean(s) are on the outside.
2. Nursing is a personal choice. Tell everyone else to bud out. And if a man comments on this, tell him you'll pump an 8 ounce bottle when he does and then give him a breast pump and see what he comes up with. Trust me, after 20 seconds hooked up to the Medela Milk-o-Matic, he'll be singing a different tune.
3. Learn to smile and nod when it comes to older generations of mothers. They will, I guarantee, give you advice that ends in "we did that with our kids and they didn't die." Ok, first of all grandma, it's not always about death. Second, in your generation they recommended smoking while pregnant so that the babies would have a lower birth weight and (in theory) this would make labor easier. Now, with an entire generation of asthmatics, we know that was a dumb ass idea. Long story short, so just because it seemed to work for you, doesn't mean it will work for us. Give these woment the respect they deserve, after all, they didn't have the comfort of five-point harnesses (in every baby aparatus concocted) and they had to wrestle with baby clothes with real buttons and all sorts of other inconveniences. However, I can't tell you how many times I've heard "it won't kill them" attached to a parenting or pregnancy behavior suggestion. Just learn to smile and nod.
4. Damn the pregnancy books. If you read them, you will be convinced you're baby has no chance at a normal life. And normal or not, your baby will be your baby so put the books down and listen to your heart instead. You're baby will not be dislexic because you slept on your back instead of your left side. You're baby will not feel abandoned because you let him cry for ten minutes while you take a much needed shower. You're baby will not be doomed to a life of illness and parental detachment if you don't breast feed until they go to college. And if your precious child has some problem, you'll figure it out when you get there -- there's no point preparing at week 13 in a healthy pregnancy for a child with disorder x, y, or z that your child probably won't have. You'll drive yourself crazy. Put down the books. (or better, read my blog ;)
5. If you can, find other pregnant women or women with young children and bitch to them. They understand. They will never have your exact experience, but they can be a temendous support.
And with that, here are some of the things I couldn't help but say to my new first-time-pregnant friend that I feel should really be communicated to every newly pregnant woman:
1. Pregnancy bites. I know there are women who love every minute of the weight gain, disappearing waist, constant peeing and other joys of the miracle of making another life. But, LOUD AND CLEAR, that's not everyone -- and from what I can tell -- it's not even most people. Don't second guess your potential mothering skills if you find this process (which ends with a room full of people staring at your crotch) less than endearing. You'll have plenty of opportunities to win you're "unMother-of-the-Year" awards once you're little bean(s) are on the outside.
2. Nursing is a personal choice. Tell everyone else to bud out. And if a man comments on this, tell him you'll pump an 8 ounce bottle when he does and then give him a breast pump and see what he comes up with. Trust me, after 20 seconds hooked up to the Medela Milk-o-Matic, he'll be singing a different tune.
3. Learn to smile and nod when it comes to older generations of mothers. They will, I guarantee, give you advice that ends in "we did that with our kids and they didn't die." Ok, first of all grandma, it's not always about death. Second, in your generation they recommended smoking while pregnant so that the babies would have a lower birth weight and (in theory) this would make labor easier. Now, with an entire generation of asthmatics, we know that was a dumb ass idea. Long story short, so just because it seemed to work for you, doesn't mean it will work for us. Give these woment the respect they deserve, after all, they didn't have the comfort of five-point harnesses (in every baby aparatus concocted) and they had to wrestle with baby clothes with real buttons and all sorts of other inconveniences. However, I can't tell you how many times I've heard "it won't kill them" attached to a parenting or pregnancy behavior suggestion. Just learn to smile and nod.
4. Damn the pregnancy books. If you read them, you will be convinced you're baby has no chance at a normal life. And normal or not, your baby will be your baby so put the books down and listen to your heart instead. You're baby will not be dislexic because you slept on your back instead of your left side. You're baby will not feel abandoned because you let him cry for ten minutes while you take a much needed shower. You're baby will not be doomed to a life of illness and parental detachment if you don't breast feed until they go to college. And if your precious child has some problem, you'll figure it out when you get there -- there's no point preparing at week 13 in a healthy pregnancy for a child with disorder x, y, or z that your child probably won't have. You'll drive yourself crazy. Put down the books. (or better, read my blog ;)
5. If you can, find other pregnant women or women with young children and bitch to them. They understand. They will never have your exact experience, but they can be a temendous support.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Ok. Today's post is a nagging reality for all (youngish) designers.
I'm a graphic designer. I get paid to design. I have been trained to do this. While I am certainly not the best designer in the world, please trust me when I tell you that I am a professional.
As a designer, I am constantly overwhelmed by how little respect I am given for my skills. In the same breath, someone will praise a publication I've designed, then ask if there's a community ed class that will teach them how to do the same thing. Ok. Here it is folks. I went to school for 4 years and have been working as a designer for 5 years. In my sweetest, trying-not-to-show-my-offense-to-the-question voice, the answer is: No. There isn't a two-hour class that will teach you all that I know. I don't know everything there is to know, but I am 100 percent confident that I know more than will fit in a $60, two-hour how-to class. Please, stop asking.
I am thrilled that there is interest in design and that joe-shmoe likes the work I have done, but why are they so anxious to replace me? I don't say to the nurse, "Hey, that's cool that you can give shots, is there a class I can take to learn how to do that so I don't have to pay you to do it?" I don't ask our banker, "huh, that seems really easy, can I take a class and write my own mortgage?" No. They are professionals and I respect that they are more capable than I at their craft. Let's move on.
I'm a graphic designer. I get paid to design. I have been trained to do this. While I am certainly not the best designer in the world, please trust me when I tell you that I am a professional.
As a designer, I am constantly overwhelmed by how little respect I am given for my skills. In the same breath, someone will praise a publication I've designed, then ask if there's a community ed class that will teach them how to do the same thing. Ok. Here it is folks. I went to school for 4 years and have been working as a designer for 5 years. In my sweetest, trying-not-to-show-my-offense-to-the-question voice, the answer is: No. There isn't a two-hour class that will teach you all that I know. I don't know everything there is to know, but I am 100 percent confident that I know more than will fit in a $60, two-hour how-to class. Please, stop asking.
I am thrilled that there is interest in design and that joe-shmoe likes the work I have done, but why are they so anxious to replace me? I don't say to the nurse, "Hey, that's cool that you can give shots, is there a class I can take to learn how to do that so I don't have to pay you to do it?" I don't ask our banker, "huh, that seems really easy, can I take a class and write my own mortgage?" No. They are professionals and I respect that they are more capable than I at their craft. Let's move on.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Gap
Well, we've been working hard all weekend on encouraging proper potty practice and things are moving along fine. Granted, she isn't reliable at using the potty, but defintely seems to be identifying when she needs to (or at least when she did) pee or poop. The only real setback at this point is that Rhianna has a little attitude on her and in the time it takes for her to do her grumpy face and then give in to heading towards the potty, we've missed the window and she's already started to pee. Ah well, it will come in time I'm sure.
After being housebound for two days, Dave and I decided we should go to Applebee's for dinner last night -- mostly to get out of the house although Dave was very enthusiastic about the apple-something-or-other for dessert once we got there. Anyway, about two bites into our meal Rhianna announces "POOP!" So, encouraged by her enthusiasm, I rushed her to the bathroom. It turns out that she'd peed in her diaper and the pronounced "POOP!" translated into parent-speak for "I already went you fool! Haha, you missed it." But the experience shed light on a new potty plight.
This one is called: Baby Butts and the Gap.
Long story short, public pots have a gap in the front of the toilet seat. My guess that the purpose of this gap is to give men an extra inch or so of dribble space since (apparently) aiming those last few drops is difficult. All in all, I'm sure the Gap saves countless potty-goers from sitting directly on top of some previous user's leftovers. The engineering, it would seem, was good foresight. But there is a little problem. That little problem is Rhianna's little butt -- which is about the same size as the Gap, When taking a mini-person to a public pot, this five-inch Gap suddenly became a mile-high hurdle. My first instinct was to put her on sideways. There were two problems with this plan. First, she had no idea what the heck was going on. The toilet is foriegn enough, but now she's expected to go sideways. Hm. That one she might be able to get used to over time. Second setback to sideways sitting? In order for her to go on the big-potty she has to hold herself up so she doesn't fall in (FYI, she did fall in once at home and didn't think it was fun at all -- we, as supportive parents, tried really, REALLY hard not to laugh). Ok, back to sideways sitting. Are you picturing this? A sideways-sitting one-year-old with hands looking for something to hold onto on either side. One hand on the back of the toilet, no problem. The other hand -- seeing the problem yet? -- RIGHT IN THE LEFTOVERS. Yuk. Really. YUCK! So I'm putting it out to you Internet, Baby Butts and the Gap, any ideas??
After being housebound for two days, Dave and I decided we should go to Applebee's for dinner last night -- mostly to get out of the house although Dave was very enthusiastic about the apple-something-or-other for dessert once we got there. Anyway, about two bites into our meal Rhianna announces "POOP!" So, encouraged by her enthusiasm, I rushed her to the bathroom. It turns out that she'd peed in her diaper and the pronounced "POOP!" translated into parent-speak for "I already went you fool! Haha, you missed it." But the experience shed light on a new potty plight.
This one is called: Baby Butts and the Gap.
Long story short, public pots have a gap in the front of the toilet seat. My guess that the purpose of this gap is to give men an extra inch or so of dribble space since (apparently) aiming those last few drops is difficult. All in all, I'm sure the Gap saves countless potty-goers from sitting directly on top of some previous user's leftovers. The engineering, it would seem, was good foresight. But there is a little problem. That little problem is Rhianna's little butt -- which is about the same size as the Gap, When taking a mini-person to a public pot, this five-inch Gap suddenly became a mile-high hurdle. My first instinct was to put her on sideways. There were two problems with this plan. First, she had no idea what the heck was going on. The toilet is foriegn enough, but now she's expected to go sideways. Hm. That one she might be able to get used to over time. Second setback to sideways sitting? In order for her to go on the big-potty she has to hold herself up so she doesn't fall in (FYI, she did fall in once at home and didn't think it was fun at all -- we, as supportive parents, tried really, REALLY hard not to laugh). Ok, back to sideways sitting. Are you picturing this? A sideways-sitting one-year-old with hands looking for something to hold onto on either side. One hand on the back of the toilet, no problem. The other hand -- seeing the problem yet? -- RIGHT IN THE LEFTOVERS. Yuk. Really. YUCK! So I'm putting it out to you Internet, Baby Butts and the Gap, any ideas??
Friday, January 12, 2007
Potty Pride
Rhianna peed AND pooped in the potty today -- two SEPARATE trips!! I'm so excited I can't even tell you. Last night, she fell off the stool next to the potty and cracked her head hard on the cabinet under the sink. I was sure this would be the major setback that would prevent Rhianna from going in the potty until she was seven. But luckily, it was paranoia on my part. The other exciting thing about this is that she did it on the real toilet -- no potty ring or anything! HURRAY! I might not have to carry that thing around with me until she's 4!
More updates: SIL Jen has informed me that I am the official extra swiper. Ok, so how do I get in there to get her clean I asked? "Have her stick her tushie out or have her bend over." Motherhood is gross.
More updates: SIL Jen has informed me that I am the official extra swiper. Ok, so how do I get in there to get her clean I asked? "Have her stick her tushie out or have her bend over." Motherhood is gross.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
All aboard the Potty Train
One of the phases of early parenting that I've been dreading has arrived. Potty training.
Rhianna started showing interest so we've climbed aboard the potty train. I have been nervous about this ever since I realize I would be resposible for teaching this very important skill to another human. And though some of my fears have been relieved -- She seems excited about going, she initiated it and hopefully will reliably use the potty and be out of diapers before she is five years old -- this is way more complicated than I thought it would be. There is a hundred things that I'm realizing need to be taught that I don't quite know how to explain to a person of... limited communication skills. Here are a few of the issues that have come to light in the past few days:
Item number one: Wiping. Rhianna's managed to pee and poop in the potty a couple of times. Her "reward" for doing this is that she gets to use the toilet paper and then flush -- Which, by the way, you should never teach your child to do until you are prepared for the toilet to be flushed about 387 times in one day because it is a very exciting new skill for a toddler. Anyway, she's enthusiastic about using the paper and seems to understand it's about cleaning things. She dabs just fine -- although doesn't really get herself dry -- but she doesn't seem to think her bottom is the only thing that needs to be cleaned after the potty experience. After wiping her bottom, she proceeds to clean her legs, the toilet seat, the bathtub and then use this same Kleenex-type tissue to wipe her nose. OK. Did you catch that? That means she's rubbing her nose with USED toilet paper. Gross. And even once we get that nipped in the bud, how the heck do you get them to really make sure their bottom is clean/dry? I mean, is Mom supposed to do an extra swipe? Obviously, I'm very new to this young-person in the bathroom routine.
Item number two: farting. So she doesn't yet associate the pre-pee sensation to "I better get to the potty" but she does seem to understand that the poop sensation has something to do with the toilet -- and, of course, the almighty flushing. What does this mean? In the last two days we have visited the potty 6 times for her to fart. I mean, it's good that she's connecting the dots I suppose.... but should I really introduce the word "fart"? Sure, a little girl coming to mommy saying "poop" is perfectly understandable, but a 19-month-old running around saying "fart" just isn't all that endearing.
Item number three: Panties. Ok, this one is simple. Rhianna is very small for her age and they don't make panties or pullups in her size. It seems like a bad idea to let her go commando so she'll end up with saggy panties (read: only the waistband actually touches her body) until she's probably around three years old.
Item number four: Potty Ring. In order to potty train a child with a little bum, you can either buy a potty chair for them to use (which requires that you dump and clean their... yeah) or you can get a seat that goes on top of the regular toilet that just has a smaller opening so they aren't at risk of falling in (with this option, you also need a stool so that they can get all the way up to the potty). We have the former that converts to the latter. The details aren't important except to understand that she really will only use the potty if the smaller seat is on top. So here's my question: Do I have to carry this damn potty seat everywhere we go? Ugh.
Item number five: Spray. Owen is officially Dave's job for potty training. I get the girl. Therefore, I never considered spray might be an issue. After all, I've never sat on the pot and had the stream, well, miss the toilet. As long as I'm properly seated, the merchandise pretty much goes where it's supposed to. Aiming, as far as I'm concerned, is a boy thing -- unless of course we're camping, but that's another story altogether. Anyway. After about a week of potty training, I have to ask: How is it possible for a GIRL to be sitting correctly on the potty and spray the room? I have NO idea how to approach this one except to steer clear of the two feet directly in front of the potty.
Rhianna started showing interest so we've climbed aboard the potty train. I have been nervous about this ever since I realize I would be resposible for teaching this very important skill to another human. And though some of my fears have been relieved -- She seems excited about going, she initiated it and hopefully will reliably use the potty and be out of diapers before she is five years old -- this is way more complicated than I thought it would be. There is a hundred things that I'm realizing need to be taught that I don't quite know how to explain to a person of... limited communication skills. Here are a few of the issues that have come to light in the past few days:
Item number one: Wiping. Rhianna's managed to pee and poop in the potty a couple of times. Her "reward" for doing this is that she gets to use the toilet paper and then flush -- Which, by the way, you should never teach your child to do until you are prepared for the toilet to be flushed about 387 times in one day because it is a very exciting new skill for a toddler. Anyway, she's enthusiastic about using the paper and seems to understand it's about cleaning things. She dabs just fine -- although doesn't really get herself dry -- but she doesn't seem to think her bottom is the only thing that needs to be cleaned after the potty experience. After wiping her bottom, she proceeds to clean her legs, the toilet seat, the bathtub and then use this same Kleenex-type tissue to wipe her nose. OK. Did you catch that? That means she's rubbing her nose with USED toilet paper. Gross. And even once we get that nipped in the bud, how the heck do you get them to really make sure their bottom is clean/dry? I mean, is Mom supposed to do an extra swipe? Obviously, I'm very new to this young-person in the bathroom routine.
Item number two: farting. So she doesn't yet associate the pre-pee sensation to "I better get to the potty" but she does seem to understand that the poop sensation has something to do with the toilet -- and, of course, the almighty flushing. What does this mean? In the last two days we have visited the potty 6 times for her to fart. I mean, it's good that she's connecting the dots I suppose.... but should I really introduce the word "fart"? Sure, a little girl coming to mommy saying "poop" is perfectly understandable, but a 19-month-old running around saying "fart" just isn't all that endearing.
Item number three: Panties. Ok, this one is simple. Rhianna is very small for her age and they don't make panties or pullups in her size. It seems like a bad idea to let her go commando so she'll end up with saggy panties (read: only the waistband actually touches her body) until she's probably around three years old.
Item number four: Potty Ring. In order to potty train a child with a little bum, you can either buy a potty chair for them to use (which requires that you dump and clean their... yeah) or you can get a seat that goes on top of the regular toilet that just has a smaller opening so they aren't at risk of falling in (with this option, you also need a stool so that they can get all the way up to the potty). We have the former that converts to the latter. The details aren't important except to understand that she really will only use the potty if the smaller seat is on top. So here's my question: Do I have to carry this damn potty seat everywhere we go? Ugh.
Item number five: Spray. Owen is officially Dave's job for potty training. I get the girl. Therefore, I never considered spray might be an issue. After all, I've never sat on the pot and had the stream, well, miss the toilet. As long as I'm properly seated, the merchandise pretty much goes where it's supposed to. Aiming, as far as I'm concerned, is a boy thing -- unless of course we're camping, but that's another story altogether. Anyway. After about a week of potty training, I have to ask: How is it possible for a GIRL to be sitting correctly on the potty and spray the room? I have NO idea how to approach this one except to steer clear of the two feet directly in front of the potty.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
2007 begins
The year has begun without much ado. We are hoping Owen will sleep through the night soon, but it might be a little while yet. Rhianna has officially moved to her big-girl bed (grown-up translation: twin bed) and seems to enjoy the novelty of a pillow and tucked in sheets. She has yet to fall or lauch herself off of it in the middle of the night so we are proud of her. Owen is growing tremendously. His head seems like it's about the same size as Rhianna's already! He's working on pushing up on his hands and sitting. He likes to stand (assisted obviously) a lot too so he might be an early walker like Rhianna. The next major challenge on the horizon is potty training. But I think we'll wait until Mom and Dad both get a good night's sleep before we tackle that challenge.
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