Well this seems blogworthy, if only to document the date and time of Alex's first outright tantrum. I know, I know, we got lucky when he was little. He was more of a stomper-off-to-his-room, which turned out to be a good thing since it gave him a place to vent where we didn't have to hear it. But tonight, oh. my. lord. I came into the conflict in the middle, so I'm not sure what happened except that he was playing DS and forgot to watch his wind-down show, which then became my fault even though I wasn't even in the room. Then he hit himself in the face with his DS in frustration, and if you know of DS-gate, you'll know that's a BIG NO-NO. So Steven took the DS away and told him to pick his books. The screaming, yelling, out-and-out freaking continued, even after I gave him to the count of five and then NO books. He calmed down a little but then ramped it up again, so guess what? No books.
Then he turned his unfiltered fury on me.
"MOMMY? I'M NOT GOING TO BE YOUR BEST FRIEND ANYMORE ... IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE!"
"MOM? YOU'RE NOT VERY NICE."
"MAMA? I DON'T LIKE YOU RIGHT NOW."
"YOU'RE A BAD MOMMY!"
At which point Steven reached into his hidden pocket of parental tricks and basically silenced the child by, well, telling him to knock it off. Why didn't I think of that?
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Beach, Bones, and Blues
A girls' trip gives the soul a chance to breathe, usually in quick gasps snatched through uncontrollable laughter.
Three days away from the three most important people in the world make them even more important than they were before; make them vital, absolute, irrevocable.
I am ridiculously blessed to have had both experiences this past weekend.
I have to admit that when I had my feet sunk deep into blinding white sand, a diabetic mimosa in my hand and newly downloaded music in my ears, surrounded by people with whom I've traveled a bumpy road that didn't manage to shake us apart even at its rockiest, all I was really focused on was relaxing. We had flawlessly blue skies, a steady breeze that took the bite out of the sun (and maybe only just enough that I didn't recognize I was getting slightly burned until it was called to my attention). Relaxing, yes, and a little soul-searching, as that's what I do at the foot of the end of the land.
My mind was everywhere and nowhere, but the little boy who kept trotting by pulled my thoughts back home to Alex, and the sound of a baby anywhere, at any time, made me yearn to sink my lips deep into rosy, smiley, squishy cheeks.
And of course I was thinking of Steven, with his broken shoulder, never letting on that he's in pain and never willing to admit that he needs help with anything. Thankfully, his mother knew better. (Thanks again, Kirk and Cindy!)
I'm lucky. Lucky to have friends like those who forgive my moody tendencies and inclination to zone out a bit during shop talk, who say HILARIOUS things and are just so irresistibly themselves that you have no choice but to love them.
I'm lucky to have my husband who claimed he would have tied me to the top of the car and driven me to the beach himself if he had to, when I protested that I shouldn't leave him there by himself with the kids and his injury.
Lucky to have a little boy who met me at the top of the driveway jumping up and down and threw half his body through my car window to give me the first of many "welcome home" hugs.
Lucky to have a baby girl whose eyes light up like a Christmas tree when she's happy and whose funny little mannerisms make her adorable even when she's not so happy.
Steven has to have surgery on his shoulder. Turns out the bone broke in pieces and severed the two ligaments that hold those bones in place. Or something like that. It's not outpatient, and it's not minimally invasive. It's going to require four to six months of recovery, and I know that hurts him because he's been training for a half marathon and really wanted to do the Vulcan Run. And his weekend bike excursions have to be put on hold indefinitely, which breaks my heart for him because I know how he loves those.
But, realizing how much worse it could have been, I feel like we're pretty blessed there, too. It wasn't his neck, after all. He came home, after all. And it's easy to say that's melodramatic in retrospect, but no one knows what could have unless it does. And then it's too late.
Despite all of the goodness, I've been a little down lately. Slightly overwhelmed and under-productive. I could work morning till night and I'm not sure I'd get everything done that I would like to. I'm running a race that has no finish line. So I settle for day to day to-do lists and hope that the rest falls into place.
I've been told I'm too hard on myself, but I feel like that's letting me off the hook for living up to the standards I've set. And so what if that proves their point?
I'm willful that way.
Three days away from the three most important people in the world make them even more important than they were before; make them vital, absolute, irrevocable.
I am ridiculously blessed to have had both experiences this past weekend.
I have to admit that when I had my feet sunk deep into blinding white sand, a diabetic mimosa in my hand and newly downloaded music in my ears, surrounded by people with whom I've traveled a bumpy road that didn't manage to shake us apart even at its rockiest, all I was really focused on was relaxing. We had flawlessly blue skies, a steady breeze that took the bite out of the sun (and maybe only just enough that I didn't recognize I was getting slightly burned until it was called to my attention). Relaxing, yes, and a little soul-searching, as that's what I do at the foot of the end of the land.
My mind was everywhere and nowhere, but the little boy who kept trotting by pulled my thoughts back home to Alex, and the sound of a baby anywhere, at any time, made me yearn to sink my lips deep into rosy, smiley, squishy cheeks.
And of course I was thinking of Steven, with his broken shoulder, never letting on that he's in pain and never willing to admit that he needs help with anything. Thankfully, his mother knew better. (Thanks again, Kirk and Cindy!)
I'm lucky. Lucky to have friends like those who forgive my moody tendencies and inclination to zone out a bit during shop talk, who say HILARIOUS things and are just so irresistibly themselves that you have no choice but to love them.
I'm lucky to have my husband who claimed he would have tied me to the top of the car and driven me to the beach himself if he had to, when I protested that I shouldn't leave him there by himself with the kids and his injury.
Lucky to have a little boy who met me at the top of the driveway jumping up and down and threw half his body through my car window to give me the first of many "welcome home" hugs.
Lucky to have a baby girl whose eyes light up like a Christmas tree when she's happy and whose funny little mannerisms make her adorable even when she's not so happy.
Steven has to have surgery on his shoulder. Turns out the bone broke in pieces and severed the two ligaments that hold those bones in place. Or something like that. It's not outpatient, and it's not minimally invasive. It's going to require four to six months of recovery, and I know that hurts him because he's been training for a half marathon and really wanted to do the Vulcan Run. And his weekend bike excursions have to be put on hold indefinitely, which breaks my heart for him because I know how he loves those.
But, realizing how much worse it could have been, I feel like we're pretty blessed there, too. It wasn't his neck, after all. He came home, after all. And it's easy to say that's melodramatic in retrospect, but no one knows what could have unless it does. And then it's too late.
Despite all of the goodness, I've been a little down lately. Slightly overwhelmed and under-productive. I could work morning till night and I'm not sure I'd get everything done that I would like to. I'm running a race that has no finish line. So I settle for day to day to-do lists and hope that the rest falls into place.
I've been told I'm too hard on myself, but I feel like that's letting me off the hook for living up to the standards I've set. And so what if that proves their point?
I'm willful that way.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Just so they know...
I can't promise my kids as much as I'd like to.
I can't promise them I'll never screw up (I already have, a lot a lot). I can't promise them I'll never yell, or nag, or be unfair, or blame them for something they didn't do.
But I can promise them that I'll always love them, unconditionally, for who they are and for who they will become. I can promise them that I'll look at their faces and see the babies they were, even when they're twenty-five, and that I'll do my best to empower them even when I don't agree with their choices. Because without empowerment, without someone to tell you you're good enough and strong enough and that they believe in you, achieving a dream is that much harder. Not impossible, because the human spirit is nothing if not resilient, but harder, and less likely.
And I can think of no greater tragedy than a grown-up child who doesn't because no one said they could.
I can't promise them I'll never screw up (I already have, a lot a lot). I can't promise them I'll never yell, or nag, or be unfair, or blame them for something they didn't do.
But I can promise them that I'll always love them, unconditionally, for who they are and for who they will become. I can promise them that I'll look at their faces and see the babies they were, even when they're twenty-five, and that I'll do my best to empower them even when I don't agree with their choices. Because without empowerment, without someone to tell you you're good enough and strong enough and that they believe in you, achieving a dream is that much harder. Not impossible, because the human spirit is nothing if not resilient, but harder, and less likely.
And I can think of no greater tragedy than a grown-up child who doesn't because no one said they could.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Days Like This
Today was the day that was.
Alex woke up cranky that it was only Monday and that his grandparents won't be back until Thursday, and beSIDE himself that I forced him to wear long pants because of the sudden change in morning weather. (Of course, this being Alabama, by noon it's virtually sweltering, so tomorrow we're going with shorts and a jacket and his little legs can just freeze if he wants them to.)
I was very proud of the haul of new fall clothes I bought for him today, until he tried them on after dinner and we discovered that I am abysmal at size guestimations and maybe don't really have a clear grasp of what my kid looks like. I'm pretty sure the excess length on all the pants could've been made into similar pants for at least one additional kindergartner. So tomorrow I'll drag the girlchild back to Old Navy to swap out sizes in every single item of clothing I bought today. I love doing the same job twice. It's like I never left publishing.
I will also, as it's late and this horrendous day is over and I'm dreaming big, get something done work-wise. Today that was almost literally impossible, as someone swapped Katherine out with an identical-looking but temperamentally opposite baby in the night. Nothing appeased her, nothing distracted her unless it was something that had the effect of ramping up her displeasure a few notches. She seemed to hold me personally responsible for everything that was bothering her, which seemed to be everything she was feeling, seeing, thinking, touching, and otherwise experiencing.
Everything I did today, every breath I took, every key I typed, was set to the background of "ehhhh. ehhhhhh. ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
If that won't make a person crazy, what will, I ask you?
I had to take an important work-related phone call in my bedroom while she screamed bloody murder from her crib and I tried to pretend I couldn't hear her (and hoped that the person I was interviewing actually couldn't).
I ran back to her as soon as humanly possible and scooped her up, but she was too upset to let me comfort her right away, so there was back arching and the screaming turned to heartbreaking wails and her (still) blue marble eyes silently accused me of bad! bad! things! Like leaving her alone for five minutes when I should have been holding her, all the better to hear her ceaseless vocalizations of all-encompassing protest.
When Steven came home at lunch she managed a few smiles for him and when he made his standard joke about taking her back to work with him I agreed, but unfortunately he thought I was kidding.
There were some good things. Alex got possession of Bobby Bear for the night (though we butted heads over his "homework," which was to have an adventure with Bobby and write or draw a picture about it; Alex wanted to write a book, and aside from the fact that he's only allotted one page, I couldn't be of much help to him with his sister "ehhhhhh"ing in my ear. Right the heck in there; she does it on purpose.)
"Mommy, how do you spell 'Bobby Bear and I had a lot of fun today playing games like football and my DS and jumping on my trampoline'?" How do you SPELL that? You spell that "Ask your dad when he gets home."
Mother of the Year, right here.
I managed to make dinner but not to do the dishes. I managed to change my spit-up-soaked clothes four times and Katherine's three but not to throw them in the laundry. I managed to finish my article that's due tomorrow but not the ones I need to have written before I leave on Friday for a God-blessed girls' trip to the beach with some of my favorite people.
And that's what I'll focus on now, as I try to find the restful room in the tower of sleep. Lately I've been sleeping in the room that lets you think and think and think yourself into a nervous mess who shouldn't even BE in bed and ends up nursing fears and worries, two steps away from rocking in a corner somewhere.
Tonight I took an Ambien, so maybe the restful room will be easier to find this time.
If not, I'll just hope that Pod Katherine sleeps it off, whatever "it" is, and will be my happy angel baby again by morning.
Alex woke up cranky that it was only Monday and that his grandparents won't be back until Thursday, and beSIDE himself that I forced him to wear long pants because of the sudden change in morning weather. (Of course, this being Alabama, by noon it's virtually sweltering, so tomorrow we're going with shorts and a jacket and his little legs can just freeze if he wants them to.)
I was very proud of the haul of new fall clothes I bought for him today, until he tried them on after dinner and we discovered that I am abysmal at size guestimations and maybe don't really have a clear grasp of what my kid looks like. I'm pretty sure the excess length on all the pants could've been made into similar pants for at least one additional kindergartner. So tomorrow I'll drag the girlchild back to Old Navy to swap out sizes in every single item of clothing I bought today. I love doing the same job twice. It's like I never left publishing.
I will also, as it's late and this horrendous day is over and I'm dreaming big, get something done work-wise. Today that was almost literally impossible, as someone swapped Katherine out with an identical-looking but temperamentally opposite baby in the night. Nothing appeased her, nothing distracted her unless it was something that had the effect of ramping up her displeasure a few notches. She seemed to hold me personally responsible for everything that was bothering her, which seemed to be everything she was feeling, seeing, thinking, touching, and otherwise experiencing.
Everything I did today, every breath I took, every key I typed, was set to the background of "ehhhh. ehhhhhh. ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
If that won't make a person crazy, what will, I ask you?
I had to take an important work-related phone call in my bedroom while she screamed bloody murder from her crib and I tried to pretend I couldn't hear her (and hoped that the person I was interviewing actually couldn't).
I ran back to her as soon as humanly possible and scooped her up, but she was too upset to let me comfort her right away, so there was back arching and the screaming turned to heartbreaking wails and her (still) blue marble eyes silently accused me of bad! bad! things! Like leaving her alone for five minutes when I should have been holding her, all the better to hear her ceaseless vocalizations of all-encompassing protest.
When Steven came home at lunch she managed a few smiles for him and when he made his standard joke about taking her back to work with him I agreed, but unfortunately he thought I was kidding.
There were some good things. Alex got possession of Bobby Bear for the night (though we butted heads over his "homework," which was to have an adventure with Bobby and write or draw a picture about it; Alex wanted to write a book, and aside from the fact that he's only allotted one page, I couldn't be of much help to him with his sister "ehhhhhh"ing in my ear. Right the heck in there; she does it on purpose.)
"Mommy, how do you spell 'Bobby Bear and I had a lot of fun today playing games like football and my DS and jumping on my trampoline'?" How do you SPELL that? You spell that "Ask your dad when he gets home."
Mother of the Year, right here.
I managed to make dinner but not to do the dishes. I managed to change my spit-up-soaked clothes four times and Katherine's three but not to throw them in the laundry. I managed to finish my article that's due tomorrow but not the ones I need to have written before I leave on Friday for a God-blessed girls' trip to the beach with some of my favorite people.
And that's what I'll focus on now, as I try to find the restful room in the tower of sleep. Lately I've been sleeping in the room that lets you think and think and think yourself into a nervous mess who shouldn't even BE in bed and ends up nursing fears and worries, two steps away from rocking in a corner somewhere.
Tonight I took an Ambien, so maybe the restful room will be easier to find this time.
If not, I'll just hope that Pod Katherine sleeps it off, whatever "it" is, and will be my happy angel baby again by morning.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Not really news.
I am a sucker for unshed tears.
"Do you know what Clay said to me on the day we had to say goodbye?" he asked me, apropos of nothing, on Sunday morning.
No, I had to admit that I did not. (But I would have bet that it included the word "awesome," because the two of them had adopted that word as the essence of big-kidness and used it amusingly out of context all the time.)
"He said I would be his best friend forever."
And that's where I died a little, because he got choked up like an adult who's trying not to cry, and Those Eyes got all glisteny and wet and he turned his face away so I wouldn't see the tears in case his ducts couldn't reabsorb them before they fell.
Not to mention the fact that it reminded me of Tod and Copper from The Fox and the Hound, which was a movie that utterly destroyed me when I was little and I still can't think about without feeling achy in the heart.
Tod - er, I mean Clay - is coming over Saturday.
Good idea or opening an old wound? I really don't know, but for at least two hours they can be "awesomest buddies" again and do all those 5-year-old boy things that they've been doing with new friends instead of each other ever since school sent them down separate paths. I would accuse myself of attaching a sentimentality to it that's beyond their years, but then again ... teary eyes.
Miss Katherine is a chubby angel, still scheming every day to derail my efforts to get anything at all done but doing so in such a charming way that I have to succumb.
Plus she just won't abide all eyes not being on her at all times, a little conceit born of having the two men in her life fawning all over her every second, and who could blame her?
She's growing so fast, all I can think is how I should be memorizing all of it: The deer-in-headlights stare, the unruly hands that occasionally act of their own accord and smack her in her own face, the wispy trying-to-be-hair coming in on top of the soft, mostly bare scalp. Squishable thighs, kissable cheeks, bobbly head when she's tired.
There. I think I got it.
And if memory fails me, there's always the 1,027 pictures on my iPhone.
"Do you know what Clay said to me on the day we had to say goodbye?" he asked me, apropos of nothing, on Sunday morning.
No, I had to admit that I did not. (But I would have bet that it included the word "awesome," because the two of them had adopted that word as the essence of big-kidness and used it amusingly out of context all the time.)
"He said I would be his best friend forever."
And that's where I died a little, because he got choked up like an adult who's trying not to cry, and Those Eyes got all glisteny and wet and he turned his face away so I wouldn't see the tears in case his ducts couldn't reabsorb them before they fell.
Not to mention the fact that it reminded me of Tod and Copper from The Fox and the Hound, which was a movie that utterly destroyed me when I was little and I still can't think about without feeling achy in the heart.
Tod - er, I mean Clay - is coming over Saturday.
Good idea or opening an old wound? I really don't know, but for at least two hours they can be "awesomest buddies" again and do all those 5-year-old boy things that they've been doing with new friends instead of each other ever since school sent them down separate paths. I would accuse myself of attaching a sentimentality to it that's beyond their years, but then again ... teary eyes.
Miss Katherine is a chubby angel, still scheming every day to derail my efforts to get anything at all done but doing so in such a charming way that I have to succumb.
Plus she just won't abide all eyes not being on her at all times, a little conceit born of having the two men in her life fawning all over her every second, and who could blame her?
She's growing so fast, all I can think is how I should be memorizing all of it: The deer-in-headlights stare, the unruly hands that occasionally act of their own accord and smack her in her own face, the wispy trying-to-be-hair coming in on top of the soft, mostly bare scalp. Squishable thighs, kissable cheeks, bobbly head when she's tired.
There. I think I got it.
And if memory fails me, there's always the 1,027 pictures on my iPhone.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Cheese!
I love Tired Alex.
OK, so I love all facets of Alex, even Grumpy Alex who pouts and Early-Onset-Teenage Alex who stomps and slams doors. Chatty Alex, who won't stop talking for a single minute for all the world. Delirious Alex, who spouts incoherencies and flings his body around the living room until he inevitably smacks head-first into a wall and instantly becomes Grumpy Alex.
But Tired Alex has a special place in my heart because he's the one who's not too big to cuddle with his mama. He says sweet things like "I'll put you in my dream and the whole world will be made out of cheese and we can eat however much we want." He melts into my arms while I sing the alphabet song, which is the only song he's requested at bedtime for going on a million years. He's soft and warm and unconcerned with that recently born goal of being "just like Daddy."
Wait, he's "Dad" now. Much to his displeasure. ("I'm too young to be "Dad," he insists.)
I'm still "Mommy" most of the time, except when "Dad" is around. Then it's much more crucial to play the Big Kid role, and I become "Mom," and that's fine with me because it's just part of the growing up he's so busy doing most of the time.
Except, that is, when he's tired.
Katherine will be three months old next week, can you believe it? I can't. The birth is still so clear in my mind I can almost FEEL it if I try ... which I don't, very often, because wow. That was some serious pain.
They say (I listen to They more often that perhaps I should) that three months marks the peak of crying. If that's true, then we were truly blessed. She has days where she's a little more, shall we say, vocal? than others, and they seem to have been occurring one on top of the other for the past week or so. And yet she still sleeps like a rock through the night and is usually quickly consoled by a bottle or a pacifier or a well-timed shift in position.
Some days I'm frustrated. Some days, like today, I'm just exhausted. But it never seems to be too much, and I've yet to regret a single moment spent with her. This weekend is going to be chock-full of work I didn't do today because today she was fussy and today I was utterly wiped out. But even that's OK with me, because working from home was a decision I made, and stand by, and am determined to see through even when it's not as easy as one might imagine. Is anything, ever?
My sleep habits are still fraught. I have the best almost-three-month-old sleeper in the world and yet since her birth I've lost my own formerly unparalleled ability to zone out at any time and under any circumstance. Now, for instance, my body says "sleep," but my brain says, "do."
I guess that's better than last night, when I got home from a wonderful girls' night and my brain said "sleep" but my body said "eat." Thank God Steven had ordered pizza for dinner.
On that note, I'm going to bed. To sleep, or to think, or to overthink, or to worry, or to brood, I never know. No matter what, though, somewhere in the space that separates the waking world from the sleeping one, I'm hanging out with Alex, eating stuff made out of cheese.
OK, so I love all facets of Alex, even Grumpy Alex who pouts and Early-Onset-Teenage Alex who stomps and slams doors. Chatty Alex, who won't stop talking for a single minute for all the world. Delirious Alex, who spouts incoherencies and flings his body around the living room until he inevitably smacks head-first into a wall and instantly becomes Grumpy Alex.
But Tired Alex has a special place in my heart because he's the one who's not too big to cuddle with his mama. He says sweet things like "I'll put you in my dream and the whole world will be made out of cheese and we can eat however much we want." He melts into my arms while I sing the alphabet song, which is the only song he's requested at bedtime for going on a million years. He's soft and warm and unconcerned with that recently born goal of being "just like Daddy."
Wait, he's "Dad" now. Much to his displeasure. ("I'm too young to be "Dad," he insists.)
I'm still "Mommy" most of the time, except when "Dad" is around. Then it's much more crucial to play the Big Kid role, and I become "Mom," and that's fine with me because it's just part of the growing up he's so busy doing most of the time.
Except, that is, when he's tired.
Katherine will be three months old next week, can you believe it? I can't. The birth is still so clear in my mind I can almost FEEL it if I try ... which I don't, very often, because wow. That was some serious pain.
They say (I listen to They more often that perhaps I should) that three months marks the peak of crying. If that's true, then we were truly blessed. She has days where she's a little more, shall we say, vocal? than others, and they seem to have been occurring one on top of the other for the past week or so. And yet she still sleeps like a rock through the night and is usually quickly consoled by a bottle or a pacifier or a well-timed shift in position.
Some days I'm frustrated. Some days, like today, I'm just exhausted. But it never seems to be too much, and I've yet to regret a single moment spent with her. This weekend is going to be chock-full of work I didn't do today because today she was fussy and today I was utterly wiped out. But even that's OK with me, because working from home was a decision I made, and stand by, and am determined to see through even when it's not as easy as one might imagine. Is anything, ever?
My sleep habits are still fraught. I have the best almost-three-month-old sleeper in the world and yet since her birth I've lost my own formerly unparalleled ability to zone out at any time and under any circumstance. Now, for instance, my body says "sleep," but my brain says, "do."
I guess that's better than last night, when I got home from a wonderful girls' night and my brain said "sleep" but my body said "eat." Thank God Steven had ordered pizza for dinner.
On that note, I'm going to bed. To sleep, or to think, or to overthink, or to worry, or to brood, I never know. No matter what, though, somewhere in the space that separates the waking world from the sleeping one, I'm hanging out with Alex, eating stuff made out of cheese.
Friday, September 3, 2010
It's never too late to nest.
My bedside fan is making a death rattle. This is not good.
Bad enough that the man I married is cold-natured and ill-equipped to handle my preference of keeping the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. After eight-plus years of marriage he's gotten used to it, or maybe he just doesn't fight it anymore because he has witnessed my heat-induced wrath on many an occasion.
Lucky for me, Alex tended toward my constitution as a baby and is still much more likely to complain of being hot than cold.
But alas, Katherine. Her little hands and feet (arguably little, and comparatively little, though people keep exclaiming over them like she's a puppy and they're trying to estimate what her full-grown stature will be) can turn icy a second after being brought in from the 5,002-degree temperatures of our Alabama summer. And because I birthed her and she's incapable (as yet) of engaging in the hot/cold war that has been ongoing since Steven first came to realize that I wasn't going to budge on the comfort factor, I've surrendered to it.
Rather than, say, dressing her in fleece-lined diapers, mittens, hats, and socks.
Still, this fan needs to reconsider committing suicide at this point in time, or I will be breaking out the infant-size long johns, throwing Steven a Snuggie, and having my way with the thermostat.
I hesitate to make the mistake I made a few posts ago and blather on about these smooth waters we're currently drifting. And maybe I will just leave it there, or risk the karmic counterbalance.
Alex is loving school, and Katherine is sitting in a Bumbo, cheekily pleased with herself.
The work is holding steady, and it's been a while since I felt like setting the dogs loose and reporting them to animal control or shipping Alex off to boot camp or donating Katherine to my BFF to raise in a fleeting moment of perceived incompetence.
In short, I'm happy. Let it slide this time, karma.
Happy notwithstanding, I'm also as neurotic as ever.
Now that I'm home a lot I have started to notice everything about my house. Everything. Everything. And there are a trillion little annoyances (and a few big ones) to distract me from work, feeding the baby, or putting deodorant on both sides (heh).
The guest bathroom has become the bane of my mornings because every single time I open the door it looks for all the world like the Colgate factory exploded in there. How does he get toothpaste on the ceiling, I beg of you? He's like three feet tall!
So today, in an effort to keep crazy at bay, I cleaned the house and rearranged the living room and dining area, and it felt amazing. Tomorrow we are going to look at a cheap-but-not-cheap-looking couch that I think I can squeeze in enough extra work to afford. (My hatred for the couch we have now, which has been boiling in my blood for at least four years, is now a constant seething itch and if we don't get rid of it soon I'm just going to set fire the hell to it.)
This is Labor Day weekend and I am going to spend it laboring. I have big plans to buy a good mop and new dusting cloths and clean every surface of this house that sits still long enough, which means Katherine better not be sleeping when I get to the top of my game. Steven gets the outside, because, as noted above, I don't do heat.
I'll try to find some room for the mainstream brand of fun when I finish the kind that's its own reward.
Maybe I'll treat myself to a new fan.
Happy long weekend!
Bad enough that the man I married is cold-natured and ill-equipped to handle my preference of keeping the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. After eight-plus years of marriage he's gotten used to it, or maybe he just doesn't fight it anymore because he has witnessed my heat-induced wrath on many an occasion.
Lucky for me, Alex tended toward my constitution as a baby and is still much more likely to complain of being hot than cold.
But alas, Katherine. Her little hands and feet (arguably little, and comparatively little, though people keep exclaiming over them like she's a puppy and they're trying to estimate what her full-grown stature will be) can turn icy a second after being brought in from the 5,002-degree temperatures of our Alabama summer. And because I birthed her and she's incapable (as yet) of engaging in the hot/cold war that has been ongoing since Steven first came to realize that I wasn't going to budge on the comfort factor, I've surrendered to it.
Rather than, say, dressing her in fleece-lined diapers, mittens, hats, and socks.
Still, this fan needs to reconsider committing suicide at this point in time, or I will be breaking out the infant-size long johns, throwing Steven a Snuggie, and having my way with the thermostat.
I hesitate to make the mistake I made a few posts ago and blather on about these smooth waters we're currently drifting. And maybe I will just leave it there, or risk the karmic counterbalance.
Alex is loving school, and Katherine is sitting in a Bumbo, cheekily pleased with herself.
The work is holding steady, and it's been a while since I felt like setting the dogs loose and reporting them to animal control or shipping Alex off to boot camp or donating Katherine to my BFF to raise in a fleeting moment of perceived incompetence.
In short, I'm happy. Let it slide this time, karma.
Happy notwithstanding, I'm also as neurotic as ever.
Now that I'm home a lot I have started to notice everything about my house. Everything. Everything. And there are a trillion little annoyances (and a few big ones) to distract me from work, feeding the baby, or putting deodorant on both sides (heh).
The guest bathroom has become the bane of my mornings because every single time I open the door it looks for all the world like the Colgate factory exploded in there. How does he get toothpaste on the ceiling, I beg of you? He's like three feet tall!
So today, in an effort to keep crazy at bay, I cleaned the house and rearranged the living room and dining area, and it felt amazing. Tomorrow we are going to look at a cheap-but-not-cheap-looking couch that I think I can squeeze in enough extra work to afford. (My hatred for the couch we have now, which has been boiling in my blood for at least four years, is now a constant seething itch and if we don't get rid of it soon I'm just going to set fire the hell to it.)
This is Labor Day weekend and I am going to spend it laboring. I have big plans to buy a good mop and new dusting cloths and clean every surface of this house that sits still long enough, which means Katherine better not be sleeping when I get to the top of my game. Steven gets the outside, because, as noted above, I don't do heat.
I'll try to find some room for the mainstream brand of fun when I finish the kind that's its own reward.
Maybe I'll treat myself to a new fan.
Happy long weekend!
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