1. Emailed the circulation dept. of a magazine I love to tell them, in response to their subscription renewal reminder, that hey! I ordered this subscription in September and I haven't received any issues! And they sendt the 3 back issues I've missed and will be sending everything first class from now on, yadda yadda terrific customer service yadda. Fixed. And then. On my bedside table (ok, old tv tray, but whatever, it sits by my bed with a lamp on it), I happen to notice the Winter issue. Of the magazine. Which I now remember reading cover to cover. Oh, and on the shelf by the window is the Fall issue. So I've been getting it, reading it, and forgetting all about it.
2. Bought a semi-gnarly booster car seat from a woman on craigslist, primarily because I had already written out the check before I met up with her in the parking lot and for some reason felt the deal had already been set in motion. It will do, but in hind sight... eh.
3. Pumped breast milk like a dedicated mama-mammal at the office, washed and sterilized all of my pump parts, and promptly left my baggies of nutritionally perfect and hard-won milkiness in the car all night. On at least three separate occasions.
4. Came within a millimeter of dumping a scoop of baby formula into an open jar of olives.
29 March 2010
22 March 2010
March, is it?
So, here it is, the Monday of my 4th week back to work full time, with Gopher in daycare full time.
And you know what? It's going just fine.
Sure, I miss my days of working from home. Mostly the parts when I was baby-snuggling and coffee-getting, though, which meant that I spent a lot of nights working from home to meet my deadlines. And as fantastically snuggly as that Gopher can be, I don't miss working FT with an infant and no childcare.
The month of February was a great opportunity to live the dream, refine the dream. What was once "I want to work from home" is now the more specific "I want to work for myself." Which is good to know. And what was once "sooner than later" is now "when the time is right," which is not now. And what was once "I could totally handle it" is now "I would really, really have to work at time management and give up on perfection."
And for whatever reason (maybe the refined and less urgent dream), I am much more comfortable where I am and I'm realizing that I really like what I do, that I get to do some really interesting things with interesting people, that I am treated with much kindness, and that I am really, really lucky when it comes to my job and many, many other areas in my life. I mean, I knew that before Gopher, but coming back to work was a nice reminder that everything is FINE. GOOD, even. That there is no need to reinvent everything, all the time.
The mornings, though. If I could just fix ONE thing, please. The fucking mornings. The racing around, the unpreparedness, the madness. The limited baby-snuggling, lack of patience-having. The feeling like I've been clawing my way out of a deep, dark pit for hours upon hours before I even hit the office door. That I could do without.
***
Spring must be hiding and giggling and almost peeing its pants somewhere, waiting to jump out and be all "Bloodeedoo!" because I have been feeling CRAFTY and RESTLESS. I've been knitting washcloths like your Granny, I made Birdy 4 little belts to hold her jeans up (bless her heart), and I've been threatening for three weeks to leave this damned house with no children strapped or otherwise attached to my body to go to the fabric store and purchase one of about 8 dress patterns I've had my eye on. That's right, I said it. DRESS PATTERN.
Which is funny, right? Miss jeans and solid-colored t-shirt over here? Well, despite my legendary * ahem * simple fashion sense, I spend a weird amount of time thinking about clothing, partially from a nerdy construction angle and partially from an "I'd like to be in over my head on a project" angle. Plus, dresses. I mean, how much easier does it get? One piece of clothing + shoes. Tights if it's cold. No finding multiple clean pieces. And in my current body shape, no waistband, amen. What may seem like a move toward the fancy is actually a move toward the lazy, and I am totally cool with that.
***
Bird and I ran into one of her former daycare teachers at the hotdog stand a few weekends ago. She's a lovely person, mid-twenties, who has recently become a police officer. She spends her working hours patrolling on foot in the projects. Which is, as you might have guessed, is totally hard core.
I realized as we were talking that becoming a cop is one of the most unsettling things I could imagine. In my life now, with my constantly humming little brain thinking up bizarre scenarios in the background of my actual, valuable thoughts, there are plenty of situations (plausible and implausible) that I am able to dismiss with "I would call the police."
But for Laura, holy shit, she IS the police. Which, for some, might feel empowering. To me, it seems terrifying. To know that this idea of an all-seeing protector is truly just a human, with no superhuman powers and no more magic than anybody else. That since Joe Policeman visited my 4th grade class, I've had this imaginary army of officers who totally had my back and really? There's just ME. I'm IT, and I know just exactly how un-magical I am. And there are a bunch of people out there who think I'm capable of being not only a badass, but a superhero badass.
And really (this is my point), it's kind of the same thing being a parent, isn't it? Those moments when you say to yourself, "Holy shit, I AM the mom. And I don't have a clue what I'm doing."
And you know what? It's going just fine.
Sure, I miss my days of working from home. Mostly the parts when I was baby-snuggling and coffee-getting, though, which meant that I spent a lot of nights working from home to meet my deadlines. And as fantastically snuggly as that Gopher can be, I don't miss working FT with an infant and no childcare.
The month of February was a great opportunity to live the dream, refine the dream. What was once "I want to work from home" is now the more specific "I want to work for myself." Which is good to know. And what was once "sooner than later" is now "when the time is right," which is not now. And what was once "I could totally handle it" is now "I would really, really have to work at time management and give up on perfection."
And for whatever reason (maybe the refined and less urgent dream), I am much more comfortable where I am and I'm realizing that I really like what I do, that I get to do some really interesting things with interesting people, that I am treated with much kindness, and that I am really, really lucky when it comes to my job and many, many other areas in my life. I mean, I knew that before Gopher, but coming back to work was a nice reminder that everything is FINE. GOOD, even. That there is no need to reinvent everything, all the time.
The mornings, though. If I could just fix ONE thing, please. The fucking mornings. The racing around, the unpreparedness, the madness. The limited baby-snuggling, lack of patience-having. The feeling like I've been clawing my way out of a deep, dark pit for hours upon hours before I even hit the office door. That I could do without.
***
Spring must be hiding and giggling and almost peeing its pants somewhere, waiting to jump out and be all "Bloodeedoo!" because I have been feeling CRAFTY and RESTLESS. I've been knitting washcloths like your Granny, I made Birdy 4 little belts to hold her jeans up (bless her heart), and I've been threatening for three weeks to leave this damned house with no children strapped or otherwise attached to my body to go to the fabric store and purchase one of about 8 dress patterns I've had my eye on. That's right, I said it. DRESS PATTERN.
Which is funny, right? Miss jeans and solid-colored t-shirt over here? Well, despite my legendary * ahem * simple fashion sense, I spend a weird amount of time thinking about clothing, partially from a nerdy construction angle and partially from an "I'd like to be in over my head on a project" angle. Plus, dresses. I mean, how much easier does it get? One piece of clothing + shoes. Tights if it's cold. No finding multiple clean pieces. And in my current body shape, no waistband, amen. What may seem like a move toward the fancy is actually a move toward the lazy, and I am totally cool with that.
***
Bird and I ran into one of her former daycare teachers at the hotdog stand a few weekends ago. She's a lovely person, mid-twenties, who has recently become a police officer. She spends her working hours patrolling on foot in the projects. Which is, as you might have guessed, is totally hard core.
I realized as we were talking that becoming a cop is one of the most unsettling things I could imagine. In my life now, with my constantly humming little brain thinking up bizarre scenarios in the background of my actual, valuable thoughts, there are plenty of situations (plausible and implausible) that I am able to dismiss with "I would call the police."
But for Laura, holy shit, she IS the police. Which, for some, might feel empowering. To me, it seems terrifying. To know that this idea of an all-seeing protector is truly just a human, with no superhuman powers and no more magic than anybody else. That since Joe Policeman visited my 4th grade class, I've had this imaginary army of officers who totally had my back and really? There's just ME. I'm IT, and I know just exactly how un-magical I am. And there are a bunch of people out there who think I'm capable of being not only a badass, but a superhero badass.
And really (this is my point), it's kind of the same thing being a parent, isn't it? Those moments when you say to yourself, "Holy shit, I AM the mom. And I don't have a clue what I'm doing."
06 March 2010
What I just said to my friend on the phone:
"I'll give you that crochet hook at church tomorrow."
Old. Lady.
Old. Lady.
04 March 2010
20 February 2010
I'd like a slice, please
What my husband said in a pretend conversation with the guy who almost ran him over during his run downtown this afternoon:
"You want a slice-a this beefcake? You're gonna need a fork, buddy."
I thought it was precious.
Also precious:
Birdy doing several "silly walks" all around the wide ledges of the Parthenon, including a totally kick-ass robot walk that would make the Beastie Boys stand up and cheer. Intergalactic, planetary! (that is not Bird in the photo. That is not even my photo. But that is the Parthenon.)
And precious-er:
Lunch time, Bird and I standing at the edge of the duck pond at the park, sans bread, when a sweet little girl came over to us and offered Birdy the top of a hamburger bun from her duck-bread stash. We said thank you, the girl moved on, and Birdy sat there for a second, staring at the bun.
She looked up at me and whispered, "Mom, can I eat this?"
Less precious:
20 minutes spent staring at, wondering about, and discussing in great detail a dead squirrel on the side of the walking path.
And most wonderful:
My Bird can read!
Fat Cat Rat Hat Splat! Can Ran Stand Pants! Hop Pop Stop!
"You want a slice-a this beefcake? You're gonna need a fork, buddy."
I thought it was precious.
Also precious:Birdy doing several "silly walks" all around the wide ledges of the Parthenon, including a totally kick-ass robot walk that would make the Beastie Boys stand up and cheer. Intergalactic, planetary! (that is not Bird in the photo. That is not even my photo. But that is the Parthenon.)
And precious-er:
Lunch time, Bird and I standing at the edge of the duck pond at the park, sans bread, when a sweet little girl came over to us and offered Birdy the top of a hamburger bun from her duck-bread stash. We said thank you, the girl moved on, and Birdy sat there for a second, staring at the bun.
She looked up at me and whispered, "Mom, can I eat this?"
Less precious:
20 minutes spent staring at, wondering about, and discussing in great detail a dead squirrel on the side of the walking path.
And most wonderful:
My Bird can read!
Fat Cat Rat Hat Splat! Can Ran Stand Pants! Hop Pop Stop!
17 February 2010
Thoughts on giving and receiving
After a grumpy little incident involving my Bird, my mom, and a pair of brand new jeans, Bird and I had this exchange at bedtime.
Mama: You know, when someone gives you a gift you don't really like, most of the time you just say "thank you" and move on.
Bird: Why?
Mama: So you don't hurt the person's feelings. Think about how you would feel if you gave someone a present and they said they didn't like it.
Bird: Oh. It would hurt my feelings. Ok.
Mama: So... what if I gave you... a hat you didn't really like?
Bird: I would say "thank you."
Mama: What if I gave you... a really ugly shirt?
Bird: I would say "thank you."
(( long pause ))
Bird: What if I gave you a fart?
Mama: Well, I guess I'd have to say "thank you."
(( long pause, giggles))
Bird: I just farted, mom.
Mama: You know, when someone gives you a gift you don't really like, most of the time you just say "thank you" and move on.
Bird: Why?
Mama: So you don't hurt the person's feelings. Think about how you would feel if you gave someone a present and they said they didn't like it.
Bird: Oh. It would hurt my feelings. Ok.
Mama: So... what if I gave you... a hat you didn't really like?
Bird: I would say "thank you."
Mama: What if I gave you... a really ugly shirt?
Bird: I would say "thank you."
(( long pause ))
Bird: What if I gave you a fart?
Mama: Well, I guess I'd have to say "thank you."
(( long pause, giggles))
Bird: I just farted, mom.
25 January 2010
I once got busy in a Burger King Bathroom
Working from Home:
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.
She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.
And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.
Well.
One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!
Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.
Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.
She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.
And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.
Well.
One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!
Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.
Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.
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