So, tonight I'm thinking about the internet's effect on my brain and how it may very possibly be shrinking my IQ, slowly but rather surely. For instance, after a long, arduous day of housewifery and motherhood, after which I am partially braindead, part of me wants to read that book I've been meaning to finish (i.e. start) and the other part of me wants to surf the net and read about where Scarlett Johanssen had breakfast yesterday. Additionally, I find myself trudging through the randomness of Hulu.com which offers a plethora of General Hospital and One Life to Live episodes as well as gems I've never heard of like Naruto Shippuden.
It's a strange tug of war that goes on in my brain in the evenings and to be honest, I often give in and waste valuable brain cells on pop culture gossip or on a television show I've already seen and don't really care that much about. And in the process, I fear, the internet wirelessly streaming into my computer (and subsequently, my brain) is slowly and painlessly making me less and less intelligent. Hm.
It's not that I want this to happen, mind you. I'd like to keep all those little IQ points that power my ability to form sentences and pat my head while at the same time rubbing my stomach (this valuable skill may, in fact, have nothing to do with my intelligence quotient). I dream of writing a book about an ordinary couple who drink large amounts of Earl Grey and have secret rendezvous at local Whole Foods Markets. And sometimes I imagine that I'll just stay up late after Matt and The Babe have "released me" from my aforementioned roles so that I can pen my great American novel. However, this never happens. Instead, I stay up a little late and end up on People.com. Argh.
So, to sum up, this post is simply me confessing to intellectual laziness and and an odd addiction to reading about the dysfunctional dating lives of people I don't know. It's also me documenting the apparent slippery slope I'm on that will eventually find me struggling to articulate anything other than what the Kardashians are up to. Ok, that's a little extreme because I don't really know that much about Kim, Khloe or Kourtney. But, seriously, I need to break this cycle and I can't hold out until Sam is 18 and off at college, leaving me with free time to pursue all those creative, educational and spiritual ventures I've been wanting to pursue.
Is it weird to dream about being in my fifties, my kids grown and off at college, and me at home reading all the books I meant to read and writing all the stories I meant to write? Maybe it's not weird, but it's definitely a little unnecessary and perhaps a little unrealistic because obviously, in my fifties I'll be running marathons and organizing large charity events and won't have time for silly things like reading and writing.
Well, friends, I've used up all the brain cells I have for this evening and need to shut this thing down. But, for the record, let it be known that motherhood uses copious amounts of the brain's resources and so, maybe it's ok to "veg out" a little in the evenings. There'll be time for intellectual pursuits one day, right? And, until then, I'm hoping you'll still be my friends even if the only things I can talk about are how many boxes of raisins Sam ate yesterday and what restaurant Jennifer Aniston met her mystery man at last night. Right? Please say yes.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Moving Can Kill You
I was thinking the other day about a list I'd read one time of the most stress-inducing events in life and I was pretty darn sure moving was atleast number 3 or 4 on that list. However, I've just been doing a little research and found out that, in fact, Marriage is number 3 and Jail Time is number 4. Moving didn't make the list. However, I've decided that it makes MY list of most stressful life events after these past 2 weeks in what I like to call "moving hell." In fact, I'd put it right up there with giving birth and losing something really important (like a kidney or your car in the parking lot at Walmart after dark).
Atleast, that's how I felt the other day after Matt had gone to work and I was left in our little cottage on the mountain with an almost one year old and one. million. unopened. boxes, which for a Type A, overachieving, OCD stressball, is the ultimate recipe for a potential meltdown. But, I really thought things would be ok until after a quick trip to the bathroom (during which Sam was "safe" in his walker, which keeps him from getting into anything), I found Sam with a shiny dime in his little mouth, fished from a box that he was able to reach with his go-go-gadget baby arms. Lightning-fast, I snatched it out of his mouth just as it was about to be swallowed. And then, I sat down and cried.
That was the breaking point. So, Sam and I quickly got dressed and left the house, which I dubbed a "baby minefield" in a Kardashian-worthy dramatic phone conversation with my mom soon after the dime incident. Later, Sam and I made visits to Target and Chic fil a, which made life a teensy bit more manageable.
Anyway, we've come a long way since that day, but I will admit to having considered running away on more than one occasion. It's not been pretty. I think I may have even aged 9-10 months. In the process, I've also discovered that I'm wound a little too tight. Oh, who am I kidding. I already knew that along with anyone else that has known me longer than 3 minutes. "Wound too tight" might actually be putting it mildly. I make energy drinks nervous.
Moving Progress Report:
1. Sam is still alive, despite having developed a taste for paper products and indulging in a little toilet paper/paper towels/cardboard box when I'm not looking. I think this might be his way of coping with stress.
2. Matt has hooked up our internet and we have now gone wireless. I feel so 21st century despite our lack of cable.
3. Our little 953 square feet looks and feels pretty much like home these days. (So, come visit. We'll pull out a rug for you.)
4. After a small oven fire involving a baked potato, I have baked 2 batches of cookies and eaten most of them myself. I've needed the extra sugar-induced energy for unpacking boxes, obviously.
I'll be honest, moving has taken it out of me and so I've made the decision that we're never going to move again, which means I can mark that off my list of stressful life events. Now, I can concentrate on avoiding stresser number 4: Jail Time.
This just in:
While doing a little more research, I've found a list that acknowledges what I already knew. Moving IS one of the most stressful events in life. If you're interested, and you're probably not, here's the article that proves I'm less crazy than my husband thinks I am:
http://www.ourtownamerica.com/press_room/pdf/Background-Movpsy.pdf
Atleast, that's how I felt the other day after Matt had gone to work and I was left in our little cottage on the mountain with an almost one year old and one. million. unopened. boxes, which for a Type A, overachieving, OCD stressball, is the ultimate recipe for a potential meltdown. But, I really thought things would be ok until after a quick trip to the bathroom (during which Sam was "safe" in his walker, which keeps him from getting into anything), I found Sam with a shiny dime in his little mouth, fished from a box that he was able to reach with his go-go-gadget baby arms. Lightning-fast, I snatched it out of his mouth just as it was about to be swallowed. And then, I sat down and cried.
That was the breaking point. So, Sam and I quickly got dressed and left the house, which I dubbed a "baby minefield" in a Kardashian-worthy dramatic phone conversation with my mom soon after the dime incident. Later, Sam and I made visits to Target and Chic fil a, which made life a teensy bit more manageable.
Anyway, we've come a long way since that day, but I will admit to having considered running away on more than one occasion. It's not been pretty. I think I may have even aged 9-10 months. In the process, I've also discovered that I'm wound a little too tight. Oh, who am I kidding. I already knew that along with anyone else that has known me longer than 3 minutes. "Wound too tight" might actually be putting it mildly. I make energy drinks nervous.
Moving Progress Report:
1. Sam is still alive, despite having developed a taste for paper products and indulging in a little toilet paper/paper towels/cardboard box when I'm not looking. I think this might be his way of coping with stress.
2. Matt has hooked up our internet and we have now gone wireless. I feel so 21st century despite our lack of cable.
3. Our little 953 square feet looks and feels pretty much like home these days. (So, come visit. We'll pull out a rug for you.)
4. After a small oven fire involving a baked potato, I have baked 2 batches of cookies and eaten most of them myself. I've needed the extra sugar-induced energy for unpacking boxes, obviously.
I'll be honest, moving has taken it out of me and so I've made the decision that we're never going to move again, which means I can mark that off my list of stressful life events. Now, I can concentrate on avoiding stresser number 4: Jail Time.
This just in:
While doing a little more research, I've found a list that acknowledges what I already knew. Moving IS one of the most stressful events in life. If you're interested, and you're probably not, here's the article that proves I'm less crazy than my husband thinks I am:
http://www.ourtownamerica.com/press_room/pdf/Background-Movpsy.pdf
Sunday, November 14, 2010
A is for Awkward
So, we live in Chattanooga now. Maybe you hadn't heard, but we loaded up the truck and moved to Lookout Mountain about six weeks ago. Matt's got a new job, we've got a new little (953 square feet, to be exact) rental house, a new church, a few new friends, etc. What I'm also noticing is that, in the midst of all this newness, I feel new. Not the shiny, my-shirt-still-smells-like-the-Gap kind of new. No, I'm feeling more like the new kid in middle school who doesn't know anybody and hasn't figured out where to sit in the lunchroom. I'm 32 years old. Why do I feel like the awkward new kid who's still wearing crimped hair when everyone else has gone straight? I thought I was over that whole thing, but it turns out I'm not.
However, in the midst of all this newness that feels so uncomfortable at times, something happened yesterday that amounted to having the cool kid at school high five me in the lunchroom. It's not that big of a deal really, but I keep thinking about it and wondering why it made me feel less like an awkward middle-schooler and more like a new outfit from the Gap.
The pastor of a church we've visited a few times saw me at a restaurant having lunch with my parents and came over to say hello. I didn't recognize him at first or even remember his name. I chalk this up to being more than a little distracted by my eleven month old progeny during church services these days. The thing about this encounter that really struck me was that the pastor, whom I had met once, actually remembered my name. I've dated guys who've had trouble doing that, so this felt significant.
Something about that little encounter at Guthries over sweet potato fries and chicken fingers was a turning point. I was at that pastor's church again this morning feeling a teensy bit more like I belonged there. And while I sat there, sans Matt who was hanging out in the back with Sam and the other pew-jumping toddlers, I thought about the weight of having my name remembered. I don't think I'd realized how much I've missed being around folks who know me and like me and want to meet me for lunch at Chic-fil-a.
I miss Knoxville and all the folks there who know my name really well, but I'm glad we're here on the mountain now and I'm glad there's a chance to be new again. It's interesting doing this with a baby and having a new identity as a mom to go along with being new in general. But, there's a boatload of possibility and I'm wondering who will invite us into their lives here and who will become a part of our family's story.
We're off to visit a small group tonight in about half an hour and I'm anticipating some major small talk and a few awkward pauses, but I'm also betting there might be a potential friend or two there which makes all that awkwardness worth it. I've decided to just embrace being the new kid at school (or on the block, if you'd rather) and just be honest about needing some friends. Hm. Maybe I could also bribe them with the cookies I just made.
I think I might crimp my hair before I go.
However, in the midst of all this newness that feels so uncomfortable at times, something happened yesterday that amounted to having the cool kid at school high five me in the lunchroom. It's not that big of a deal really, but I keep thinking about it and wondering why it made me feel less like an awkward middle-schooler and more like a new outfit from the Gap.
The pastor of a church we've visited a few times saw me at a restaurant having lunch with my parents and came over to say hello. I didn't recognize him at first or even remember his name. I chalk this up to being more than a little distracted by my eleven month old progeny during church services these days. The thing about this encounter that really struck me was that the pastor, whom I had met once, actually remembered my name. I've dated guys who've had trouble doing that, so this felt significant.
Something about that little encounter at Guthries over sweet potato fries and chicken fingers was a turning point. I was at that pastor's church again this morning feeling a teensy bit more like I belonged there. And while I sat there, sans Matt who was hanging out in the back with Sam and the other pew-jumping toddlers, I thought about the weight of having my name remembered. I don't think I'd realized how much I've missed being around folks who know me and like me and want to meet me for lunch at Chic-fil-a.
I miss Knoxville and all the folks there who know my name really well, but I'm glad we're here on the mountain now and I'm glad there's a chance to be new again. It's interesting doing this with a baby and having a new identity as a mom to go along with being new in general. But, there's a boatload of possibility and I'm wondering who will invite us into their lives here and who will become a part of our family's story.
We're off to visit a small group tonight in about half an hour and I'm anticipating some major small talk and a few awkward pauses, but I'm also betting there might be a potential friend or two there which makes all that awkwardness worth it. I've decided to just embrace being the new kid at school (or on the block, if you'd rather) and just be honest about needing some friends. Hm. Maybe I could also bribe them with the cookies I just made.
I think I might crimp my hair before I go.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Top Ten List: You Know You're A Mom When...
10. You find yourself cutting your own food up in tiny pieces before you eat it.
9. You shaved half of one leg about 2 weeks ago and still haven't gotten to the other one and a half yet. (You're hoping to get to that before your next date night.)
8. Date night includes a movie (in the dvd player), a frozen pizza and someone crying themselves to sleep in the room down the hall.
7. You find half-chewed cheerios in your pockets at the end of the day and you eat them instead of getting up to throw them away.
6. You look forward to naptimes with the same anticipation of vacation or Christmas or your wedding day (small bit of exaggeration here, but not much).
5. Talking to your baby has now morphed into you talking to yourself AND calling yourself "mama" while talking to yourself even when your baby isn't in the room.
4. You have developed a mild version of ADD that...wait, did I use toothpaste or hair gel this morning to brush my teeth?
3. You have small bite marks and bruises where someone has tried out their new teeth on you. (And, you start to wonder if reading the "Twilight" series while pregnant wasn't such a good idea).
2. Songs from "Barney" and other such television for small people play in your mind over and over and over and over all day long. (help me)
And the number one way you know you're a mom is...(drumroll, please)
1. You take a bathroom break and within seconds someone is outside the bathroom door screaming like you've just dropped them off at Saddam Hussein's house for a playdate.
9. You shaved half of one leg about 2 weeks ago and still haven't gotten to the other one and a half yet. (You're hoping to get to that before your next date night.)
8. Date night includes a movie (in the dvd player), a frozen pizza and someone crying themselves to sleep in the room down the hall.
7. You find half-chewed cheerios in your pockets at the end of the day and you eat them instead of getting up to throw them away.
6. You look forward to naptimes with the same anticipation of vacation or Christmas or your wedding day (small bit of exaggeration here, but not much).
5. Talking to your baby has now morphed into you talking to yourself AND calling yourself "mama" while talking to yourself even when your baby isn't in the room.
4. You have developed a mild version of ADD that...wait, did I use toothpaste or hair gel this morning to brush my teeth?
3. You have small bite marks and bruises where someone has tried out their new teeth on you. (And, you start to wonder if reading the "Twilight" series while pregnant wasn't such a good idea).
2. Songs from "Barney" and other such television for small people play in your mind over and over and over and over all day long. (help me)
And the number one way you know you're a mom is...(drumroll, please)
1. You take a bathroom break and within seconds someone is outside the bathroom door screaming like you've just dropped them off at Saddam Hussein's house for a playdate.
Monday, October 25, 2010
A Case of "Mom-Brain"
I think I may have the blogger's version of writers' block, which, come to think of it, might be the same thing as regular writer's block. Lately, I find myself thinking about how I want to be writing and yet, there's this big fat blank that comes to mind whenever I consider putting a few sentences together.
However, as you may have noted by now, despite a bit of writer's block, I am nonetheless determined to string a few words together and see what comes of it. If nothing else, atleast I'm attempting to write and that's worth a little bit, isn't it? And if not, perhaps I'll burn a few calories doing some really fast typing.
There's not much to report these days from the mountain that we're currently living on. At the moment, I'm baking a butternut squash, doing laundry and wondering how much longer I have before The Babe wakes up from his nap. It's a small world these days and thankfully, we've had a few visitors lately to keep me from fully succumbing to "stay at-home-mom-induced-cabin-fever." This disorder is coupled with what my friend Abigail calls "mom-brain." Or I think that's what she calls it. My "mom-brain" tends to forget anything and everything said to me within a 3 hour or less window. It also has the tendency to manifest itself in slightly alarming bouts of A.D.D., which could occasionally be mistaken for Tourrette's Syndrome.
What does this look like exactly? Well, if we were having a conversation, I might be able to finish one or maybe two sentences before checking to see what small object (ex. fuzz, old peanut, dead ladybug, etc.) Sam is pinching from the floor in order to put into his mouth. Half a sentence later, I will, mid-sentence mind you, note that your shoelace is untied. Another two sentences and I have forgotten what I initially started to tell you in the first place, but no matter, I've already moved on to another topic sparked by Sam's celebratory outburst at having just removed his shoe.
In light of my tendency toward A.D.D. these days, I will now change topics before you've fully been able to process the last paragraph you've just read.
For those of you wondering what the heck is going on since we moved to Chattanooga, I'll sum up for you:
-We've visited 3 churches in 3 weeks. Right now, the front-runner is the one with the most-efficient nursery. (priorities = Sam)
-We discovered the Greenlife (a.k.a. Whole Foods) here in Chattanooga. I had no idea I was moving to a city with a Whole Foods and I may have had a little trouble sleeping a night or two just knowing it was a mere 20-25 minutes away.
-I've only been to Target once in 3 weeks. Tragedy.
-Sam has 2.5 new teeth since we arrived.
-Sam has bitten me with said new teeth more times than I can count. Not sure how to break this unfortunate habit yet.
-The husband and I have both had new tires put on our car.
-I've done approximately 13 loads of laundry.
-We had a thunderstorm last night that sounded like a hurricane. Sam slept through the whole thing.
Hm. I'm boring myself just typing this list. Staying at home with a 10 month old is both a joy and a brain-sucker. I love Sam more than I have words for and I'm so grateful that I'm at home with him witnessing every baby step he makes towards being a little person. But, somedays it does feel like the U.S. could have been taken over by the Chinese and I might not know about it for 3 days.
Obviously, as noted earlier, we did just move to a new city where we A. aren't yet plugged in to a church/community and B. don't know many people and C. get lost (or uncertain of our whereabouts) on occasion. I realize that with transition comes some uncomfortable-ness and occasionally some loneliness and I know all of that can't be blamed on being a stay-at-home mom. Sorry, Sam.
But, now I'm left with the question of where this writers' block is coming from. Is it a product of being overwhelmed by transition and change? Is it the aforementioned reality of "mom-brain"? Or, could it be that perhaps I need another spoonful of Nutella to spark a few new ideas for blog-posting?
Well, while you ponder that, a load of laundry is waiting to be transferred from the washer to the dryer. Here's hoping I have more to say next time I post. If not, I'm planning on sharing a few pictures of Sam doing something adorable instead.
However, as you may have noted by now, despite a bit of writer's block, I am nonetheless determined to string a few words together and see what comes of it. If nothing else, atleast I'm attempting to write and that's worth a little bit, isn't it? And if not, perhaps I'll burn a few calories doing some really fast typing.
There's not much to report these days from the mountain that we're currently living on. At the moment, I'm baking a butternut squash, doing laundry and wondering how much longer I have before The Babe wakes up from his nap. It's a small world these days and thankfully, we've had a few visitors lately to keep me from fully succumbing to "stay at-home-mom-induced-cabin-fever." This disorder is coupled with what my friend Abigail calls "mom-brain." Or I think that's what she calls it. My "mom-brain" tends to forget anything and everything said to me within a 3 hour or less window. It also has the tendency to manifest itself in slightly alarming bouts of A.D.D., which could occasionally be mistaken for Tourrette's Syndrome.
What does this look like exactly? Well, if we were having a conversation, I might be able to finish one or maybe two sentences before checking to see what small object (ex. fuzz, old peanut, dead ladybug, etc.) Sam is pinching from the floor in order to put into his mouth. Half a sentence later, I will, mid-sentence mind you, note that your shoelace is untied. Another two sentences and I have forgotten what I initially started to tell you in the first place, but no matter, I've already moved on to another topic sparked by Sam's celebratory outburst at having just removed his shoe.
In light of my tendency toward A.D.D. these days, I will now change topics before you've fully been able to process the last paragraph you've just read.
For those of you wondering what the heck is going on since we moved to Chattanooga, I'll sum up for you:
-We've visited 3 churches in 3 weeks. Right now, the front-runner is the one with the most-efficient nursery. (priorities = Sam)
-We discovered the Greenlife (a.k.a. Whole Foods) here in Chattanooga. I had no idea I was moving to a city with a Whole Foods and I may have had a little trouble sleeping a night or two just knowing it was a mere 20-25 minutes away.
-I've only been to Target once in 3 weeks. Tragedy.
-Sam has 2.5 new teeth since we arrived.
-Sam has bitten me with said new teeth more times than I can count. Not sure how to break this unfortunate habit yet.
-The husband and I have both had new tires put on our car.
-I've done approximately 13 loads of laundry.
-We had a thunderstorm last night that sounded like a hurricane. Sam slept through the whole thing.
Hm. I'm boring myself just typing this list. Staying at home with a 10 month old is both a joy and a brain-sucker. I love Sam more than I have words for and I'm so grateful that I'm at home with him witnessing every baby step he makes towards being a little person. But, somedays it does feel like the U.S. could have been taken over by the Chinese and I might not know about it for 3 days.
Obviously, as noted earlier, we did just move to a new city where we A. aren't yet plugged in to a church/community and B. don't know many people and C. get lost (or uncertain of our whereabouts) on occasion. I realize that with transition comes some uncomfortable-ness and occasionally some loneliness and I know all of that can't be blamed on being a stay-at-home mom. Sorry, Sam.
But, now I'm left with the question of where this writers' block is coming from. Is it a product of being overwhelmed by transition and change? Is it the aforementioned reality of "mom-brain"? Or, could it be that perhaps I need another spoonful of Nutella to spark a few new ideas for blog-posting?
Well, while you ponder that, a load of laundry is waiting to be transferred from the washer to the dryer. Here's hoping I have more to say next time I post. If not, I'm planning on sharing a few pictures of Sam doing something adorable instead.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Moose on the Loose
My friend Lesley in Knoxville, CEO of Peppered Paper, created a lovely birth announcement canvas for Sam a few months back. She just posted some pictures of it on her blog and so I thought I'd share. The "Moose on the Loose" song she references is one of Matt's old camp songs that we sing to Sam. It's a great one for drowning out the yelling (or calming Sam down) when the road trip gets too long.
If you've got a baby coming or you know someone who does, check out Lesley's website to see her imaginative artwork!
http://pepperedpaper.blogspot.com/2010/10/moose-on-loose.html.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Cabin Fever, Mall Kiosks and A Good Book
It's late and I should be in bed, but I'm trying to steal a few more minutes of time to myself, which is a rare commodity these days. I'm ok with that, but at the same time, an hour sans diaper changing or washing dishes or scanning the floor for small, mysterious things that could be mistaken for food by small people close to the ground is, as Mastercard might put it, "priceless."
I was almost swallowed whole by cabin fever today and since I couldn't get it together in time for Bible Study, I instead opted for a visit to The Mall. I know what you're thinking and I agree. Obviously, the mall is not an adequate substitute for the study of the Bible, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The mall visit was short and basically included three things: Chic fil a, a regretful and impetuous purchase at a random mall kiosk, and a visit to Barnes and Noble. My 6-count nugget Kid's Meal at Chic fil a was nice, despite being in the middle of a busy food court whilst feeding The Babe with one hand and myself with the other. But, what really made this venture to the mall rewarding was the 20 minutes I spent in Barnes and Noble.
When I have a moment to think about what I'd like to be doing on any given afternoon, it usually involves the dream of being by myself at Barnes and Noble, some sort of coffee beverage in my hand, leisurely wandering through the Fiction and Literature section of said store for as long as my little heart desires. On my very first Mothers' Day (which was this year), I requested as my gift from Matt (and Sam) an hour at B & N by myself and a little spending money for a book or two. Despite the fact that the hour ended up only being 45 minutes for one reason or another, it was a glorious forty and five minutes. Two books, a magazine and a cafe latte later, I was a new woman.
If you aren't a book lover or a word lover of some sort, you probably won't understand how incredibly comforting and exhilarating the smell of a new, freshly published book can be. I felt my heart unfold a little as I pushed Sam's stroller through the aisles of lovely covers and intriguing titles this afternoon. I love seeing familiar books that I've read more than once dolled up in new covers (today's favorite was "Out of Africa's" fancy new book jacket). I also love discovering new titles that I've yet to read and dream of reading one after another after Sam graduates from high school, eighteen years from now. Sigh.
Out of all those thousands of books on the shelves today, I found myself purchasing one I've read twice already. C.S. Lewis says something about what it means to read a book more than once and I wish I could remember what it was he said. I think it's something relatively close to "a book worth reading is worth reading more than once." It's possible I just made up that quote, but it reminds me of something Lewis said once...or maybe said. Sort of.
Anyhoo, I wandered over to the biography section of B & N hoping to find a copy of Condaleeza Rice's new book, as I'd just seen her interviewed about it yesterday and found my interest piqued. But, instead, I saw the familiar green cover of Martha Beck's Expecting Adam and knew immediately that I needed to read it for a third time. I won't explain why this book is one of my favorites here, but I will say that it is totally worth your time.
I felt that lovely satisfaction of purchasing something worthwhile as I swiped my card and walked out with my B & N bag hung over the handle of Sam's stroller. I'm hopeful that tomorrow's weather is overcast (i.e. perfect reading weather) and that Sam takes a long afternoon nap (i.e. wishful thinking).
Ah, Barnes and Noble, you were the welcome antidote to a bout of cabin fever and a refuge from the intellectual black hole that stay-at-home motherhood can sometimes be.
Now, if only I could undo that unfortunate mall kiosk purchase...
I was almost swallowed whole by cabin fever today and since I couldn't get it together in time for Bible Study, I instead opted for a visit to The Mall. I know what you're thinking and I agree. Obviously, the mall is not an adequate substitute for the study of the Bible, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The mall visit was short and basically included three things: Chic fil a, a regretful and impetuous purchase at a random mall kiosk, and a visit to Barnes and Noble. My 6-count nugget Kid's Meal at Chic fil a was nice, despite being in the middle of a busy food court whilst feeding The Babe with one hand and myself with the other. But, what really made this venture to the mall rewarding was the 20 minutes I spent in Barnes and Noble.
When I have a moment to think about what I'd like to be doing on any given afternoon, it usually involves the dream of being by myself at Barnes and Noble, some sort of coffee beverage in my hand, leisurely wandering through the Fiction and Literature section of said store for as long as my little heart desires. On my very first Mothers' Day (which was this year), I requested as my gift from Matt (and Sam) an hour at B & N by myself and a little spending money for a book or two. Despite the fact that the hour ended up only being 45 minutes for one reason or another, it was a glorious forty and five minutes. Two books, a magazine and a cafe latte later, I was a new woman.
If you aren't a book lover or a word lover of some sort, you probably won't understand how incredibly comforting and exhilarating the smell of a new, freshly published book can be. I felt my heart unfold a little as I pushed Sam's stroller through the aisles of lovely covers and intriguing titles this afternoon. I love seeing familiar books that I've read more than once dolled up in new covers (today's favorite was "Out of Africa's" fancy new book jacket). I also love discovering new titles that I've yet to read and dream of reading one after another after Sam graduates from high school, eighteen years from now. Sigh.
Out of all those thousands of books on the shelves today, I found myself purchasing one I've read twice already. C.S. Lewis says something about what it means to read a book more than once and I wish I could remember what it was he said. I think it's something relatively close to "a book worth reading is worth reading more than once." It's possible I just made up that quote, but it reminds me of something Lewis said once...or maybe said. Sort of.
Anyhoo, I wandered over to the biography section of B & N hoping to find a copy of Condaleeza Rice's new book, as I'd just seen her interviewed about it yesterday and found my interest piqued. But, instead, I saw the familiar green cover of Martha Beck's Expecting Adam and knew immediately that I needed to read it for a third time. I won't explain why this book is one of my favorites here, but I will say that it is totally worth your time.
I felt that lovely satisfaction of purchasing something worthwhile as I swiped my card and walked out with my B & N bag hung over the handle of Sam's stroller. I'm hopeful that tomorrow's weather is overcast (i.e. perfect reading weather) and that Sam takes a long afternoon nap (i.e. wishful thinking).
Ah, Barnes and Noble, you were the welcome antidote to a bout of cabin fever and a refuge from the intellectual black hole that stay-at-home motherhood can sometimes be.
Now, if only I could undo that unfortunate mall kiosk purchase...
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Sam Makes a Furry Friend
I'm not too savvy with posting pictures just yet, so forgive the odd composition of this post and the lack of descriptions. These are just a few shots of Sam (and Matt) hanging out with Chloe, the cat. Sam is a major fan of Chloe and most anything else that comes with fur, including those of you with handsome beards and/or mustaches.
Perhaps you can tell in these photos that Sam is rather eager to get hold of Chloe. Luckily for her, she's a quick kitty. Otherwise, she'd have a few bald spots by now.
I hear the babe waking up from his nap. Off I go.
Sam at sunset.
Chloe, the new friend.
Perhaps you can tell in these photos that Sam is rather eager to get hold of Chloe. Luckily for her, she's a quick kitty. Otherwise, she'd have a few bald spots by now.
I hear the babe waking up from his nap. Off I go.
Sam at sunset.
Chloe, the new friend.
Friday, October 8, 2010
The Little Monster
No, I'm not referring to Lady Gaga's strange term of endearment for her fans, which is a new level of weird for pop culture. I'm talking about the little guy down the hall who's currently napping with his behind up in the air.
Before Sam was born, people gave us sweet onesies that said "I love Mommy" and "Baby Boys are the Best" and other such nice things. But, in the midst of that sentimentality, there was also the baby t-shirt with the dinosaur on the front and the words "Mommy's Little Monster." Something about that phrase offended my motherly sensibilities. I even took some of those "monster" outfits back, because my new baby wasn't going to be a "little monster" and his poop was going to smell like baby powder and fresh flowers. Right?
I have since woken up from that dream and been ushered into the world of stinky diapers. Sam now wears his dinosaur t-shirt, proudly proclaiming that he is, indeed, a little monster.
Matt usually goes to get Sam every morning and brings him to me around 7:30am. Usually this routine includes my opening my eyes to find Sam's four-toothed grin an inch and a half from my face. It's a sweet moment. And then, Sam gets a fistful of my hair and pulls my face toward his open mouth so that he can bite the heck out of my cheekbone. It's funny. But, it hurts.
This morning I realized that Sam has started to do a baby version of a growl and at the same time, he crawls around looking for something to sink his teeth into. The computer cord, the chair leg, my collar bone. Nothing is safe from those four, razor-sharp teeth.
I'm constantly amazed by the strength of this little guy. Every time I pull him close for a "hug", I end up half-laughing, half-crying as I struggle to extricate my hair from his little cheerio-scented fingers. And then he does his baby growl, with a toothy, drooling grin, and moves in for the bite. Pretty soon I'm going to be covered in mini-toothmarks that might be hard to explain at parties.
And yet, this little monster stage is pretty incredible. Matt and I laugh all the time at the antics of this 18 pound boy wonder. In the middle of stressful budget conversations and occasional tiffs, we find ourselves thankfully distracted by Sam stretching both arms straight up in the air and letting out a loud "yawp." It's hilarious. I promise. If you were here, you'd think so, too.
I can't get enough of this little guy. And I can't imagine my life without him. I'm happy to have my own personal Little Monster who hides cheerios in his diaper and has seriously awesome bed hair.
It's enough to make me want a second one. I think.
Before Sam was born, people gave us sweet onesies that said "I love Mommy" and "Baby Boys are the Best" and other such nice things. But, in the midst of that sentimentality, there was also the baby t-shirt with the dinosaur on the front and the words "Mommy's Little Monster." Something about that phrase offended my motherly sensibilities. I even took some of those "monster" outfits back, because my new baby wasn't going to be a "little monster" and his poop was going to smell like baby powder and fresh flowers. Right?
I have since woken up from that dream and been ushered into the world of stinky diapers. Sam now wears his dinosaur t-shirt, proudly proclaiming that he is, indeed, a little monster.
Matt usually goes to get Sam every morning and brings him to me around 7:30am. Usually this routine includes my opening my eyes to find Sam's four-toothed grin an inch and a half from my face. It's a sweet moment. And then, Sam gets a fistful of my hair and pulls my face toward his open mouth so that he can bite the heck out of my cheekbone. It's funny. But, it hurts.
This morning I realized that Sam has started to do a baby version of a growl and at the same time, he crawls around looking for something to sink his teeth into. The computer cord, the chair leg, my collar bone. Nothing is safe from those four, razor-sharp teeth.
I'm constantly amazed by the strength of this little guy. Every time I pull him close for a "hug", I end up half-laughing, half-crying as I struggle to extricate my hair from his little cheerio-scented fingers. And then he does his baby growl, with a toothy, drooling grin, and moves in for the bite. Pretty soon I'm going to be covered in mini-toothmarks that might be hard to explain at parties.
And yet, this little monster stage is pretty incredible. Matt and I laugh all the time at the antics of this 18 pound boy wonder. In the middle of stressful budget conversations and occasional tiffs, we find ourselves thankfully distracted by Sam stretching both arms straight up in the air and letting out a loud "yawp." It's hilarious. I promise. If you were here, you'd think so, too.
I can't get enough of this little guy. And I can't imagine my life without him. I'm happy to have my own personal Little Monster who hides cheerios in his diaper and has seriously awesome bed hair.
It's enough to make me want a second one. I think.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Home is Where the Crown-Molding Is
I lived in two different dorms in college and then in a lake house for a semester and for that last semester and a half I lived in a restored old house across the street from school. I had approximately 7.5 roommates during that four years and a summer term.
After college I moved to Nashville where I lived in a house with a family for a year, in West Meade with two girls and two cats, a condo on West End Avenue for a summer, a dollhouse with a friend in Green Hills for a little less than a year and then finally in a house not far from that last house with two other friends and no cats. The last room I lived in had red curtains for doors.
Then there was my fabulous, obsessively neat 70 year old studio apartment in Knoxville's Sequoyah Hills. This ranks up there as probably my favorite abode over the past 14 years. Possibly because I was the only occupant and could order things according to my OCD tendencies. I could also watch endless Felicity and Gilmore Girl marathons with no one to judge me. I lived there for a little over two years and I still miss it.
In 2007 I got engaged and got married that fall. We moved into a two bedroom up the street from my beloved studio. It was like the studio only bigger. Plus: Hardwood floors, big windows, high ceilings. Minus: No central heating or air, no washer or dryer, no dishwasher, occasional camel crickets (my personal nemesis). It was a lovely place for the year that we lived there. I've driven by it since then and tried to pretend that I could waltz in the front door and everything would be the same as it was 3 years ago. But, the current tenant has posted a concrete head sculpture on the front porch and that's effectively ruined my daydream.
For 9 months we lived in Clemson. That wasn't my best year so I won't say much about that. I will say that the duplex we lived in was tainted by the morning sickness I endured soon after we discovered Sam was joining our family.
And then there was Knoxville again. We moved into my in-laws' upstairs, which had been an apartment at one time. I have to say, I really loved living in that upstairs and was able to create a sweet little nursery for Sam who was born while we lived there. I have great memories of that year living with my husband's parents. I also unexpectedly miss the 58 inch television with its one million channels. I didn't think I would, but I do.
That brings us to now. We moved to Chattanooga roughly 3 days ago and some dear friends are letting us live in their downstairs apartment until we find our own place. To sum up: two bedrooms, one bath and a view that no camera could ever do justice.
But, I have to admit something. I'm tired of moving. I'm over packing up boxes, storing things in storage, starting over in new houses with different ovens that bake at differing temperatures. I want to move somewhere and throw out all the boxes because we don't plan on using them for a long, long time. Maybe even have a box burning in the back yard.
In a word, I want STABILITY. And I don't care who knows it.
I drove around today after Bible study exploring the area where we're living for the moment, visiting the local Starbucks and marveling at the beautiful houses and breathtaking views along the way. And in the midst of all that, I couldn't help but wonder when Matt and Sam and I would have our own home. Not a big fancy house, but a real home where we could create traditions and memories. I realize that I could possibly be idealizing (or maybe even idolizing) the concept of home. In my mind there's this perfect place full of natural light and the smell of gingerbread where I can set our hundreds of books on bookshelves, bake mounds of cookies in my kitchen, have pizza and movie night with Matt (and Sam, once his bedtime gets moved up past 8), invite friends over for dinner and conversation and game night, and the list goes on of all the things I dream of doing in this place called Home.
I'm wondering how much of this desire for a home is about being female and wanting security and a place to settle and nest and nurture children. Do men dream about home the way women do? I kind of doubt it. I think Matt dreams more about Red Zone and camping trips and Papa Murphy's pizza. (If you're reading this, Sweetie, I know there's more to you than that).
The other thing I'm wondering about is the reality of a home requiring a down payment and a mortgage and homeowner's insurance and maintenance. All those things don't figure in to my daydreams very well. I hope that in my desire for a home I'm not simply imagining the current cultural trappings of the American dreamhouse, a la granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and hardwood floors. Obviously, I appreciate all those things, but I'm trying really hard not to believe that the having or the lack of having those things can keep me from creating a home wherever it is we end up living.
How do I keep myself from confusing crown molding and double bathroom sinks and walk in closets with the makings of a real Home? I keep getting lost in the details of wanting a perfect space but I also feel conviction knowing that I don't NEED all those things to have a happy home.
Sigh.
Another sigh.
In the meantime, I'm scouring Craigslist for affordable rentals and hoping to find something that doesn't require bars on the windows or double deadbolts.
After college I moved to Nashville where I lived in a house with a family for a year, in West Meade with two girls and two cats, a condo on West End Avenue for a summer, a dollhouse with a friend in Green Hills for a little less than a year and then finally in a house not far from that last house with two other friends and no cats. The last room I lived in had red curtains for doors.
Then there was my fabulous, obsessively neat 70 year old studio apartment in Knoxville's Sequoyah Hills. This ranks up there as probably my favorite abode over the past 14 years. Possibly because I was the only occupant and could order things according to my OCD tendencies. I could also watch endless Felicity and Gilmore Girl marathons with no one to judge me. I lived there for a little over two years and I still miss it.
In 2007 I got engaged and got married that fall. We moved into a two bedroom up the street from my beloved studio. It was like the studio only bigger. Plus: Hardwood floors, big windows, high ceilings. Minus: No central heating or air, no washer or dryer, no dishwasher, occasional camel crickets (my personal nemesis). It was a lovely place for the year that we lived there. I've driven by it since then and tried to pretend that I could waltz in the front door and everything would be the same as it was 3 years ago. But, the current tenant has posted a concrete head sculpture on the front porch and that's effectively ruined my daydream.
For 9 months we lived in Clemson. That wasn't my best year so I won't say much about that. I will say that the duplex we lived in was tainted by the morning sickness I endured soon after we discovered Sam was joining our family.
And then there was Knoxville again. We moved into my in-laws' upstairs, which had been an apartment at one time. I have to say, I really loved living in that upstairs and was able to create a sweet little nursery for Sam who was born while we lived there. I have great memories of that year living with my husband's parents. I also unexpectedly miss the 58 inch television with its one million channels. I didn't think I would, but I do.
That brings us to now. We moved to Chattanooga roughly 3 days ago and some dear friends are letting us live in their downstairs apartment until we find our own place. To sum up: two bedrooms, one bath and a view that no camera could ever do justice.
But, I have to admit something. I'm tired of moving. I'm over packing up boxes, storing things in storage, starting over in new houses with different ovens that bake at differing temperatures. I want to move somewhere and throw out all the boxes because we don't plan on using them for a long, long time. Maybe even have a box burning in the back yard.
In a word, I want STABILITY. And I don't care who knows it.
I drove around today after Bible study exploring the area where we're living for the moment, visiting the local Starbucks and marveling at the beautiful houses and breathtaking views along the way. And in the midst of all that, I couldn't help but wonder when Matt and Sam and I would have our own home. Not a big fancy house, but a real home where we could create traditions and memories. I realize that I could possibly be idealizing (or maybe even idolizing) the concept of home. In my mind there's this perfect place full of natural light and the smell of gingerbread where I can set our hundreds of books on bookshelves, bake mounds of cookies in my kitchen, have pizza and movie night with Matt (and Sam, once his bedtime gets moved up past 8), invite friends over for dinner and conversation and game night, and the list goes on of all the things I dream of doing in this place called Home.
I'm wondering how much of this desire for a home is about being female and wanting security and a place to settle and nest and nurture children. Do men dream about home the way women do? I kind of doubt it. I think Matt dreams more about Red Zone and camping trips and Papa Murphy's pizza. (If you're reading this, Sweetie, I know there's more to you than that).
The other thing I'm wondering about is the reality of a home requiring a down payment and a mortgage and homeowner's insurance and maintenance. All those things don't figure in to my daydreams very well. I hope that in my desire for a home I'm not simply imagining the current cultural trappings of the American dreamhouse, a la granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and hardwood floors. Obviously, I appreciate all those things, but I'm trying really hard not to believe that the having or the lack of having those things can keep me from creating a home wherever it is we end up living.
How do I keep myself from confusing crown molding and double bathroom sinks and walk in closets with the makings of a real Home? I keep getting lost in the details of wanting a perfect space but I also feel conviction knowing that I don't NEED all those things to have a happy home.
Sigh.
Another sigh.
In the meantime, I'm scouring Craigslist for affordable rentals and hoping to find something that doesn't require bars on the windows or double deadbolts.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Bitter and the Sweet
It's a bit surreal to be typing this, but we are officially moving. To Chattanooga. Next Week.
Matt came home early today after resigning from his job and suddenly, everything is moving very, very fast. I'm packing up Sam's room and looking at our things and wondering which we should put into storage for now and which should come with us. For someone with borderline clinical OCD (this hasn't been officially confirmed by anyone with credentials), the prospect of moving is taking my breath away a little bit.
And yet, it's exciting. The thought of a new life in a new city, just me and Matt and the babe, is rather exhilarating. I'm wondering who our friends will be and what parks we'll frequent and where I'll do our grocery shopping. I'm already mentally decorating a house/apartment/condo that hasn't materialized just yet. And best of all, we get to start this new life in The Fall. Moving our stuff in 65 degree weather while leaves fall on our heads. Perfect.
Matt starts his new job This Monday, which is making our heads spin a little. I'll be staying this week to pack up our things and take care of some of the details of closing up shop here. And that's where the bitter part of the "bittersweet" nature of this transition comes in. Saying goodbye. I don't really want to. I already feel somewhat heavy with the thought of leaving dear friends and places that I've loved being. I'm pouting over The French Market being 2 hours away already. Is it wrong to be emotional about crepes? I'm not sure. I kind of want to stop in and say goodbye to those crepe-makers who've made it worth getting out of bed early on a Saturday morning. Ok, so I won't actually shed any tears over a restaurant, but I might over the lovely downtown here in Knoxville that Matt and I have wandered through on quite a few date nights.
As I'm typing this, I'm volunteering at our church that we have loved so much. Redeemer has been such a significant part of our life here in Knoxville and we are going to sorely miss it along with the dear friends and pastors who have enriched our lives in the relatively short time we've been here. I miss it already and we still have nursery duty this Sunday.
Oddly enough, I will miss living with my inlaws more than I would have expected and I'm guessing they'll miss us quite a bit as well. Who would have guessed last summer when we moved in that over a year later I would a. still be living with my inlaws and b. be sad to move out. They've been so incredible during this weird transition time in our little family's life and having them around to help with Sam has been huge. I wish we could buy them something big to show our thanks, like a hot tub with all the bells and whistles. But, I think we'll have to settle for a gift card to Home Depot.
Lastly, I will miss all the marvelous friends that have been in our life this past year. I won't even try to list them because I'd leave someone out and also because you probably don't want to read a list of people that you don't know. It would be a little like a blog version of the biblical Book of Numbers. Specifically, though, I have to mention Molly and Leigh Ann, my dear neighbors on our lovely little street, who I've spent the most time with during this season of Sam. We've walked and talked and had playdates and shared baby info and braved consignments and been witness to the first year of each of our children's lives. I am seriously sad to leave these two fellow mamas and their adorable little mini people.
Ok, now I'm getting sad. I must remind myself that Chattanooga and Knoxville are not far from each other and that I could be up here in time for a crepe on any given Saturday morning. Whew. That thought made me feel better.
Knoxville, you are a better city than I gave you credit for 6 years ago and I'm proud to have called myself a Knoxvillian for a little while.
Chattanooga, here we come.
Matt came home early today after resigning from his job and suddenly, everything is moving very, very fast. I'm packing up Sam's room and looking at our things and wondering which we should put into storage for now and which should come with us. For someone with borderline clinical OCD (this hasn't been officially confirmed by anyone with credentials), the prospect of moving is taking my breath away a little bit.
And yet, it's exciting. The thought of a new life in a new city, just me and Matt and the babe, is rather exhilarating. I'm wondering who our friends will be and what parks we'll frequent and where I'll do our grocery shopping. I'm already mentally decorating a house/apartment/condo that hasn't materialized just yet. And best of all, we get to start this new life in The Fall. Moving our stuff in 65 degree weather while leaves fall on our heads. Perfect.
Matt starts his new job This Monday, which is making our heads spin a little. I'll be staying this week to pack up our things and take care of some of the details of closing up shop here. And that's where the bitter part of the "bittersweet" nature of this transition comes in. Saying goodbye. I don't really want to. I already feel somewhat heavy with the thought of leaving dear friends and places that I've loved being. I'm pouting over The French Market being 2 hours away already. Is it wrong to be emotional about crepes? I'm not sure. I kind of want to stop in and say goodbye to those crepe-makers who've made it worth getting out of bed early on a Saturday morning. Ok, so I won't actually shed any tears over a restaurant, but I might over the lovely downtown here in Knoxville that Matt and I have wandered through on quite a few date nights.
As I'm typing this, I'm volunteering at our church that we have loved so much. Redeemer has been such a significant part of our life here in Knoxville and we are going to sorely miss it along with the dear friends and pastors who have enriched our lives in the relatively short time we've been here. I miss it already and we still have nursery duty this Sunday.
Oddly enough, I will miss living with my inlaws more than I would have expected and I'm guessing they'll miss us quite a bit as well. Who would have guessed last summer when we moved in that over a year later I would a. still be living with my inlaws and b. be sad to move out. They've been so incredible during this weird transition time in our little family's life and having them around to help with Sam has been huge. I wish we could buy them something big to show our thanks, like a hot tub with all the bells and whistles. But, I think we'll have to settle for a gift card to Home Depot.
Lastly, I will miss all the marvelous friends that have been in our life this past year. I won't even try to list them because I'd leave someone out and also because you probably don't want to read a list of people that you don't know. It would be a little like a blog version of the biblical Book of Numbers. Specifically, though, I have to mention Molly and Leigh Ann, my dear neighbors on our lovely little street, who I've spent the most time with during this season of Sam. We've walked and talked and had playdates and shared baby info and braved consignments and been witness to the first year of each of our children's lives. I am seriously sad to leave these two fellow mamas and their adorable little mini people.
Ok, now I'm getting sad. I must remind myself that Chattanooga and Knoxville are not far from each other and that I could be up here in time for a crepe on any given Saturday morning. Whew. That thought made me feel better.
Knoxville, you are a better city than I gave you credit for 6 years ago and I'm proud to have called myself a Knoxvillian for a little while.
Chattanooga, here we come.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Things of Note or Not
It's been a while. A baby with a stuffy nose and no interest in napping keeps me from writing at my leisure these days. But, for the moment, there seems to be a bit of quiet AND the bathroom has just been cleaned, so it appears that I might have a small space of time here to actually document our life a little.
The last few weeks have included some things. Things of note and things that might not really deserve being blogged about. And yet, I might blog about them anyway. Because I can.
First things first. I thought I'd share a few things I'm a little obsessed with lately.
Movie: The Switch - unexpectedly amazing. Even Matt liked this one. He may have even cried at the end. Or not.
Music: Mumford & Sons - an impulse buy at Target ($9.99) that has turned into a favorite. High fives to random British bands with odd names.
Book: The Help - a lovely story about the Deep South and three women that you wish were your friends by the end of the book.
Second things second. There have been a few Sam milestones that haven't been noted in cyberspace as of yet.
Crawling - a work in progress, but Sam started to crawl this last week to much applause. He seems to be trying to walk at the same time, which isn't working out so well, but to be honest, it's entertaining.
Teeth - or as we like to call them around here, "toofies." I have no explanation for why we do this. So far, there's one on top and two on the bottom. And he likes to rub them together for a seriously cute crooked smile. It's almost too much.
Real Food - Sam had roast beef, mac and cheese and green beans the other night. Turns out he's a carnivore. I also think he may have a hollow leg. He puts away food like a linebacker and he's only 233 lbs away from a linebacker's starting weight.
Third things third. So, I'm hesitant to write this, but it's looking like we may be moving. You may be responding right now with a "What!?!" Sadly, Nashville is not where we're headed. But, despite no Nashville, this move is a good thing. And yet, I'm starting to be sad about it. And anxious. And maybe even stressed. But, it's a good thing. I keep reminding myself of this. An article I read yesterday explained to me that firstborns tend to resist change. So, here I am, being a firstborn and resisting change. In other news, firstborns also apparently make an average of $100k a year. I didn't know that.
Fourth things fourth. Fall is here. But, not really. It's September 23 and 91 degrees. I'm beginning to be afraid that Al Gore is right. I also feel like this could potentially be a good children's book...
Premise of my children's book: Someone is stealing Fall. They must be found and punished.
Meanwhile, I'm bravely wearing my cardigans and trying to pretend that the leaves on the ground aren't just victims of dry weather, but are in fact "falling" leaves.
And that's the update. Hopefully next time I post, I'll have more details about the move and fingers crossed the temperature outside will be less than 80 degrees.
The last few weeks have included some things. Things of note and things that might not really deserve being blogged about. And yet, I might blog about them anyway. Because I can.
First things first. I thought I'd share a few things I'm a little obsessed with lately.
Movie: The Switch - unexpectedly amazing. Even Matt liked this one. He may have even cried at the end. Or not.
Music: Mumford & Sons - an impulse buy at Target ($9.99) that has turned into a favorite. High fives to random British bands with odd names.
Book: The Help - a lovely story about the Deep South and three women that you wish were your friends by the end of the book.
Second things second. There have been a few Sam milestones that haven't been noted in cyberspace as of yet.
Crawling - a work in progress, but Sam started to crawl this last week to much applause. He seems to be trying to walk at the same time, which isn't working out so well, but to be honest, it's entertaining.
Teeth - or as we like to call them around here, "toofies." I have no explanation for why we do this. So far, there's one on top and two on the bottom. And he likes to rub them together for a seriously cute crooked smile. It's almost too much.
Real Food - Sam had roast beef, mac and cheese and green beans the other night. Turns out he's a carnivore. I also think he may have a hollow leg. He puts away food like a linebacker and he's only 233 lbs away from a linebacker's starting weight.
Third things third. So, I'm hesitant to write this, but it's looking like we may be moving. You may be responding right now with a "What!?!" Sadly, Nashville is not where we're headed. But, despite no Nashville, this move is a good thing. And yet, I'm starting to be sad about it. And anxious. And maybe even stressed. But, it's a good thing. I keep reminding myself of this. An article I read yesterday explained to me that firstborns tend to resist change. So, here I am, being a firstborn and resisting change. In other news, firstborns also apparently make an average of $100k a year. I didn't know that.
Fourth things fourth. Fall is here. But, not really. It's September 23 and 91 degrees. I'm beginning to be afraid that Al Gore is right. I also feel like this could potentially be a good children's book...
Premise of my children's book: Someone is stealing Fall. They must be found and punished.
Meanwhile, I'm bravely wearing my cardigans and trying to pretend that the leaves on the ground aren't just victims of dry weather, but are in fact "falling" leaves.
And that's the update. Hopefully next time I post, I'll have more details about the move and fingers crossed the temperature outside will be less than 80 degrees.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
For the Love of Pumpkin Bread
So, I think I've mentioned that I love fall a few times here, but there's something I forgot to include in my list of things I love about this season. And that is, (imaginary drumroll, please) the glorious pumpkin. Every fall, I can't wait to figure out the loads of ways I can fit pumpkin into my life. I know I've already shared my affection for pumpkin spice lattes, but the world of pumpkin includes so much more than a mere latte. For starters, there's pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin pancakes, pumpkin cookies (with chocolate chips, obviously), and then there's my favorite pumpkin-laden food, The Pumpkin Bread.
In honor of my love of pumpkin and my love of people who read this blog, I'd like to share the recipe I'm currently using (thank you, Allrecipes.com) with you and highly encourage you to make this as soon as you are physically able. Once you make it (if you start now, you'll be eating it an hour from this moment), you should probably slip into your favorite wool cardigan, turn the air-conditioning way down (so that it feels like fall inside, obviously), warm your hands around a mug of tea and then take a big, bite of warm, aromatic, delectable pumpkin bread. And then you should call me and we'll talk about how much we love fall.
Ok, now that you know what the next couple hours of your life include, here's the recipe for pumpkin nirvana, I mean, bread...
Ingredients:
* 1 cup butter or margarine, softened
* 3 cups sugar
* 3 eggs
* 3 cups all-purpose flour
* 1 tablespoon baking powder
* 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cloves
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
* 1 (16 ounce) can solid pack pumpkin
Directions:
1. In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add eggs; mix well. Combine dry ingredients; stir into creamed mixture just until moistened. Stir in pumpkin. Pour into two greased 9-in. x 5-in. x 3-in. loaf pans. Bake at 350 degrees F for 1 hour or until bread tests done.
You can thank me later.
In honor of my love of pumpkin and my love of people who read this blog, I'd like to share the recipe I'm currently using (thank you, Allrecipes.com) with you and highly encourage you to make this as soon as you are physically able. Once you make it (if you start now, you'll be eating it an hour from this moment), you should probably slip into your favorite wool cardigan, turn the air-conditioning way down (so that it feels like fall inside, obviously), warm your hands around a mug of tea and then take a big, bite of warm, aromatic, delectable pumpkin bread. And then you should call me and we'll talk about how much we love fall.
Ok, now that you know what the next couple hours of your life include, here's the recipe for pumpkin nirvana, I mean, bread...
Ingredients:
* 1 cup butter or margarine, softened
* 3 cups sugar
* 3 eggs
* 3 cups all-purpose flour
* 1 tablespoon baking powder
* 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cloves
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
* 1 (16 ounce) can solid pack pumpkin
Directions:
1. In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add eggs; mix well. Combine dry ingredients; stir into creamed mixture just until moistened. Stir in pumpkin. Pour into two greased 9-in. x 5-in. x 3-in. loaf pans. Bake at 350 degrees F for 1 hour or until bread tests done.
You can thank me later.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Late Night Auto Insurance
Last Night:
1:15am
The scene: Sam wakes up crying in the nursery down the hall.
1:16am
The scene: Sam's parents wake up to the sound of Sam yelling.
Dara Lynn: Matt, can you go check on Sam?
Matt: (slightly slurred) Yeah. (pause) Who's he with?
Dara Lynn: (quickly recognizing this is somehow related to Matt's job in insurance) He's with State Farm.
Matt: (skeptical) How do you know that?
Dara Lynn: (trying not to shake the bed from laughing) Because he told me.
Matt: (pause) No, he didn't. Wait, are you talking about Sam or the other guy?
Dara Lynn: Other guy? (laughing now and shaking the bed)
Matt: (getting up and stumbling towards the door.) Hmph.
I had no idea that an additional benefit to marriage would be the unexpected entertainment of sleep-talking. A few weeks ago we had a very similar conversation about insurance that included Matt turning to me at 3am and very seriously asking if I was looking for liability or full-coverage. It doesn't get much better than late-night pillow talk about auto insurance.
We've also had a couple of sleep-talking instances that were less entertaining, however. One actually wasn't a conversation, but included Matt acting out a dream he was having that involved his slapping an imaginary horsefly on my forehead. I woke up with fireworks behind my eyes and Matt's palm flat against my face. I yelled loudly. The explanation? He was dream-canoeing and had seen a big horsefly and literally told himself (in his dream, mind you) to hit it as hard as he could. And so he did. On my face. At 2am. It was funny later.
There was also the night when Matt turned over and put his arm around me and said "So, where are you from?" in his most charming voice. I rolled over and said "What?" in my less charming voice. Then he woke up a bit and said that he'd been dreaming he was at a wedding and found himself hanging out with a bridesmaid that he knew wasn't me (much to his surprise, obviously). So, he tried to play it cool and pretend like he knew what was going on, while fishing for information about who the heck she was. I was less amused by this dream. I wanted to punch that imaginary bridesmaid in the face. Or maybe slap an imaginary horsefly on her forehead.
I'm eagerly awaiting the next round of sleep-talking entertainment. I have a sneaking suspicion it may involve homeowners insurance, or maybe even renters. I'm just hoping no more horseflies or hussy bridesmaids. I'll keep you posted.
1:15am
The scene: Sam wakes up crying in the nursery down the hall.
1:16am
The scene: Sam's parents wake up to the sound of Sam yelling.
Dara Lynn: Matt, can you go check on Sam?
Matt: (slightly slurred) Yeah. (pause) Who's he with?
Dara Lynn: (quickly recognizing this is somehow related to Matt's job in insurance) He's with State Farm.
Matt: (skeptical) How do you know that?
Dara Lynn: (trying not to shake the bed from laughing) Because he told me.
Matt: (pause) No, he didn't. Wait, are you talking about Sam or the other guy?
Dara Lynn: Other guy? (laughing now and shaking the bed)
Matt: (getting up and stumbling towards the door.) Hmph.
I had no idea that an additional benefit to marriage would be the unexpected entertainment of sleep-talking. A few weeks ago we had a very similar conversation about insurance that included Matt turning to me at 3am and very seriously asking if I was looking for liability or full-coverage. It doesn't get much better than late-night pillow talk about auto insurance.
We've also had a couple of sleep-talking instances that were less entertaining, however. One actually wasn't a conversation, but included Matt acting out a dream he was having that involved his slapping an imaginary horsefly on my forehead. I woke up with fireworks behind my eyes and Matt's palm flat against my face. I yelled loudly. The explanation? He was dream-canoeing and had seen a big horsefly and literally told himself (in his dream, mind you) to hit it as hard as he could. And so he did. On my face. At 2am. It was funny later.
There was also the night when Matt turned over and put his arm around me and said "So, where are you from?" in his most charming voice. I rolled over and said "What?" in my less charming voice. Then he woke up a bit and said that he'd been dreaming he was at a wedding and found himself hanging out with a bridesmaid that he knew wasn't me (much to his surprise, obviously). So, he tried to play it cool and pretend like he knew what was going on, while fishing for information about who the heck she was. I was less amused by this dream. I wanted to punch that imaginary bridesmaid in the face. Or maybe slap an imaginary horsefly on her forehead.
I'm eagerly awaiting the next round of sleep-talking entertainment. I have a sneaking suspicion it may involve homeowners insurance, or maybe even renters. I'm just hoping no more horseflies or hussy bridesmaids. I'll keep you posted.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I Heart Fall
FALL. This is my favorite word right now. It magically conjures up images in my mind of pumpkin patches, cornmazes, hayrides, cardigan-wearing, apple orchards, leaves falling, long shadows in the afternoon, chilly evenings, woodsmoke, football games, hot chocolate, and the list could go on and on and on. I have a serious love affair with fall every year.
But, I've wondered why I feel this strongly about a season and there are a few reasons, I think, for why I can wax poetic over these all-too-short three months of the year. The first is that I'm from Georgia, not too far from HOT-lanta actually, and for as long as I can remember, once August rolled around every year, I was ready to make the move to Canada for some relief from the sweltering Georgia heat. I'd cut out magazine photos of autumnal things (leaves, pumpkins, people wearing sweaters) and tuck it in the corner of the picture frame above my desk, just to remind me that one day, in the not too distant future, the temperature really would dip below 90 degrees and I might have a good hair day again.
But, there's another reason for my adoration of all things autumnal. Beyond just the obvious relief from oppressive, Deep South temperatures, there is something intensely nostalgic about fall, something that hangs about the idea of it and makes me feel like journaling at Starbucks, writing letters to old friends and reading favorite books again. (It also makes me want to go to Dollywood, but that's for another time, another blog post.) I can't quite put my finger on this wistful feeling, I just know that fall brings this curious longing for something I can't name.
Thank goodness for C.S. Lewis who put some of this into words, especially in his Weight of Glory, but also in some of his other writings. In Pilgrim's Regress, he talks about "that unnameable something, desire for which pierces us like a rapier at the smell of a bonfire, the sound of wild ducks flying overhead, the title of The Well at the World's End, the opening lines of "Kubla Khan," the morning cobwebs in late summer, or the noise of falling waves."
Lewis called this desire sehnsucht, "a German noun translated as 'longing', 'yearning' and 'craving', or in a wider sense a type of 'intensely missing'." I love this word for some reason, even though there's something distinctly melancholy about it.
Despite my best efforts, I can't help but wish away the long, hot summers every year. I wait by the air conditioning vent during those blistering months, knowing that on the other side of August (or sometimes September), along with cooling temperatures, there will also be the old rememberings in this new fall in the midst of hayrides and the smell of woodsmoke and the worn sweater I'll pull down from the closet.
This year my favorite season includes sweet Sam and I can't wait to take him to the mountains and jump in piles of leaves and feed him pumpkin pie (pureed, of course). As my friend Lex would say, "shared joy is double joy," and I'm guessing this fall will be the most joy-full yet.
Pumpkin Spice Lattes, here I come.
But, I've wondered why I feel this strongly about a season and there are a few reasons, I think, for why I can wax poetic over these all-too-short three months of the year. The first is that I'm from Georgia, not too far from HOT-lanta actually, and for as long as I can remember, once August rolled around every year, I was ready to make the move to Canada for some relief from the sweltering Georgia heat. I'd cut out magazine photos of autumnal things (leaves, pumpkins, people wearing sweaters) and tuck it in the corner of the picture frame above my desk, just to remind me that one day, in the not too distant future, the temperature really would dip below 90 degrees and I might have a good hair day again.
But, there's another reason for my adoration of all things autumnal. Beyond just the obvious relief from oppressive, Deep South temperatures, there is something intensely nostalgic about fall, something that hangs about the idea of it and makes me feel like journaling at Starbucks, writing letters to old friends and reading favorite books again. (It also makes me want to go to Dollywood, but that's for another time, another blog post.) I can't quite put my finger on this wistful feeling, I just know that fall brings this curious longing for something I can't name.
Thank goodness for C.S. Lewis who put some of this into words, especially in his Weight of Glory, but also in some of his other writings. In Pilgrim's Regress, he talks about "that unnameable something, desire for which pierces us like a rapier at the smell of a bonfire, the sound of wild ducks flying overhead, the title of The Well at the World's End, the opening lines of "Kubla Khan," the morning cobwebs in late summer, or the noise of falling waves."
Lewis called this desire sehnsucht, "a German noun translated as 'longing', 'yearning' and 'craving', or in a wider sense a type of 'intensely missing'." I love this word for some reason, even though there's something distinctly melancholy about it.
Despite my best efforts, I can't help but wish away the long, hot summers every year. I wait by the air conditioning vent during those blistering months, knowing that on the other side of August (or sometimes September), along with cooling temperatures, there will also be the old rememberings in this new fall in the midst of hayrides and the smell of woodsmoke and the worn sweater I'll pull down from the closet.
This year my favorite season includes sweet Sam and I can't wait to take him to the mountains and jump in piles of leaves and feed him pumpkin pie (pureed, of course). As my friend Lex would say, "shared joy is double joy," and I'm guessing this fall will be the most joy-full yet.
Pumpkin Spice Lattes, here I come.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Porch Thoughts
I've just come back in from sitting on the porch, drinking an out of the ordinary glass of wine and watching the day fade to the sound of crickets. It's a miraculous 68 degrees out and my mind is already full of autumnal things like pumpkins and hayrides and cardigans.
It's been a full day of extreme Sam-watching and a few quiet moments on the porch staring at the trees in the yard felt more necessary than usual. After 29 years of singleness and loads of nights moaning to someone (usually God) about being alone, now I am alone approximately 5-10 minutes a day, and that's just bathroom breaks. I have a feeling that God is shaking His head at me a little as I get what I want and then wish I still had a little of what I used to have.
I was in Georgia this past weekend visiting my family while Matt was on a prayer retreat for a few days. Driving 4 hours (a.k.a. 6 if you count stops for food and diaper changes) with just Sam is something I haven't done before until this weekend. I was a bit nervous and then somewhat empowered during the trips there and back. It reminded me of all those drives I had back and forth to Georgia from Nashville and later from Knoxville when I was single, running up the miles on my Jeep while listening to music and pondering life's mysteries and the complexities of relationships (i.e. silly boys).
Yesterday's drive found Sam napping not once but twice, which gave me time to reminisce to the background music of John Mayer, Greg Laswell, REM, Iron and Wine and other old and new radio friends. It was lovely and I reminisced like crazy about the last, oh, 10 years of my life. I haven't done that sort of thing in months (as in, 8.5) and it felt good to revisit old memories and dear friends and even a few regrets. I think I almost reclaimed a little of myself on the interstate yesterday, as John Mayer's voice filled my car and reminded me of my "old" life, sans diapers.
Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade this life that I have with my wonderful husband and adorable Sam for anything, but there are days when I crawl into bed and realize that I haven't thought even for a minute about what I want or feel or wish for. It's so completely the opposite of what used to occupy my mind just a few years ago. Now, I can't go 10 minutes without contemplating the cost of diapers and baby food or wondering why the contents of Sam's diaper today was such a weird color.
This life as a wife and mom is what I've always wanted, but the challenge of retaining some semblance of who I have been and imagining what I might still become is tougher than I even expected. And not because I'm fighting for time to be alone with my thoughts but because I don't even have the time to be aware of what I'm not thinking about.
After sharing a few of these realizations with my mom over the weekend, she reminded me of her grandmother, my great-grandmother, who had 8 sons and a husband who worked the nightshift. According to family stories, this woman didn't make it outside their yard for a full ten years as she reared those 8 boys of hers. Obviously, those were different times, but it does put things into perspective a bit.
Well, it's taken me close to 24 hours to actually write this blog post and now Sam's up from his last nap of the day, busily mashing Puffs (a magical food made of air and sweet potatoes) into the blanket he's sitting on. And I find that I'm already plotting another 20 minutes on the porch tonight with perhaps another glass of vino to accompany me.
I think there may be a balance somewhere between the constant "meeting of needs" all day and the quiet reflection that feels so elusive. I'm just not sure how to find that balance just yet. I welcome any and all suggestions.
It's been a full day of extreme Sam-watching and a few quiet moments on the porch staring at the trees in the yard felt more necessary than usual. After 29 years of singleness and loads of nights moaning to someone (usually God) about being alone, now I am alone approximately 5-10 minutes a day, and that's just bathroom breaks. I have a feeling that God is shaking His head at me a little as I get what I want and then wish I still had a little of what I used to have.
I was in Georgia this past weekend visiting my family while Matt was on a prayer retreat for a few days. Driving 4 hours (a.k.a. 6 if you count stops for food and diaper changes) with just Sam is something I haven't done before until this weekend. I was a bit nervous and then somewhat empowered during the trips there and back. It reminded me of all those drives I had back and forth to Georgia from Nashville and later from Knoxville when I was single, running up the miles on my Jeep while listening to music and pondering life's mysteries and the complexities of relationships (i.e. silly boys).
Yesterday's drive found Sam napping not once but twice, which gave me time to reminisce to the background music of John Mayer, Greg Laswell, REM, Iron and Wine and other old and new radio friends. It was lovely and I reminisced like crazy about the last, oh, 10 years of my life. I haven't done that sort of thing in months (as in, 8.5) and it felt good to revisit old memories and dear friends and even a few regrets. I think I almost reclaimed a little of myself on the interstate yesterday, as John Mayer's voice filled my car and reminded me of my "old" life, sans diapers.
Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade this life that I have with my wonderful husband and adorable Sam for anything, but there are days when I crawl into bed and realize that I haven't thought even for a minute about what I want or feel or wish for. It's so completely the opposite of what used to occupy my mind just a few years ago. Now, I can't go 10 minutes without contemplating the cost of diapers and baby food or wondering why the contents of Sam's diaper today was such a weird color.
This life as a wife and mom is what I've always wanted, but the challenge of retaining some semblance of who I have been and imagining what I might still become is tougher than I even expected. And not because I'm fighting for time to be alone with my thoughts but because I don't even have the time to be aware of what I'm not thinking about.
After sharing a few of these realizations with my mom over the weekend, she reminded me of her grandmother, my great-grandmother, who had 8 sons and a husband who worked the nightshift. According to family stories, this woman didn't make it outside their yard for a full ten years as she reared those 8 boys of hers. Obviously, those were different times, but it does put things into perspective a bit.
Well, it's taken me close to 24 hours to actually write this blog post and now Sam's up from his last nap of the day, busily mashing Puffs (a magical food made of air and sweet potatoes) into the blanket he's sitting on. And I find that I'm already plotting another 20 minutes on the porch tonight with perhaps another glass of vino to accompany me.
I think there may be a balance somewhere between the constant "meeting of needs" all day and the quiet reflection that feels so elusive. I'm just not sure how to find that balance just yet. I welcome any and all suggestions.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A Manifesto of Sorts
We've just gotten back from an afternoon at the pool which has only made me more aware that pale will never be cool. Nevertheless, sunscreen and I are on a first-name basis and at 32, I've given up on the dream of being tan.
Now that we're back in the land of air-conditioning, I'm still sitting in a wet bathing suit in our living room. (Try not to picture this). I don't normally sit around in my bathing suit, especially not when it's wet, but if I take the time to actually go change into normal, dry clothes, the babe will inevitably wake up and this tiny little window of time I have to write a bit will very quickly become a thing of the past.
Sam's snoozing in the next room, still in his carseat where he fell asleep on the way home. In the interest of dragging his nap out, I did a little driving around which also included some Sonic and a 64 cent cherry-limeade, a visit to Krystal and two mini-burgers, some talk radio and a call from Matt. Most of that was unnecessary information, but I feel like over-sharing today.
However, what I really want to address here in this post is something other than my random bathing suit-wearing afternoon visits to fast food restaurants. Instead, I feel like talking about how I have no response when someone casually asks me "So, what's been going on lately?" I usually pause and then look away, probably down at Sam, and then waste a little time by coughing unnecessarily while trying to drum up an answer. I mean, SURELY, I've done something interesting in the past 7 days that warrants sharing. But, after a little socially awkward silence, I come up with nothing. It's starting to make me wonder if I have Alzheimers or if I just genuinely have nothing going on.
But, I DO have stuff going on. It's just not the kind of stuff you talk about at parties or write about in your memoir. For starters, my days are usually ordered around Sam's naptime and bedtime. Everything in the schedule fits around those two things, come hell or high water, only a little less dramatic. Not to say that I'm not flexible, but if one of those two sleep events gets thrown off, it means lots of fussing (by Sam) and less sleep (for me). Those things together mean that I feel more stress, which means I eat more chocolate, which means I gain more weight, which means I get cranky, etc. So, as you can see, it's a slippery slope.
In addition to ordering things around Sam's sleep schedule, the rest of my time is devoted to laundry, cooking, running errands, occasional personal grooming (i.e. showers) and entertaining an almost 8 month old. I get lots done and I don't sit down much, but the only way you can really tell is that at the end of the day Sam is still alive and Matt has clothes to wear to work for tomorrow.
Basically, I'm pooped at the end of every day, but with not a lot to show for it. After all that energy spent, there are no works of art to be displayed, or film documentaries to wrap up, no music composed. I don't have a book to publish or even a magazine article to send to an editor. No awards are received, no time cards are punched. My portfolio and my resume have not benefited from the things I have accomplished. All in all, what I do each day goes largely unseen and the day after today I will do it all over again.
SIGH.
But, despite the lack of tangible expressions of my spent energy and the lack of an answer to "what's new with you?", I'm glad (and even proud) to be doing this thing called being a stay-at-home mom. No one sees these things I'm doing and Sam won't even remember all these days and weeks and months we've spent together.
But, I will.
I am logging hour after hour of memories of my little boy's life that I can never do over and never get back. And, no one else gets the privilege of doing this for him but me.
So, maybe I'm becoming a little dull at parties and I don't ever have much to update anybody on. OH WELL. I wouldn't trade these quiet, uneventful days with Sam for all the published books and all the jet-setting jobs and all the high fives in the world.
Now that I've written my stay-at-home mom manifesto, it's time to put on dry clothes and maybe even do some more laundry.
Now that we're back in the land of air-conditioning, I'm still sitting in a wet bathing suit in our living room. (Try not to picture this). I don't normally sit around in my bathing suit, especially not when it's wet, but if I take the time to actually go change into normal, dry clothes, the babe will inevitably wake up and this tiny little window of time I have to write a bit will very quickly become a thing of the past.
Sam's snoozing in the next room, still in his carseat where he fell asleep on the way home. In the interest of dragging his nap out, I did a little driving around which also included some Sonic and a 64 cent cherry-limeade, a visit to Krystal and two mini-burgers, some talk radio and a call from Matt. Most of that was unnecessary information, but I feel like over-sharing today.
However, what I really want to address here in this post is something other than my random bathing suit-wearing afternoon visits to fast food restaurants. Instead, I feel like talking about how I have no response when someone casually asks me "So, what's been going on lately?" I usually pause and then look away, probably down at Sam, and then waste a little time by coughing unnecessarily while trying to drum up an answer. I mean, SURELY, I've done something interesting in the past 7 days that warrants sharing. But, after a little socially awkward silence, I come up with nothing. It's starting to make me wonder if I have Alzheimers or if I just genuinely have nothing going on.
But, I DO have stuff going on. It's just not the kind of stuff you talk about at parties or write about in your memoir. For starters, my days are usually ordered around Sam's naptime and bedtime. Everything in the schedule fits around those two things, come hell or high water, only a little less dramatic. Not to say that I'm not flexible, but if one of those two sleep events gets thrown off, it means lots of fussing (by Sam) and less sleep (for me). Those things together mean that I feel more stress, which means I eat more chocolate, which means I gain more weight, which means I get cranky, etc. So, as you can see, it's a slippery slope.
In addition to ordering things around Sam's sleep schedule, the rest of my time is devoted to laundry, cooking, running errands, occasional personal grooming (i.e. showers) and entertaining an almost 8 month old. I get lots done and I don't sit down much, but the only way you can really tell is that at the end of the day Sam is still alive and Matt has clothes to wear to work for tomorrow.
Basically, I'm pooped at the end of every day, but with not a lot to show for it. After all that energy spent, there are no works of art to be displayed, or film documentaries to wrap up, no music composed. I don't have a book to publish or even a magazine article to send to an editor. No awards are received, no time cards are punched. My portfolio and my resume have not benefited from the things I have accomplished. All in all, what I do each day goes largely unseen and the day after today I will do it all over again.
SIGH.
But, despite the lack of tangible expressions of my spent energy and the lack of an answer to "what's new with you?", I'm glad (and even proud) to be doing this thing called being a stay-at-home mom. No one sees these things I'm doing and Sam won't even remember all these days and weeks and months we've spent together.
But, I will.
I am logging hour after hour of memories of my little boy's life that I can never do over and never get back. And, no one else gets the privilege of doing this for him but me.
So, maybe I'm becoming a little dull at parties and I don't ever have much to update anybody on. OH WELL. I wouldn't trade these quiet, uneventful days with Sam for all the published books and all the jet-setting jobs and all the high fives in the world.
Now that I've written my stay-at-home mom manifesto, it's time to put on dry clothes and maybe even do some more laundry.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Three Years of Good Times
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I still have a Bachelorette hangover from last night's marathon of reality romance, so I'm not sure how coherent this post will be. But, Sam's down for the 2:30 nap, which means I have a small window here to write a little, so I'm blogging instead of doing something else slightly more productive. Anyway, I feel the need to mention that tomorrow is our three year wedding anniversary. Three years of wedded bliss (sigh) with just a little bit of un-bliss here and there.
I was reminiscing this morning about how "we" came to be and how now we've got this little guy named Sam as a result (of sorts) of all those dates and emails and transatlantic phone calls and trips across the ocean. So, in honor of August 4, 2007 and my darling husband Matt, I thought I'd post a few pictures from our long-distance dating days and engagement.
The picture of the pink building is actually the governor's castle in Uppsala, Sweden where Matt proposed. It was totally Bachelorette-worthy, which is obviously what Matt was thinking when he made the plan to propose in a Swedish castle. That was also the night I ate reindeer for the first time. As it turns out, Rudolph, Donner and Blitzen taste amazing.
I am extraordinarily blessed to be married to Matt and I'm hoping for 60+ more years of good times with that man.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Operation Night-Night
Operation Night-Night is currently in full swing and so I have a few minutes (fingers crossed for 20) to spend a little quality time with my blog. It's been a while and I thought it was probably time we re-aquainted ourselves.
Of late, we've been implementing a naptime/bedtime routine in hopes of retaining my sanity and perhaps enabling me to resist the urge to take a shot of whiskey every hour on the hour (note: this hasn't happened yet, but Jack Daniels and I may have a future together). Needless to say, this process has been something I'd like to call HARD. Who knew that babies have such major issues with being asked to put themselves to sleep? Not me.
So, we're trying something called SleepSense and I have to say that the $47 I spent online for a downloadable book was totally worth it. I even get a 15 minute call-in once a month to chat with the author. I'm wondering if that's where $37 of that sticker price is going. Not sure what I'll say when I call her but at the moment I'm thinking I'll thank her and, if all goes well, offer to vote for her in the next presidential election.
Perhaps you're wondering why it's taken me 7 months to figure out that The Babe needed a sleep schedule. Well, there are so many reasons why we hadn't given him one already and honestly, I'm not going to waste your time with detailing what I've been doing wrong all this time. I'd rather not be knocked off that high pedestal I'm sure you've had me on. As it turns out, 7 months of not sleeping well can seriously hamper your ability to think effectively. Case in point: I backed into the ditch at the end of our driveway this past week on my way to the grocery store. Roughly two hours later, a very large tow truck was driving away after having extracted the Jeep (question: does a Jeep without 4 wheel drive really deserve its Jeep card?) from the aforementioned ditch. I blame this event on long-term sleep-deprivation and not my driving capabilities. It's possible my husband would not agree with my placement of blame, but I'm pretty sure lack of sleep is the issue here.
BUT, besides Operation Night-Night, there have been some good times with the Samster. Sam saw the ocean for the first time on our little excursion to Jekyll Island with the grandparents last week. Big Fun. He also tried grits for the first time, which is, according to many southerners, the perfect food. He was a fan. Sam went to his first birthday party (not his party, but a friend's 27th birthday party) and he was a big hit. Only speed bump on that highway of fun was the aftereffects of the Happy Birthday song which included some "hip, hip, hoorays" at the end. After the 30 or so adult voices in the room finished with the last hooray, one little voice was still yelling and it was not "hooray." It was similar to his reaction during the World Cup US/England game. The boy doesn't like yelling, which I find ironic.
If I survive Baby Boot Camp (as a friend refers to the sleep-training process), I'll post a few pictures of Sam on vacation soon. That's IF I survive, which today feels like a big, fat IF.
I'll leave you with a quote from Plato, because I am that well-read:
"Out of all the animals, the BOY is the most unmanageable."
This makes me wonder how many Operation Night-Nights Plato had to impose.
Of late, we've been implementing a naptime/bedtime routine in hopes of retaining my sanity and perhaps enabling me to resist the urge to take a shot of whiskey every hour on the hour (note: this hasn't happened yet, but Jack Daniels and I may have a future together). Needless to say, this process has been something I'd like to call HARD. Who knew that babies have such major issues with being asked to put themselves to sleep? Not me.
So, we're trying something called SleepSense and I have to say that the $47 I spent online for a downloadable book was totally worth it. I even get a 15 minute call-in once a month to chat with the author. I'm wondering if that's where $37 of that sticker price is going. Not sure what I'll say when I call her but at the moment I'm thinking I'll thank her and, if all goes well, offer to vote for her in the next presidential election.
Perhaps you're wondering why it's taken me 7 months to figure out that The Babe needed a sleep schedule. Well, there are so many reasons why we hadn't given him one already and honestly, I'm not going to waste your time with detailing what I've been doing wrong all this time. I'd rather not be knocked off that high pedestal I'm sure you've had me on. As it turns out, 7 months of not sleeping well can seriously hamper your ability to think effectively. Case in point: I backed into the ditch at the end of our driveway this past week on my way to the grocery store. Roughly two hours later, a very large tow truck was driving away after having extracted the Jeep (question: does a Jeep without 4 wheel drive really deserve its Jeep card?) from the aforementioned ditch. I blame this event on long-term sleep-deprivation and not my driving capabilities. It's possible my husband would not agree with my placement of blame, but I'm pretty sure lack of sleep is the issue here.
BUT, besides Operation Night-Night, there have been some good times with the Samster. Sam saw the ocean for the first time on our little excursion to Jekyll Island with the grandparents last week. Big Fun. He also tried grits for the first time, which is, according to many southerners, the perfect food. He was a fan. Sam went to his first birthday party (not his party, but a friend's 27th birthday party) and he was a big hit. Only speed bump on that highway of fun was the aftereffects of the Happy Birthday song which included some "hip, hip, hoorays" at the end. After the 30 or so adult voices in the room finished with the last hooray, one little voice was still yelling and it was not "hooray." It was similar to his reaction during the World Cup US/England game. The boy doesn't like yelling, which I find ironic.
If I survive Baby Boot Camp (as a friend refers to the sleep-training process), I'll post a few pictures of Sam on vacation soon. That's IF I survive, which today feels like a big, fat IF.
I'll leave you with a quote from Plato, because I am that well-read:
"Out of all the animals, the BOY is the most unmanageable."
This makes me wonder how many Operation Night-Nights Plato had to impose.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Michael W. Smith Was Right
Today I'm feeling thankful for Facebook (honorable mentions: Nutella, Target and anti-aging cream.) Facebook, while a bit of a time-waster, doubles as the portal through which I am able to see the goings-on of friends that live farther away from me than they should.
Currently, as I type this, I'm missing my favorite chemist Chrissy in New Mexico and reminiscing about her magical cooking skills that make lovely things out of almost nothing. I'm also pondering what my friend Lyndsay, who works for a non-profit clinic, is doing today in Old Mexico and I'm imagining her healing the sick and eating tacos, the likes of which Taco Bell can only dream of. There's also Amanda and her brood of 3 under 3 who I would pay money to hang out with right now. And then, of course, there's Alexis, sun-tanned creative genius, in sunny San Diego where everyone has good hair and surfing is a prerequisite before breakfast. My dear friend Abigail is in Kentucky when she really should be here drinking tea with me and discussing the future betrothal of our children. Lydia and Jen are in Georgia where I grew up and there are days where I spend considerable thinking power trying to figure out how we can move back down to the Deep South just to be near those childhood friends. Additionally, there's Traci (queen of healthy eating), Steph (my clever friend), Rebecca (the wise one); all in Nashville living lives that should include me. Ha. Atleast, in my opinion. Frankie in DC (my fellow bibliophile), Leigh (the Swede), Jessica (who loves the weather channel and China). Oh dear. This list could go on and on, but I'm running out of my allotted blogging time (set by Sam the Taskmaster).
What's the deal with people I like being so far away? In light of this problem, I find myself pondering what it might have been like to live 50 years ago when things were simpler and people tended to stay in their hometowns and had never heard of Facebook, Twitter or Skype. They had 3 digit phone numbers and wrote letters and had ice-cream socials and rarely drove as far as the next town. Maybe I'm over-simplifying those people and if Mad Men has taught me anything, it's that life 50 years ago might not have been as innocent as it might appear.
Basically, I'm just wishing for the days when you didn't find yourself stalking friends online to see what they're up to because they live next door and you accidentally overhear their conversations on the telephone line you share. I wish I could walk over to Amanda's house right now and let Sam hang out with her boys (which might include some crazy pacifier swapping and maybe even a little group crying) while we talked on the porch about the weather. And how great would it be if I could walk over to Chrissy's this evening to borrow an egg and be entertained by a story or two about what three-year old Ina had to say today.
Like I said, I'm thankful for Facebook, but at the same time, I wish it didn't have a reason to exist. It makes it possible for me keep up with the people that I love but I'd so much rather it didn't have to.
This is the point in the blog when I'd like to take a moment to let out a big 'SIGH.' Ok, I've done my whining and now I'm wrapping up this post so that I can venture over to Facebook to stalk my friends.
Friends o' Mine, you are missed.
Currently, as I type this, I'm missing my favorite chemist Chrissy in New Mexico and reminiscing about her magical cooking skills that make lovely things out of almost nothing. I'm also pondering what my friend Lyndsay, who works for a non-profit clinic, is doing today in Old Mexico and I'm imagining her healing the sick and eating tacos, the likes of which Taco Bell can only dream of. There's also Amanda and her brood of 3 under 3 who I would pay money to hang out with right now. And then, of course, there's Alexis, sun-tanned creative genius, in sunny San Diego where everyone has good hair and surfing is a prerequisite before breakfast. My dear friend Abigail is in Kentucky when she really should be here drinking tea with me and discussing the future betrothal of our children. Lydia and Jen are in Georgia where I grew up and there are days where I spend considerable thinking power trying to figure out how we can move back down to the Deep South just to be near those childhood friends. Additionally, there's Traci (queen of healthy eating), Steph (my clever friend), Rebecca (the wise one); all in Nashville living lives that should include me. Ha. Atleast, in my opinion. Frankie in DC (my fellow bibliophile), Leigh (the Swede), Jessica (who loves the weather channel and China). Oh dear. This list could go on and on, but I'm running out of my allotted blogging time (set by Sam the Taskmaster).
What's the deal with people I like being so far away? In light of this problem, I find myself pondering what it might have been like to live 50 years ago when things were simpler and people tended to stay in their hometowns and had never heard of Facebook, Twitter or Skype. They had 3 digit phone numbers and wrote letters and had ice-cream socials and rarely drove as far as the next town. Maybe I'm over-simplifying those people and if Mad Men has taught me anything, it's that life 50 years ago might not have been as innocent as it might appear.
Basically, I'm just wishing for the days when you didn't find yourself stalking friends online to see what they're up to because they live next door and you accidentally overhear their conversations on the telephone line you share. I wish I could walk over to Amanda's house right now and let Sam hang out with her boys (which might include some crazy pacifier swapping and maybe even a little group crying) while we talked on the porch about the weather. And how great would it be if I could walk over to Chrissy's this evening to borrow an egg and be entertained by a story or two about what three-year old Ina had to say today.
Like I said, I'm thankful for Facebook, but at the same time, I wish it didn't have a reason to exist. It makes it possible for me keep up with the people that I love but I'd so much rather it didn't have to.
This is the point in the blog when I'd like to take a moment to let out a big 'SIGH.' Ok, I've done my whining and now I'm wrapping up this post so that I can venture over to Facebook to stalk my friends.
Friends o' Mine, you are missed.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Ode to Fish Tacos
We've made these tacos twice this last week and I'm already thinking about when I can get away with making them again. So, in the interest of sharing good recipes with people I like, here's the "Cook This, Not That" version of fish tacos...
Grilled Fish Tacos
Ingredients:
1 mango, pitted, peeled and cubed
1 avocado, pitted, peeled and cubed
1/2 red onion, finely chopped
Juice of one lime, plus wedges for garnish
chopped, fresh cilantro
Salt and Black pepper
Canola oil
2 large mahi mahi (we used tilapia)
1 tbsp blackening spice (more on that later)
8 corn tortillas
2 cups of finely shredded red cabbage
-Mix the mango, avocado, onion and juice of one lime in a bowl. Season with cilantro, salt and pepper.
-Heat a grill or stovetop grill pan until hot. Drizzle a light coating of oil over the fish and rub on the blackening spice. Cook the fish, undisturbed, for 4 minutes. Carefully flip with a spatula and cook for another 4 minutes. Remove.
-Warm the tortillas on the grill for 1 to 2 minutes or wrap in damp paper towels and microwave for 1 minute until warm and pliable.
-Break the fish into chunks and divide among the warm tortillas. Top with the cabbage and the mango salsa. Serve with the lime wedges.
*Rub for Fish:
1 tsp each: cumin, paprika, cayenne, oregano, black pepper, and salt. If you're sensitive to spicy foods, you might want to cut down on the cayenne.
Makes 4 servings
380 calories per serving
11 g fat
Yum.
Grilled Fish Tacos
Ingredients:
1 mango, pitted, peeled and cubed
1 avocado, pitted, peeled and cubed
1/2 red onion, finely chopped
Juice of one lime, plus wedges for garnish
chopped, fresh cilantro
Salt and Black pepper
Canola oil
2 large mahi mahi (we used tilapia)
1 tbsp blackening spice (more on that later)
8 corn tortillas
2 cups of finely shredded red cabbage
-Mix the mango, avocado, onion and juice of one lime in a bowl. Season with cilantro, salt and pepper.
-Heat a grill or stovetop grill pan until hot. Drizzle a light coating of oil over the fish and rub on the blackening spice. Cook the fish, undisturbed, for 4 minutes. Carefully flip with a spatula and cook for another 4 minutes. Remove.
-Warm the tortillas on the grill for 1 to 2 minutes or wrap in damp paper towels and microwave for 1 minute until warm and pliable.
-Break the fish into chunks and divide among the warm tortillas. Top with the cabbage and the mango salsa. Serve with the lime wedges.
*Rub for Fish:
1 tsp each: cumin, paprika, cayenne, oregano, black pepper, and salt. If you're sensitive to spicy foods, you might want to cut down on the cayenne.
Makes 4 servings
380 calories per serving
11 g fat
Yum.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I Heart Sam
Today started with lots of tears. The big, hot kind that well up in the corner of Sam's big blue eyes and then roll furiously down his round cheeks, blotchy from crying. The culprit? Teething, or so I assume. Ear-pulling, fussiness, chewing on anything and everything, excessive drool: all apparent clues to the advent of The Tooth. I tried everything to make things better. Cold teethers, cold baby food, cold water, rubbing his gums with my finger, and then eventually I held him upside down to hopefully distract him. Oddly enough, that got a laugh or two and seemed to make things better. Whew. And then the tears were back again. Sigh.
Currently, Sam's snoozing in his little swing and I'm enjoying channel 840, also known as "Classical Masterpieces." Now that I have a quiet moment or two, accompanied by Mozart, I'm musing a bit. Specifically, I've been pondering lately how full my heart is these days as a mom. Despite the rough patches, which always pass, I am so in love with this little boy named Sam. Sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed by this love and squeeze him a little hard for someone who weighs 17 pounds. My friend Lyndsay would laugh at this because she's always complaining that I hug too hard. Well, I hug to the measure that I love. Sam's uncomfortable grunt when I hugged him tight earlier today let me know that he'd had enough love for the moment. Seriously, this new reality of being a mom is powerful. I understand now what it means to "have your heart walking around outside of your body." Or crawling, as the case may be.
The follow-up thought to all this love I'm feeling these days is an acute sensitivity to the thought of a child not being loved. I've always been bothered by news stories about child abuse or children neglected or abandoned. But, now that Sam exists in the world, I feel this intense, instinctive desire to protect. I get a pit in my stomach whenever I see someone yelling at their child at the mall or when I see a new mom who's brought her screaming 2 week old baby to Wal-Mart. It takes everything I've got not to walk over and offer to adopt those people's children. Seriously.
All of this has made me keenly aware of a desire to literally adopt. I've always thought I wanted to, but now I can't stop thinking about it. I know that adopting one child (or two) obviously won't negate all the evil done in the world to children, but at least it's a start. I confessed to my husband recently that I'm praying for enough money to adopt a baby. I felt like he should probably be aware of this specific petition I was making. That way, if God lets us win the lotto, Matt will know where the money's supposed to go.
So, as I sit here and watch the rise and fall of Sam's little chest as he sleeps, I'm wondering what the future holds for him and for our family. Who else is going to be hanging out here with Sam and I listening to Mozart's Concerto No. 1? I love thinking about the possibilities and I'm aching a bit to hold additional little ones and love them as hard as I love Sam.
Currently, Sam's snoozing in his little swing and I'm enjoying channel 840, also known as "Classical Masterpieces." Now that I have a quiet moment or two, accompanied by Mozart, I'm musing a bit. Specifically, I've been pondering lately how full my heart is these days as a mom. Despite the rough patches, which always pass, I am so in love with this little boy named Sam. Sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed by this love and squeeze him a little hard for someone who weighs 17 pounds. My friend Lyndsay would laugh at this because she's always complaining that I hug too hard. Well, I hug to the measure that I love. Sam's uncomfortable grunt when I hugged him tight earlier today let me know that he'd had enough love for the moment. Seriously, this new reality of being a mom is powerful. I understand now what it means to "have your heart walking around outside of your body." Or crawling, as the case may be.
The follow-up thought to all this love I'm feeling these days is an acute sensitivity to the thought of a child not being loved. I've always been bothered by news stories about child abuse or children neglected or abandoned. But, now that Sam exists in the world, I feel this intense, instinctive desire to protect. I get a pit in my stomach whenever I see someone yelling at their child at the mall or when I see a new mom who's brought her screaming 2 week old baby to Wal-Mart. It takes everything I've got not to walk over and offer to adopt those people's children. Seriously.
All of this has made me keenly aware of a desire to literally adopt. I've always thought I wanted to, but now I can't stop thinking about it. I know that adopting one child (or two) obviously won't negate all the evil done in the world to children, but at least it's a start. I confessed to my husband recently that I'm praying for enough money to adopt a baby. I felt like he should probably be aware of this specific petition I was making. That way, if God lets us win the lotto, Matt will know where the money's supposed to go.
So, as I sit here and watch the rise and fall of Sam's little chest as he sleeps, I'm wondering what the future holds for him and for our family. Who else is going to be hanging out here with Sam and I listening to Mozart's Concerto No. 1? I love thinking about the possibilities and I'm aching a bit to hold additional little ones and love them as hard as I love Sam.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Spontaneous Baking
So, yesterday morning I noticed there were some over-ripened bananas on the counter and, as it turns out, some chocolate chips in the pantry. The obvious thing to do in this situation? Make some Chocolate Chip Banana Bread. After eating a third of the loaf myself, I'd say this is a recipe to be shared. So, here you go...
Miss Daisy's Banana Nut Bread (chocolate chips, optional)
1/3 c vegetable oil
1/3 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg
2 medium ripe bananas
1 1/2 c whole wheat flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 c skim milk
1/2 c chopped pecans
*I added a handful or so of chocolate chips.
Assemble all ingredients and utensils. Preheat oven to 350.
Spray a 5x9 in loaf pan with nonstick cooking spray. In a large mixing bowl cream together oil, sugar, vanilla, egg and bananas with an electric mixer. In a separate bowl combine flour, baking powder, soda and cinnamon. Gradually add the dry ingredients to the banana mixture alternately with skim milk. Fold in the pecans. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Bake at 350 for 45-50 minutes, until browned and tests done. Yields 1 loaf or 12 1/2 in thick slices.
calories sans chocolate chips: 184
fat: 10 g
Tomorrow's recipe? Tomato Aspic, also courtesy of Miss Daisy. So be sure to pick up your lemon-flavored gelatin and tomato juice at the store this afternoon.
Miss Daisy's Banana Nut Bread (chocolate chips, optional)
1/3 c vegetable oil
1/3 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 egg
2 medium ripe bananas
1 1/2 c whole wheat flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 c skim milk
1/2 c chopped pecans
*I added a handful or so of chocolate chips.
Assemble all ingredients and utensils. Preheat oven to 350.
Spray a 5x9 in loaf pan with nonstick cooking spray. In a large mixing bowl cream together oil, sugar, vanilla, egg and bananas with an electric mixer. In a separate bowl combine flour, baking powder, soda and cinnamon. Gradually add the dry ingredients to the banana mixture alternately with skim milk. Fold in the pecans. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Bake at 350 for 45-50 minutes, until browned and tests done. Yields 1 loaf or 12 1/2 in thick slices.
calories sans chocolate chips: 184
fat: 10 g
Tomorrow's recipe? Tomato Aspic, also courtesy of Miss Daisy. So be sure to pick up your lemon-flavored gelatin and tomato juice at the store this afternoon.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Life as a Non-Bachelorette
I have a confession to make: I watch The Bachelorette. Perhaps I just lost a little bit of your respect, but alas, I cannot deny that this glorified depiction of a harem of men all dating one girl sucks me in every Monday night. I missed it this week because we took Sam to the pool, but I planned ahead (which rarely happens these days) and recorded it. So yesterday I found myself doing laundry, feeding Sam and changing diapers as I watched Ali date her way through the last 6 well-built suitors.
If you missed this episode, you should probably take a break now and download it on Hulu.com, because this week found Ali and her fellas in gorgeous Istanbul visiting immense Turkish baths, perusing local spice markets, buying fancy rugs for exorbitant prices, etc. The city was unexpectedly breathtaking and I lost myself a little in the slightly mysterious and brilliantly colorful old world of Istanbul.
And Then. (ominous "dun dun dun" here) A Smell. I glanced down from the panoramic views of Turkey to a telling look on Sam's face and I knew what was coming. I paused the DVR just as Ali's third date was declaring his unconditional, three-weeks old love for her to the camera somewhere during their date. (side note: Do they take time out to interview them during their dates? Seems like that would be a real mood-killer.) While Ali's earnest date was frozen mid-declaration on my tv screen against a backdrop of majestic domed mosques, I changed a diaper that left me needing smelling salts.
I paused for a moment to consider the intensely different situations: Ali in exotic Turkey being courted by 6 handsome men and me in our Tennessee living room witnessing the result of digested apples and prunes. Sigh. I laughed out loud, which is always a little weird when you're alone, or semi-alone. This was one of the more "welcome to the reality of motherhood" moments that I've had lately. I'm obviously not envying Ali the Bachelorette's unusual dating life, but I must admit to wanting a little of the perks that come with it. Maybe I should be more specific.
I'd love to hang out in a Basilica Cistern in Istanbul and have dinner in the middle of a backlit pool of water with a handsome man (obviously, Matt), but what I could really go for is a night out with my husband, wearing something that hasn't been chewed on and eating something I haven't just microwaved.
Here's hoping that this weekend includes a dinner date sans diapers and baby food.
If you missed this episode, you should probably take a break now and download it on Hulu.com, because this week found Ali and her fellas in gorgeous Istanbul visiting immense Turkish baths, perusing local spice markets, buying fancy rugs for exorbitant prices, etc. The city was unexpectedly breathtaking and I lost myself a little in the slightly mysterious and brilliantly colorful old world of Istanbul.
And Then. (ominous "dun dun dun" here) A Smell. I glanced down from the panoramic views of Turkey to a telling look on Sam's face and I knew what was coming. I paused the DVR just as Ali's third date was declaring his unconditional, three-weeks old love for her to the camera somewhere during their date. (side note: Do they take time out to interview them during their dates? Seems like that would be a real mood-killer.) While Ali's earnest date was frozen mid-declaration on my tv screen against a backdrop of majestic domed mosques, I changed a diaper that left me needing smelling salts.
I paused for a moment to consider the intensely different situations: Ali in exotic Turkey being courted by 6 handsome men and me in our Tennessee living room witnessing the result of digested apples and prunes. Sigh. I laughed out loud, which is always a little weird when you're alone, or semi-alone. This was one of the more "welcome to the reality of motherhood" moments that I've had lately. I'm obviously not envying Ali the Bachelorette's unusual dating life, but I must admit to wanting a little of the perks that come with it. Maybe I should be more specific.
I'd love to hang out in a Basilica Cistern in Istanbul and have dinner in the middle of a backlit pool of water with a handsome man (obviously, Matt), but what I could really go for is a night out with my husband, wearing something that hasn't been chewed on and eating something I haven't just microwaved.
Here's hoping that this weekend includes a dinner date sans diapers and baby food.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Things I'm OK with these days.
I just did something I never thought I would do. I went to the mall wearing make-up from yesterday. What? It happened. If my 25 year-old self could have witnessed my present 32 year-old self wearing day old make-up in public, some sort of dramatic intervention might have taken place.
But, let's be real here. It turns out that motherhood has found me being ok with a plethora of things I would not have done in my past Sam-less life. I feel like I should list those things here for your entertainment or for you to feel like you're a little less alone. Here goes.
-I wear the same two pairs of yoga capri pants more than anyone should be allowed to in a week.
-I wear the same said pairs of yoga pants IN PUBLIC. Never thought this one would happen, but it has. I justify it by also wearing lip gloss.
-I am ok with wearing things that have been slightly spit up on. Sometimes, more than slightly is ok, depending on how tired I am and how many times I've already changed my shirt that day. I'm considering patenting my design for a shirt made entirely of burp-cloths.
-Regardless of how hard I try, I am late for almost everything. If you and I are meeting somewhere for lunch, please allow 15-20 minutes extra for me to arrive. I promise it's for a good reason (i.e. I just got thrown up on, someone's diaper just exploded as we were walking out the door, or someone is taking a nap which is lasting about 2.5 hours longer than normal).
-I am ok with being sneezed on, even in my face at 2 inch range. This is really more of a babies-only thing, but if you do happen to sneeze in my face, I'll be a lot more laid-back about it than I would have been 6 months ago.
-I hardly ever know what's going on in a movie or tv show because I've usually missed the important plot twists while changing a diaper or two or three. My husband is now the King of Recaps.
-I type emails with one hand, and more recently blog posts. Speaking of that, the babe is requiring two hands at the moment, (i.e. someone just made a deposit in his diaper) so I'll conclude for now.
But, let's be real here. It turns out that motherhood has found me being ok with a plethora of things I would not have done in my past Sam-less life. I feel like I should list those things here for your entertainment or for you to feel like you're a little less alone. Here goes.
-I wear the same two pairs of yoga capri pants more than anyone should be allowed to in a week.
-I wear the same said pairs of yoga pants IN PUBLIC. Never thought this one would happen, but it has. I justify it by also wearing lip gloss.
-I am ok with wearing things that have been slightly spit up on. Sometimes, more than slightly is ok, depending on how tired I am and how many times I've already changed my shirt that day. I'm considering patenting my design for a shirt made entirely of burp-cloths.
-Regardless of how hard I try, I am late for almost everything. If you and I are meeting somewhere for lunch, please allow 15-20 minutes extra for me to arrive. I promise it's for a good reason (i.e. I just got thrown up on, someone's diaper just exploded as we were walking out the door, or someone is taking a nap which is lasting about 2.5 hours longer than normal).
-I am ok with being sneezed on, even in my face at 2 inch range. This is really more of a babies-only thing, but if you do happen to sneeze in my face, I'll be a lot more laid-back about it than I would have been 6 months ago.
-I hardly ever know what's going on in a movie or tv show because I've usually missed the important plot twists while changing a diaper or two or three. My husband is now the King of Recaps.
-I type emails with one hand, and more recently blog posts. Speaking of that, the babe is requiring two hands at the moment, (i.e. someone just made a deposit in his diaper) so I'll conclude for now.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
An entire post about the weather.
It's HOT. I keep saying this to my husband and to friends on the phone and to cashiers at the grocery store. I'm tired of hearing myself say it, but I can't seem to stop. This is my first summer with a babe (Sam, 6 months and 1 week) and it turns out that carrying an extra (almost) 16 pounds on my hip just makes me hotter. Sadly, only in a temperature-related way, not in a Paris Hilton sort of way.
Currently, it's about 95 degrees here and I'm hanging out in a 70 degree house eating the occasional popsicle and standing over the occasional air vent. I should be used to this heat. I was born and raised in Georgia (read: HOTlanta) for crying out loud. But, alas, I'm a big wimp when it comes to anything above 85 degrees. I should probably be required to turn in my Southern Belle card.
On a semi-related note, while driving home this afternoon from meeting a friend for lunch at my favorite place in Knoxville, (The French Market on Gay St.) I pulled up behind what seemed at first to be a nice little white convertible. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a Ford Focus whose owner had somewhat awkwardly cut the top off of his car. At first I was appalled at the lack of foresight (What will he do when it rains? What about when it turns cold again, if that ever happens?) but that was mixed with something like admiration. Perhaps this driver of the altered Ford Focus was on to something. Perhaps my Jeep Grand Cherokee could also go through a similar transformation and allow Sam and I to feel the wind in our hair as we drove down the hot interstate. I took another look at the Ford Focus "convertible" and decided that, in fact, I should not make that man my role model. Still, when you're living in 95 degrees (100 degree heat index) you find that things like cutting the top off of your sedan sound like a good idea. Evidence, perhaps, that extreme heat kills brain cells
The babe is stirring. Time for one of those aforementioned diaper changes.
Currently, it's about 95 degrees here and I'm hanging out in a 70 degree house eating the occasional popsicle and standing over the occasional air vent. I should be used to this heat. I was born and raised in Georgia (read: HOTlanta) for crying out loud. But, alas, I'm a big wimp when it comes to anything above 85 degrees. I should probably be required to turn in my Southern Belle card.
On a semi-related note, while driving home this afternoon from meeting a friend for lunch at my favorite place in Knoxville, (The French Market on Gay St.) I pulled up behind what seemed at first to be a nice little white convertible. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a Ford Focus whose owner had somewhat awkwardly cut the top off of his car. At first I was appalled at the lack of foresight (What will he do when it rains? What about when it turns cold again, if that ever happens?) but that was mixed with something like admiration. Perhaps this driver of the altered Ford Focus was on to something. Perhaps my Jeep Grand Cherokee could also go through a similar transformation and allow Sam and I to feel the wind in our hair as we drove down the hot interstate. I took another look at the Ford Focus "convertible" and decided that, in fact, I should not make that man my role model. Still, when you're living in 95 degrees (100 degree heat index) you find that things like cutting the top off of your sedan sound like a good idea. Evidence, perhaps, that extreme heat kills brain cells
The babe is stirring. Time for one of those aforementioned diaper changes.