I just opened my fridge to get more milk for the little guy; even if he had already imbibed twelve gallons of milk already, I would be physically unable to say no to the words "Pease, Mulk" in his ridiculously adorable little voice. I promise you wouldn't be able to either.
Anyway, as I reached in for the milk, I surveyed my semi-orderly fridge (we had company coming and I was somewhat influenced by the unnaturally neat fridges I'd observed on MTV's Cribs at some point in the past). As I glanced around for about 6.5 seconds, I felt myself feeling oddly affirmed by the choices I had made at the local Ingles the day before. Organic milk, organic yogurt, organic butter, organic apples, etc. I mean, despite some mistakes like the genetically-altered pancake syrup in the side door and maybe a box of pre-cooked bacon (this probably should not exist in the natural order of things), I had done a pretty good job of keeping my family hormone and high-fructose corn syrup free. Mental pat on the back. She shoots, she scores! Fist bumps all around. I felt like super-mom/wife/person for a minute there.
I bet you're assuming that I've been in the house too long (again) or perhaps have been sniffing the glue I used to re-attach the handle to my Crock Pot lid yesterday (which, oddly enough, fell on my head and broke the night before). Or, maybe you're just as guilty as I am about assessing your value as a producer and raiser of children by how organic your groceries are. It's hard not to let this happen. Every parenting magazine, mom website, mom blog, local CSA nutritional magazine that you see at the door of Whole Foods, they all say the same thing: If you don't buy organic, your children's brains won't develop to their full potential OR you could die from some unnamed toxin that was sprayed on your vegetables in some Latin American country before you innocently bought them in Bi-Lo's innocuous produce aisle.
It's hard being a mom. It gives you about 4,508 more reasons to be anxious throughout any given day. I've recently decided not to renew my subscription to Parents magazine (despite the low, low price of $7.99 a year) because their editors have apparently determined that good articles and fear-mongering are the same thing. I seriously cannot read another article about all the communicable diseases that are on their way to becoming resistant to antibiotics. OR, how many ways your child could be accidentally maimed and/or killed by unassuming objects in your own home. It's enough to make one give those 1950's mothers' popping Valium a nod of sympathetic understanding.
And so, I fight back. I babyproof my house and I buy organic. And, then I feel awesome. Sort of.
But, what's the deal with organic food's impact on my identity and sense of self? I'm a little surprised and maybe slightly humored by the things that affect the lens I see myself through now that I'm a mom. It's a little overwhelming at times navigating through the parenting process and wondering if some small thing will upset the whole apple cart (and find Sam getting his GED years later and making a career out of grocery-bagging).
Well, there you have it. I value myself based on my produce selection and I worry that Sam will lose an arm in some freak accident involving our vacuum cleaner. Who knew motherhood could create such neurosis? This, my friends, is what drives me to Nutella, which is basically a chocolate/hazelnut version of Valium. With more calories. But without those pesky side effects of rage and hysteria.
I think I could use a spoonful right now.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
How to Make Fancy New Year's Resolutions
It's my third day in a row at home on a rainy day with a little boy and his cold. The mountain we live on is currently being engulfed by a cloud and so visibility is somewhat low (as in, I'm starting to feel like Sam and I are the only people left on the planet). There's been what looks like a hostile takeover of my living room floor by Thomas the Train and his minions and I'm wondering if it's time to introduce Sam to Barney. Obviously this means that the isolation is getting to me, which means it's time to sit down, drink some tea and ponder life with you, dear readers.
I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.
I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:
1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.
And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.
I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.
I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.
In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.
So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.
In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:
-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.
-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.
-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.
-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.
Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.
And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.
I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.
I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:
1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.
And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.
I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.
I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.
In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.
So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.
In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:
-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.
-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.
-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.
-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.
Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.
And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
I Like To Make Lists
Confession:
I'm a firstborn, Type A, relatively obsessive compulsive, slightly neurotic perfectionist. This makes you feel sad for my husband, doesn't it. And, you're probably wondering if you should ever come to visit me again. But, despite the fact that I might be tempted to sneak into your room to reorganize your suitcase and arrange your clothes according to color if you come to stay, I'm pretty harmless. And here's one of the reasons why: I channel a lot of my pent-up organizational angst into lists.
I love lists. I love post-it notes. I love labeling a list with the all caps header "TO DO." I love marking things off my list. Sometimes I even write things on my list that I've already done just so that I can mark them off. I realize this means that I need some sort of help. But, that's for another conversation. Right now, let's focus on the joys of LISTS, shall we?
Since it's Christmas (almost), and I like you, I thought I'd share a few of my lists with you. It's a season of giving after all, and so here's my gift to you:
A List of Lists!
Things that I've broken recently:
~The coffeepot. And then I spent four days living in fear of a glass shard finding its way into my foot or worse, Sam's sweet little foot. Luckily, only my foot fell victim to a wayward glass shard. Now, I have a pot-less coffee maker that I'm not sure what to do with.
~A glass. Now I have only three small juice glasses. And it's driving me crazy to not have an even number. I'm concerned that this makes me more similar to the main character on "Monk" than I feel comfortable with.
~My hair straightener. Well, that actually seemed to break on its own, but I blame myself for running it in to the ground these last three years. The good news is that it came back to life after twenty-four hours. I think it missed me.
~The toaster. OK, the toaster isn't really broken. It just has faulty wiring due to having its cord toasted on the eye of the stove. This wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't also recently toasted a large stove eye-shaped scar into the cutting board. Oops.
Stuff that makes me cry Every. Single. Time:
~The Folgers commercial where the older brother comes home after being gone to West Africa (obviously) for a really long time and his little sister sticks a bow on him and says "You're my present this year." SERIOUSLY? I'm tearing up a little right now.
~"The Velveteen Rabbit" movie. Specifically the part where the toy rabbit gets tossed into the fire (I was a little disturbed by this at first) but THEN turns into a real rabbit and hops away. *sniff*
~Any and every Hallmark commercial. Somebody at Hallmark is an emotion-manipulating genius.
Questions I answer 500 times a day:
~Whazzat? (asked approximately every two-four minutes from sun-up to sun-down)
~Who-zat?
~Wha'happen?
~Are you okay?
~Where go?
~Juice? Cracker?(just to clarify, these are more requests/demands than questions)
Other phrases I hear 500 times a day:
~Oh No.
~Oh Gosh.
~Oh Man.
~Mama (not so much a phrase,but a mantra that Sam likes to chant/repeat/shout/etc. It's a multi-usage word)
~Truck (although Sam's version substitutes an unfortunate "F" for the "Tr." It's a little disconcerting until you figure out what he's pointing at. We're currently working on this).
Things you can feel free to buy me for Christmas, if you feel so inclined:
~A Lexus. Because apparently, according to the commercials, buying someone a car is what really makes Christmas merry. Just make sure you don't forget the ginormous bow. It's key.
~An Ipad. Because somewhere along the way, I got totally brainwashed by all the brilliant marketing and now I can't stop thinking about all the ways my life would be better with one.
~A Cheese of the Month membership. Because how seriously awesome would this be?
Stuff I wonder:
~What really happened to Kim and Kris?
~Why did "Breaking Dawn" have to be divided into two parts? Wouldn't a four hour vampire/werewolf movie have been just as awesome/mind-numbing?
~Should I pick up knitting or crocheting? Is there really a difference?
~How much Nutella is too much Nutella?
~Is Bradley Cooper really the sexiest man alive?
~Does anyone know what Oprah's doing these days?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
~Does letting Sam watch television mean that he will end up going to community college and graduating when he's 32 only to get a job as a carhop at Sonic?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
And lastly,
Stuff that makes me laugh (courtesy of Pinterest):
This:
This:
And This:
You're welcome.
I'm a firstborn, Type A, relatively obsessive compulsive, slightly neurotic perfectionist. This makes you feel sad for my husband, doesn't it. And, you're probably wondering if you should ever come to visit me again. But, despite the fact that I might be tempted to sneak into your room to reorganize your suitcase and arrange your clothes according to color if you come to stay, I'm pretty harmless. And here's one of the reasons why: I channel a lot of my pent-up organizational angst into lists.
I love lists. I love post-it notes. I love labeling a list with the all caps header "TO DO." I love marking things off my list. Sometimes I even write things on my list that I've already done just so that I can mark them off. I realize this means that I need some sort of help. But, that's for another conversation. Right now, let's focus on the joys of LISTS, shall we?
Since it's Christmas (almost), and I like you, I thought I'd share a few of my lists with you. It's a season of giving after all, and so here's my gift to you:
A List of Lists!
Things that I've broken recently:
~The coffeepot. And then I spent four days living in fear of a glass shard finding its way into my foot or worse, Sam's sweet little foot. Luckily, only my foot fell victim to a wayward glass shard. Now, I have a pot-less coffee maker that I'm not sure what to do with.
~A glass. Now I have only three small juice glasses. And it's driving me crazy to not have an even number. I'm concerned that this makes me more similar to the main character on "Monk" than I feel comfortable with.
~My hair straightener. Well, that actually seemed to break on its own, but I blame myself for running it in to the ground these last three years. The good news is that it came back to life after twenty-four hours. I think it missed me.
~The toaster. OK, the toaster isn't really broken. It just has faulty wiring due to having its cord toasted on the eye of the stove. This wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't also recently toasted a large stove eye-shaped scar into the cutting board. Oops.
Stuff that makes me cry Every. Single. Time:
~The Folgers commercial where the older brother comes home after being gone to West Africa (obviously) for a really long time and his little sister sticks a bow on him and says "You're my present this year." SERIOUSLY? I'm tearing up a little right now.
~"The Velveteen Rabbit" movie. Specifically the part where the toy rabbit gets tossed into the fire (I was a little disturbed by this at first) but THEN turns into a real rabbit and hops away. *sniff*
~Any and every Hallmark commercial. Somebody at Hallmark is an emotion-manipulating genius.
Questions I answer 500 times a day:
~Whazzat? (asked approximately every two-four minutes from sun-up to sun-down)
~Who-zat?
~Wha'happen?
~Are you okay?
~Where go?
~Juice? Cracker?(just to clarify, these are more requests/demands than questions)
Other phrases I hear 500 times a day:
~Oh No.
~Oh Gosh.
~Oh Man.
~Mama (not so much a phrase,but a mantra that Sam likes to chant/repeat/shout/etc. It's a multi-usage word)
~Truck (although Sam's version substitutes an unfortunate "F" for the "Tr." It's a little disconcerting until you figure out what he's pointing at. We're currently working on this).
Things you can feel free to buy me for Christmas, if you feel so inclined:
~A Lexus. Because apparently, according to the commercials, buying someone a car is what really makes Christmas merry. Just make sure you don't forget the ginormous bow. It's key.
~An Ipad. Because somewhere along the way, I got totally brainwashed by all the brilliant marketing and now I can't stop thinking about all the ways my life would be better with one.
~A Cheese of the Month membership. Because how seriously awesome would this be?
Stuff I wonder:
~What really happened to Kim and Kris?
~Why did "Breaking Dawn" have to be divided into two parts? Wouldn't a four hour vampire/werewolf movie have been just as awesome/mind-numbing?
~Should I pick up knitting or crocheting? Is there really a difference?
~How much Nutella is too much Nutella?
~Is Bradley Cooper really the sexiest man alive?
~Does anyone know what Oprah's doing these days?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
~Does letting Sam watch television mean that he will end up going to community college and graduating when he's 32 only to get a job as a carhop at Sonic?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
And lastly,
Stuff that makes me laugh (courtesy of Pinterest):
This:
This:
And This:
You're welcome.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Adulthooding
Every now and then I do something relatively inconsequential like paying a bill or stopping in at the bank and suddenly I'm hit with the startling awareness that I am an adult. It's a weird moment. It's like I just woke up from a dream I was having in the eighth grade only to discover that I wasn't thirteen anymore, but rather thirty-three AND as an added bonus, now have crow's feet, stretch marks and mildly high cholesterol. (Sidebar: This post may remind you slightly of the storyline of "Thirteen Going on Thirty." However, this version of that concept will not include the fairy dust that enabled Jennifer Garner's time-travel, but I may want to talk about Mark Ruffalo later, if that's OK with you.)
Anyway, I have these revelations about being a real, live adult on occasion when I force myself to eat broccoli, or call to make a doctor's appointment for Sam, or listen to talk radio on my way to the grocery store. I am a "big person" as my three-year-old self might refer to me now. Sometimes this is very surreal and I wonder how exactly I got to thirty-three from thirteen so fast.
To be clear, I have zero desire to be thirteen again. If I had a picture from those fashionable middle nineties available, I would scan a picture of myself for you and it would all be very clear why being thirty-three is much preferable to being thirteen. In fact, after observing the hairstyle I chose to rock approximately two decades (!) ago, you might decide to remove me from your speed dial. And I would support you in that decision.
I understand a little better now how my parents find themselves slightly confused as they prepare to turn the big six-oh. I'm pretty sure that it feels like yesterday that they were wearing their bell bottoms and listening to Creedence Clearwater with the windows rolled down and the 1970's blowing through their hair. Even I can remember them in their early thirties when I thought they were so old, and now I realize that I am, in fact, older than they were in my first memories of them. Considering that I had Sam roughly seven years later than my mother had me, I am somewhat concerned that I will arrive at Sam's graduation and people will spend an inordinate amount of time trying to determine if I am his mother or his grandmother.
I'm curious now at what point I officially crossed over the imaginary line between "I am an irresponsible youngster who should not be allowed to drive across state lines alone" to "I now make crucial life decisions and can be counted on to separate the white and the dark laundry." Was it when I got married? Or maybe when I got my first job? I'm leaning toward when I had a baby, but I think I'd crossed that line before then. It's hard to know and I'm not sure that it is a line as much as it is a wide, open desert that I am currently in the middle of fighting my way across. (note: This metaphor isn't meant to be understood. It's really just for dramatic effect).
All I know is that sometimes I can't believe I'm old enough to have named a child, or to have written a will, or to have worn a wedding band for almost five years. I can so vividly remember being an awkward teenager wondering when my life was going to start and now here I am, in the middle of what I used to dream about. I'm not trying to wax eloquent here, I'm just saying, it's more than a little surreal. And I'm guessing I'll feel the same when I'm turning sixty and using L'Oreal to color my grays and secretly considering Botox.
Life's short and that kind of unnerves me on occasion. It also makes me want to be sure that I take time to consider what part of the journey I'm on and to really enjoy this particular part without wishing for the past or waiting around for the future. Because, as far as all my research shows, this part probably won't be coming back around.
If I could hashtag here, which is totally ridiculous in a blog, it would look like this: #Samisonlylittleonce and #Bepresentnow
Anyway, I have these revelations about being a real, live adult on occasion when I force myself to eat broccoli, or call to make a doctor's appointment for Sam, or listen to talk radio on my way to the grocery store. I am a "big person" as my three-year-old self might refer to me now. Sometimes this is very surreal and I wonder how exactly I got to thirty-three from thirteen so fast.
To be clear, I have zero desire to be thirteen again. If I had a picture from those fashionable middle nineties available, I would scan a picture of myself for you and it would all be very clear why being thirty-three is much preferable to being thirteen. In fact, after observing the hairstyle I chose to rock approximately two decades (!) ago, you might decide to remove me from your speed dial. And I would support you in that decision.
I understand a little better now how my parents find themselves slightly confused as they prepare to turn the big six-oh. I'm pretty sure that it feels like yesterday that they were wearing their bell bottoms and listening to Creedence Clearwater with the windows rolled down and the 1970's blowing through their hair. Even I can remember them in their early thirties when I thought they were so old, and now I realize that I am, in fact, older than they were in my first memories of them. Considering that I had Sam roughly seven years later than my mother had me, I am somewhat concerned that I will arrive at Sam's graduation and people will spend an inordinate amount of time trying to determine if I am his mother or his grandmother.
I'm curious now at what point I officially crossed over the imaginary line between "I am an irresponsible youngster who should not be allowed to drive across state lines alone" to "I now make crucial life decisions and can be counted on to separate the white and the dark laundry." Was it when I got married? Or maybe when I got my first job? I'm leaning toward when I had a baby, but I think I'd crossed that line before then. It's hard to know and I'm not sure that it is a line as much as it is a wide, open desert that I am currently in the middle of fighting my way across. (note: This metaphor isn't meant to be understood. It's really just for dramatic effect).
All I know is that sometimes I can't believe I'm old enough to have named a child, or to have written a will, or to have worn a wedding band for almost five years. I can so vividly remember being an awkward teenager wondering when my life was going to start and now here I am, in the middle of what I used to dream about. I'm not trying to wax eloquent here, I'm just saying, it's more than a little surreal. And I'm guessing I'll feel the same when I'm turning sixty and using L'Oreal to color my grays and secretly considering Botox.
Life's short and that kind of unnerves me on occasion. It also makes me want to be sure that I take time to consider what part of the journey I'm on and to really enjoy this particular part without wishing for the past or waiting around for the future. Because, as far as all my research shows, this part probably won't be coming back around.
If I could hashtag here, which is totally ridiculous in a blog, it would look like this: #Samisonlylittleonce and #Bepresentnow
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
A Day in the Life
7:00am (or thereabouts) Wake up to the sound of someone who is wearing footed pajamas requesting his "mama" and "juice" and occasionally "Thomas" (the train, if you were wondering). There's also some serious conversation going on with the stuffed monkey on the table nearby.
7:01-8:51am Rush around the house trying to get everyone fed, lunches packed, people under two dressed. Spend a little time with Matt, Al, Ann and Natalie while Sam and I share a bowl of cheese grits. Begin the process of wondering what to make for supper.
9:00am Drop Sam off at Mother's Day Out and feel confusingly sad and happy about this arrangement at the same time. Wonder if anyone notices that I haven't taken a shower. Hm.
9:20am Rush back home to pick up forgotten coupons and grocery list. Also, decide a cookie at this point in the morning is not a bad idea.
9:49am Visit library in search of books for Sam about farm animals who build their own barns and children who love their mamas and pick up their toys.
10:12am Purchase hardware to secure bookshelves to wall. (also known as "preventing large bookcases from squashing small boys who like to scale furniture").
10:45am Drive over to "The Learning Express" store, where they sell fascinating toys for somewhat less than fascinating prices. However, a particular grandma has commissioned me to buy an early Christmas purchase for her grandson. I heave and ho my way out of the store with a prettily wrapped, rather heavy, toddler trampoline. Begin to wonder if this is such a good idea.
11:00am Find a Curious George dvd for $5 at Target and decide parents who have seen the Curious George dvd at home 27.5 times deserve new episodes. Pretty sure Sam will like them, too.
11:45am Purchase a kid's meal at Chic Fila. Listen to talk radio while consuming chicken nuggets, waffle fries and a miniature sweet tea. Wonder how many other people are listening to talk radio and drinking out of kiddie cups at the same time.
12:15-1:45pm Arrive back at the ranch where I wash the breakfast dishes, make the bed, consider redecorating the house, put chicken out to thaw as I continue to wonder what to make for dinner, put toys up, frame a picture, unwrap the farm puzzle I bought Sam, take a shower, check my email, fill up a sippy-cup and head out the door to pick up Sam.
2:00pm Pick up Sam and am informed that Sam only ate cookies for lunch. Serious nutritional party foul. Consider sneaking ham and cheese into the next batch of cookies I make. Subsequently decide that this is actually a very gross idea.
2:15pm Put Sam down for a nap. Spray his shirt with stain remover (he's not wearing it anymore in case you were concerned). Check People.com to see what famous people are doing on a Tuesday. Get to work editing a dissertation by someone who lives in South America (a little moonlighting). Surf the web looking at Christmas card options. Consider taking out a loan to print and send Christmas cards. Decide that Matt will not approve. Find a recipe for dinner! (huzzah) Go back to editing.
4:34pm Sam wakes up and dinner preparation begins. Spend the next two hours intermittently cooking, reading library books (to Sam) and providing tide-me-overs to the little guy who's watching Curious George sail the high seas on a pirate ship.
5:15pm The husband comes home from work. Hugs all around.
6:30pm Dinner is served and a gourmet meal of Ritz cracker cheesy chicken, green beans and boxed parmesan orzo is a hit. Immediately follow up this triumph with a cookie and then start cleaning up the mess I've made. Spend the next twenty minutes dreaming of a dishwasher.
7:15pm Sam rushes upstairs to begin the "process," also known as the "spend the next 35 minutes chasing a boy in a diaper around trying to bathe and clothe him whilst reading stories about trains and trucks and wild monkeys." Forty-five minutes later, the dishes are washed, the boy is asleep and the evening begins with fanfare and ice cream.
8:00pm Find a show on Hulu.com and wonder if the laundry in the dryer can wait until the morning to be folded. Decide that, in fact, folding is necessary and so I fold while we watch an episode of something riveting enough to fall asleep to by approximately 9:30.
9:45pm Wake up long enough to drag myself upstairs, brush my teeth, and then sleep until it's time to do it all over again.
3:45am Dream about an alien takeover masterminded by Kim Kardashian.
7:01-8:51am Rush around the house trying to get everyone fed, lunches packed, people under two dressed. Spend a little time with Matt, Al, Ann and Natalie while Sam and I share a bowl of cheese grits. Begin the process of wondering what to make for supper.
9:00am Drop Sam off at Mother's Day Out and feel confusingly sad and happy about this arrangement at the same time. Wonder if anyone notices that I haven't taken a shower. Hm.
9:20am Rush back home to pick up forgotten coupons and grocery list. Also, decide a cookie at this point in the morning is not a bad idea.
9:49am Visit library in search of books for Sam about farm animals who build their own barns and children who love their mamas and pick up their toys.
10:12am Purchase hardware to secure bookshelves to wall. (also known as "preventing large bookcases from squashing small boys who like to scale furniture").
10:45am Drive over to "The Learning Express" store, where they sell fascinating toys for somewhat less than fascinating prices. However, a particular grandma has commissioned me to buy an early Christmas purchase for her grandson. I heave and ho my way out of the store with a prettily wrapped, rather heavy, toddler trampoline. Begin to wonder if this is such a good idea.
11:00am Find a Curious George dvd for $5 at Target and decide parents who have seen the Curious George dvd at home 27.5 times deserve new episodes. Pretty sure Sam will like them, too.
11:45am Purchase a kid's meal at Chic Fila. Listen to talk radio while consuming chicken nuggets, waffle fries and a miniature sweet tea. Wonder how many other people are listening to talk radio and drinking out of kiddie cups at the same time.
12:15-1:45pm Arrive back at the ranch where I wash the breakfast dishes, make the bed, consider redecorating the house, put chicken out to thaw as I continue to wonder what to make for dinner, put toys up, frame a picture, unwrap the farm puzzle I bought Sam, take a shower, check my email, fill up a sippy-cup and head out the door to pick up Sam.
2:00pm Pick up Sam and am informed that Sam only ate cookies for lunch. Serious nutritional party foul. Consider sneaking ham and cheese into the next batch of cookies I make. Subsequently decide that this is actually a very gross idea.
2:15pm Put Sam down for a nap. Spray his shirt with stain remover (he's not wearing it anymore in case you were concerned). Check People.com to see what famous people are doing on a Tuesday. Get to work editing a dissertation by someone who lives in South America (a little moonlighting). Surf the web looking at Christmas card options. Consider taking out a loan to print and send Christmas cards. Decide that Matt will not approve. Find a recipe for dinner! (huzzah) Go back to editing.
4:34pm Sam wakes up and dinner preparation begins. Spend the next two hours intermittently cooking, reading library books (to Sam) and providing tide-me-overs to the little guy who's watching Curious George sail the high seas on a pirate ship.
5:15pm The husband comes home from work. Hugs all around.
6:30pm Dinner is served and a gourmet meal of Ritz cracker cheesy chicken, green beans and boxed parmesan orzo is a hit. Immediately follow up this triumph with a cookie and then start cleaning up the mess I've made. Spend the next twenty minutes dreaming of a dishwasher.
7:15pm Sam rushes upstairs to begin the "process," also known as the "spend the next 35 minutes chasing a boy in a diaper around trying to bathe and clothe him whilst reading stories about trains and trucks and wild monkeys." Forty-five minutes later, the dishes are washed, the boy is asleep and the evening begins with fanfare and ice cream.
8:00pm Find a show on Hulu.com and wonder if the laundry in the dryer can wait until the morning to be folded. Decide that, in fact, folding is necessary and so I fold while we watch an episode of something riveting enough to fall asleep to by approximately 9:30.
9:45pm Wake up long enough to drag myself upstairs, brush my teeth, and then sleep until it's time to do it all over again.
3:45am Dream about an alien takeover masterminded by Kim Kardashian.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sam and The Great Pumpkin Farm
Five days after discovering that Sam has strep throat, I'm sitting here at the kitchen table staring out at the orange/yellow/red leafed trees outside my window and feeling cabin feverish. Thankfully, Sam is coming out of his germy funk and feeling much more like his normal self (the self that loves to tear the house apart and climb the bookshelves when my back is turned). I'm glad that the little guy feels better but the sudden return of toddler energy reserves (saved up for the past five days) is enough to make me feel ten years older than the creases around my eyes actually say I am.
While my crazy little man sleeps a little longer (if I'm lucky), I thought I'd share a teensy bit about a trip we took to Guthrie's Pumpkin Farm just last weekend (as in 9.5 days ago). It's about an hour north of Chattanooga and is tucked away on a county road that winds its way through rural countryside. It's exactly what I dream about during the long, hot southern summers when I imagine taking the perfect fall day trip and the cozy cardigan I'll be wearing.
That particular Saturday morning, Matt wasn't really in the mood for a little trip up I-75, but those of us who stay at home all week keeping small people alive seriously needed to get out. So, after a tiny bit of argument, we semi-agreed on heading to Guthrie's. By the time we had wended our way through farmland and seen our fair share of cows and tractors, Matt acknowledged what a good idea this trip to the pumpkin farm was.
Indeed.
He even suggested that we make it a family tradition.
Score.
So, for your viewing pleasure, I've included a few shots of our time at the pumpkin farm. Just to give you a little idea of how much fun Sam had, imagine him in a little plaid shirt and jeans racing through a sunny field of pumpkins, greeting each pumpkin with a pointed finger and an exuberant shout of "PUNKIN!" And yes, it was as entertaining as it sounds.
Wish you could have been there.
And last but not least...
While my crazy little man sleeps a little longer (if I'm lucky), I thought I'd share a teensy bit about a trip we took to Guthrie's Pumpkin Farm just last weekend (as in 9.5 days ago). It's about an hour north of Chattanooga and is tucked away on a county road that winds its way through rural countryside. It's exactly what I dream about during the long, hot southern summers when I imagine taking the perfect fall day trip and the cozy cardigan I'll be wearing.
That particular Saturday morning, Matt wasn't really in the mood for a little trip up I-75, but those of us who stay at home all week keeping small people alive seriously needed to get out. So, after a tiny bit of argument, we semi-agreed on heading to Guthrie's. By the time we had wended our way through farmland and seen our fair share of cows and tractors, Matt acknowledged what a good idea this trip to the pumpkin farm was.
Indeed.
He even suggested that we make it a family tradition.
Score.
So, for your viewing pleasure, I've included a few shots of our time at the pumpkin farm. Just to give you a little idea of how much fun Sam had, imagine him in a little plaid shirt and jeans racing through a sunny field of pumpkins, greeting each pumpkin with a pointed finger and an exuberant shout of "PUNKIN!" And yes, it was as entertaining as it sounds.
Wish you could have been there.
And last but not least...
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Point and Shoot
I'm not a very good photographer. Actually, being a bad taker of pictures is a family trait. We're all pretty much terrible at actually taking pictures and when we do, they don't win awards. Most of my childhood is documented by fuzzy, out of focus shots of me with the thumb or finger of the person behind the camera making an unexpected cameo. It's a curse I tried to escape by taking three photography classes in college, where I learned how to use a manual camera and even develop my own film (!). I was so sure that Hank, our go-teed (can this be a verb?) professor, would cure me of this obvious fault in my DNA. However, Hank's ability could only do so much.
The advent of the digital camera happened sometime in the 90's, but I didn't actually purchase my first one until about 6 years ago. I'm on my second digital camera and it's definitely done its part in remedying some of the earlier issues with my picture taking inability (i.e. one can see immediately in the viewing window that one's thumb made it into the shot and promptly have a re-do).
In addition to my digital camera, I have discovered the magic of photoshop, more specifically the magic of Picnik.com. Here's a few of the recent shots of Sam that have had some re-touching love. I'd like to think that I've come a long way from the disposable cameras my family swore by for the majority of the 80's and 90's.
::Sam just exiting the dryer, which he had just figured out how to crawl into. Don't worry, I was there for this whole adventure.
::Sam getting a haircut whilst enjoying a Blow Pop, which he enthusiastically called "Pop!"
::Sam eating a waffle in his Sunday morning best (we go to church in a barn, if you were wondering about my low standards for his church wardrobe).
::Sam hanging out at a permanent art installation in Coolidge Park in Chattanooga.
::Sam hearing about the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" from his very expressive "dey" (daddy).
The advent of the digital camera happened sometime in the 90's, but I didn't actually purchase my first one until about 6 years ago. I'm on my second digital camera and it's definitely done its part in remedying some of the earlier issues with my picture taking inability (i.e. one can see immediately in the viewing window that one's thumb made it into the shot and promptly have a re-do).
In addition to my digital camera, I have discovered the magic of photoshop, more specifically the magic of Picnik.com. Here's a few of the recent shots of Sam that have had some re-touching love. I'd like to think that I've come a long way from the disposable cameras my family swore by for the majority of the 80's and 90's.
::Sam just exiting the dryer, which he had just figured out how to crawl into. Don't worry, I was there for this whole adventure.
::Sam getting a haircut whilst enjoying a Blow Pop, which he enthusiastically called "Pop!"
::Sam eating a waffle in his Sunday morning best (we go to church in a barn, if you were wondering about my low standards for his church wardrobe).
::Sam hanging out at a permanent art installation in Coolidge Park in Chattanooga.
::Sam hearing about the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" from his very expressive "dey" (daddy).
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