I had a sad revelation the other day. I was sitting at a red light where a (presumably) homeless man was begging for change. I reached out of my window to hand him a bottled water and some crackers (I don't give out money because I don't want to support a potential crack habit) and I noticed that he was dressed about as well as I was.
We both had on ratty, stained t-shirts (granted, mine was stained from furniture varnish and his was stained with what appeared to be pigeon feces), faded jeans, and sandals that were clinging on by a thread. It was kind of depressing, but I went about my way.
Over the past few months, I've gradually started dressing dumpier and dumpier. This is, in part, due to my new-found hobbies like refinishing furniture, spray painting light fixtures, and shellacking everything that can't run away. It's also due to a new-found frugality that I'm employing where, as my deep-South mother would say, I "pinch a penny until Lincoln hollers".
As a mom, it's hard to justify doing anything for yourself. I would surmise that this is even worse among stay-at-home-moms because we're not contributing anything financially, so therefore the "I Deserve This" mentality shuts off more easily. I find that if I DO have any extra money on my hands, I'm buying something for Jack, David, or the house.
My unwillingness to buy anything for myself, coupled with the fact I banished all my stylish pre-baby clothes to the back of my closet because I was too fat to wear them resulted in a repertoire of t-shirts, athletic shorts, and the same pair of jeans I'd been wearing since the Bush Administration.
My very dear friends tried staging an intervention by buying me a new outfit for my birthday. That helped, because I then owned at least ONE outfit that didn't look like it came from the "Derelict" fashion line from the movie "Zoolander". But for the most part, the parade of "What Not to Wear" continued.
The game-changer came this week when my mom was visiting. We went shopping, and I was wearing my usual ensemble, with the slight variation that I had on a faded polo shirt as opposed to a faded Boston Red Sox t-shirt. To make a long story short, my mom coerced me into trying on a really cute outfit, and I realized that the 15 lbs I had lost since having Jack was visible, and I looked GOOD.
It was kind of an eye-opener for me that my MOTHER was dressing better than I was. (No offense, Mom.) So we got that outfit, and two more. To my immense surprise, David jumped on the bandwagon too, insisting that I now needed new shoes to replace my current pair, which resembled something out of an American Eagle catalog, only smellier. He also bought me new make-up. I'd been so bent on saving money that even when my old make-up ran out, I tried to make do by mixing remnants of make-up that was too dark with make-up that was too light, stirring in some moisturizer, and hoping for the best. The result was that I looked slightly vitamin-deficient.
To top it off, my new wardrobe success prompted me to excavate my entire closet and try on everything I was "too fat" for. I nearly had a heart attack when I found that it all fit again. After a few dozen prayers of thanksgiving and what can best be described as a rain dance mixed with a seizure, it occurred to me that I'd been dressing like a vagrant for so long that I didn't even realize I'd lost all the baby weight. (Actually to be more precise, it was the weight that one of my medicines had caused me to re-gain, since the PPD had me back at my pre-baby weight within weeks, but we'll go down that road another time.)
As I sit here typing, I'm totally bombing on the happy-vibes that can only come from feeling good about the way you look. Maybe I'm indulging archaic stereotypes of women, and maybe I'm even being a little vain, but it's just what this disheveled mommy needed.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Stupid Baby Products
Every so often I get hit with an overwhelming urge to be a "good" parent. It usually manifests itself in stupid ways, like the time I vowed to stop laughing at Jackson every time he cries (that only lasted about a week). Most recently, about a month ago, I felt the compulsive need to protect Jack against the imminent perils lurking around every corner of my home. For the price of a small yacht, I gained the peace of mind that Jackson will NOT die from falling furniture.
The website I bought the stuff from just sent me a catalog, presumably under the assumption that if I wasdumb paranoid enough to drop $15 on what is essentially a modified zip-tie, I might be persuaded to do so again. Looking through the catalog today, I was struck by how many really stupid things you can waste your money on.
Here are a list of the worst ones. Some of these are incredibly dumb safety items, and some of them are just incredibly dumb stuff.
Sun Smarties
It's a swim suit for parents who don't want their kids to get sunburned. I get it. Sunburns are a bummer. Fortunately, sunscreen was invented like 100 years ago, so your child can go outside without a HAZMAT suit. Because nothing says "Fun In The Sun!" like looking like you're dealing with a uranium leak.
Safety Trampoline
The idea here is that your child can "safely" enjoy a trampoline with this product. The only problem is, you have to jump in place. Like, straight up and down. Repeatedly. While holding a safety bar. If your child considers this fun, you might want to reconsider their sugar intake.
Safety Harness
It's okay to put your kid on a leash as long as it has a cuddly lion face. Oh wait. It's still a leash.
In all seriousness, I realize that there are some kids out there with genuine problems who truly need something like this, and I'm NOT making fun of them. But for everyone else, just try actually WATCHING your kid. I know it's annoying, and there are so many interesting shiny objects you'd rather be looking at, but seriously, you're a grown-up now, and I think you can handle it.
Knee Pads
Whether your child is stealing 3rd or just, I don't know, LEARNING TO CRAWL, these are a definite "must-have". My God. I don't know how the human race made it 200,000 years without these.
Baby Nasal Aspirator
Sure, they give you a nasal aspirator for free at the hospital that DOESN'T require you to literally suck the boogers out of your kid's nose. But THOSE aspirators rely solely on the unreliable principles of physics. This way you can spend $15 AND inhale your kid's snot. It's clearly the better alternative.
Thumb Guard
How do you stop your kid from sucking their thumb? By humiliating the living hell out of them. (PS: this thing is $75. I'm not kidding. $75.)
Shampoo Visor
Nobody likes getting shampoo in their eyes. It stings really badly and kind of temporarily blinds you. But now there's a way to prevent all the agony and suffering for your child. No, not teaching them to tip their head back or just close their eyes. The Shampoo Visor!
My issue with this product is two-fold. First, how does it prevent any and all water from dripping down? Water is a squirrelly substance, and unless you DAP that thing to her head, it seems unlikely that it's going to stop every drip. Second, how to you keep from pointing at your kid and laughing the entire time its on their head?
And Last, But Not Least: The Baby Helmet
I really hate it when Jackson bonks his head. Not only does he scream his head off, but it always forces me to wonder what critical function he will never be able to perform as a result of the brain damage. (Oh damn, there goes his ability to remember to zip his fly...) However, I'm pretty sure NOT making your kid wear a helmet is worth a few whacks on the head.
For starters, every baby falls on their head. Einstein fell on his head, and he still managed to comprehend quantum physics. Luckily for our species, God had the foresight to give us skulls. Unless your child is regularly encountering the blunt force trauma of an object moving at 60 mph, this is totally unnecessary.
Second: WHY? WHY? WHY? would you do this to your child?
(PS: I just realized that if you look closely, the kid in the picture is also wearing the knee pads I mentioned above....)
I'm so far from being "The Perfect Parent" that it borders on the absurd, but I think these products are proof that sometimes it's better to just let your kid be normal.
The website I bought the stuff from just sent me a catalog, presumably under the assumption that if I was
Here are a list of the worst ones. Some of these are incredibly dumb safety items, and some of them are just incredibly dumb stuff.
Sun Smarties
Safety Harness
It's okay to put your kid on a leash as long as it has a cuddly lion face. Oh wait. It's still a leash.
In all seriousness, I realize that there are some kids out there with genuine problems who truly need something like this, and I'm NOT making fun of them. But for everyone else, just try actually WATCHING your kid. I know it's annoying, and there are so many interesting shiny objects you'd rather be looking at, but seriously, you're a grown-up now, and I think you can handle it.
Knee Pads
Whether your child is stealing 3rd or just, I don't know, LEARNING TO CRAWL, these are a definite "must-have". My God. I don't know how the human race made it 200,000 years without these.
Baby Nasal Aspirator
Sure, they give you a nasal aspirator for free at the hospital that DOESN'T require you to literally suck the boogers out of your kid's nose. But THOSE aspirators rely solely on the unreliable principles of physics. This way you can spend $15 AND inhale your kid's snot. It's clearly the better alternative.
Thumb Guard
How do you stop your kid from sucking their thumb? By humiliating the living hell out of them. (PS: this thing is $75. I'm not kidding. $75.)
Shampoo Visor
Nobody likes getting shampoo in their eyes. It stings really badly and kind of temporarily blinds you. But now there's a way to prevent all the agony and suffering for your child. No, not teaching them to tip their head back or just close their eyes. The Shampoo Visor!
My issue with this product is two-fold. First, how does it prevent any and all water from dripping down? Water is a squirrelly substance, and unless you DAP that thing to her head, it seems unlikely that it's going to stop every drip. Second, how to you keep from pointing at your kid and laughing the entire time its on their head?
And Last, But Not Least: The Baby Helmet
For starters, every baby falls on their head. Einstein fell on his head, and he still managed to comprehend quantum physics. Luckily for our species, God had the foresight to give us skulls. Unless your child is regularly encountering the blunt force trauma of an object moving at 60 mph, this is totally unnecessary.
Second: WHY? WHY? WHY? would you do this to your child?
(PS: I just realized that if you look closely, the kid in the picture is also wearing the knee pads I mentioned above....)
I'm so far from being "The Perfect Parent" that it borders on the absurd, but I think these products are proof that sometimes it's better to just let your kid be normal.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage...
Ahhh, rainy days... even though we desperately need the rain, the fact that Jackson can't go outside has caused him to go stir-crazy. He's now taken to following me around the house crying at me. (If that sentence sounds unidiomatic to you, then you must not have kids, because everyone else knows kids will totally cry AT you...and it's the most annoying form of crying there is...) Anyway, moving on...
It occurred to me that although I blog ad nauseum about myself and my son, I have said relatively little about the other most important man in my life- my husband. Seeing as how he's a pretty key player in all of this, I'm dedicating this blog to my relationship with my husband, David.
David is genuinely the nicest man I've ever met. This was a huge impetus in my decision to marry him over, let's say, Gerard Butler. He has lots of other amiable qualities, like his ability to tolerate my incessant relating of actual events to episodes of South Park, but it was probably his general kindness that won me over.
David and I dated for three years before we got married, and then we were married for 6 months before I got pregnant, so it's safe to say that we had a pretty established way of relating to one another before Jack entered the scene. Having a baby changes your relationship in ways you can't possibly imagine. In many ways it's better than it ever was before, but with that comes a huge number of new challenges.
First, a baby really cements your marriage. The following assertion is really UN-kosher, but bear with me: before you have a kid, your marriage can be called a trial-run. Think about it: if you get married and it doesn't work out, you can always just get divorced and move on. Sure, it will be awkward for a year or so when you have to tell everyone they wasted their money on that expensive wedding gift they got you, and then there's the unpleasant decision of who keeps the dogs, but really, no one will be worse for the wear when it's all over. That exit-strategy gets pretty much shot to hell when you get pregnant. Now you're REALLY stuck with this person for the rest of your life. Go ahead and judge me for saying this, but I think that in a society where more than half of all marriages end in divorce, it bears mentioning.
Fortunately, I genuinely like David and plan to stay with him for the rest of my life ANYWAY, but there's always the small chance he could develop an affinity for online poker or I could gain 30 pounds and start watching The Bachelor, both of which are pretty solid grounds for divorce as far as I'm concerned.
But assuming David doesn't take up golf and I don't start scrapbooking, I think we'll be fine. And although having a kid has made things tough on our marriage (before we had Jack I never yelled at David for leaving his shoes in the middle of the floor where Jack can get to them and chew on them) it has strengthened our relationship in a lot of ways. Namely, it's cool to see that David stepped up to the plate when it came to parenting.
(Editor's Note: As a general rule, I try to avoid using this blog to tell people what I think they should do. For one thing, I think pontificating makes you a jerk, but also, I have about as much business telling people how to parent as Bristol Palin has telling people about Abstinence. Anyway, I'm going to go ahead and bend that rule for a minute.)
I really believe men should do 50% of the work in parenting. That means changing diapers and (yes, I'm going there) waking up with them in the middle of the night. Even if you're breast-feeding, your husband should get his butt out of bed, change the baby, and bring him/her to you to feed before passing out. All bonding benefits aside, it means you're a team in this freakish psychology experiment called "Parenting". Ok, I'm done ranting.
David has thus far been pretty cool about sharing the unpleasant aspects of parenting with me. I don't know whether he's involved because of a sincere desire to present a united front or a legitimate fear that I will kill him in his sleep if he tries NOT helping, but either way, he's done it all without ever being asked.
In addition to the appreciation I have for David for manning-up and doing half of the heavy-lifting, it's also pretty amazing to see the man you already love become a Daddy. Sure, I get a little jealous of my childless friends because they get to go out to dinner with their significant other without spending the entire time worrying (and dropping $10/hr for a sitter), but then again, they don't get to watch their son fly to the door and shriek, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" when he hears the car pull up the driveway.
Now, if only I could teach David not to fling the door open (because Jackson is ALWAYS behind it and he ALWAYS smacks him in the head as a result) we'd be perfect.
It occurred to me that although I blog ad nauseum about myself and my son, I have said relatively little about the other most important man in my life- my husband. Seeing as how he's a pretty key player in all of this, I'm dedicating this blog to my relationship with my husband, David.
David is genuinely the nicest man I've ever met. This was a huge impetus in my decision to marry him over, let's say, Gerard Butler. He has lots of other amiable qualities, like his ability to tolerate my incessant relating of actual events to episodes of South Park, but it was probably his general kindness that won me over.
David and I dated for three years before we got married, and then we were married for 6 months before I got pregnant, so it's safe to say that we had a pretty established way of relating to one another before Jack entered the scene. Having a baby changes your relationship in ways you can't possibly imagine. In many ways it's better than it ever was before, but with that comes a huge number of new challenges.
First, a baby really cements your marriage. The following assertion is really UN-kosher, but bear with me: before you have a kid, your marriage can be called a trial-run. Think about it: if you get married and it doesn't work out, you can always just get divorced and move on. Sure, it will be awkward for a year or so when you have to tell everyone they wasted their money on that expensive wedding gift they got you, and then there's the unpleasant decision of who keeps the dogs, but really, no one will be worse for the wear when it's all over. That exit-strategy gets pretty much shot to hell when you get pregnant. Now you're REALLY stuck with this person for the rest of your life. Go ahead and judge me for saying this, but I think that in a society where more than half of all marriages end in divorce, it bears mentioning.
Fortunately, I genuinely like David and plan to stay with him for the rest of my life ANYWAY, but there's always the small chance he could develop an affinity for online poker or I could gain 30 pounds and start watching The Bachelor, both of which are pretty solid grounds for divorce as far as I'm concerned.
But assuming David doesn't take up golf and I don't start scrapbooking, I think we'll be fine. And although having a kid has made things tough on our marriage (before we had Jack I never yelled at David for leaving his shoes in the middle of the floor where Jack can get to them and chew on them) it has strengthened our relationship in a lot of ways. Namely, it's cool to see that David stepped up to the plate when it came to parenting.
(Editor's Note: As a general rule, I try to avoid using this blog to tell people what I think they should do. For one thing, I think pontificating makes you a jerk, but also, I have about as much business telling people how to parent as Bristol Palin has telling people about Abstinence. Anyway, I'm going to go ahead and bend that rule for a minute.)
I really believe men should do 50% of the work in parenting. That means changing diapers and (yes, I'm going there) waking up with them in the middle of the night. Even if you're breast-feeding, your husband should get his butt out of bed, change the baby, and bring him/her to you to feed before passing out. All bonding benefits aside, it means you're a team in this freakish psychology experiment called "Parenting". Ok, I'm done ranting.
David has thus far been pretty cool about sharing the unpleasant aspects of parenting with me. I don't know whether he's involved because of a sincere desire to present a united front or a legitimate fear that I will kill him in his sleep if he tries NOT helping, but either way, he's done it all without ever being asked.
In addition to the appreciation I have for David for manning-up and doing half of the heavy-lifting, it's also pretty amazing to see the man you already love become a Daddy. Sure, I get a little jealous of my childless friends because they get to go out to dinner with their significant other without spending the entire time worrying (and dropping $10/hr for a sitter), but then again, they don't get to watch their son fly to the door and shriek, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" when he hears the car pull up the driveway.
Now, if only I could teach David not to fling the door open (because Jackson is ALWAYS behind it and he ALWAYS smacks him in the head as a result) we'd be perfect.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Picture Perfect
I had Jackson's Easter/15-months portrait made today. God Almighty.
I had anticipated that getting Jackson to sit still for a portrait might be a bit daunting. I can't get him to sit still for a diaper change, so I figured getting him to sit for a portrait would be tricky. I had no idea. The only thing I can really liken it to is running a 10k while trying to teach Calculus to a cat. I am physically and emotionally exhausted.
My first mistake was going alone. If I do ever decide to take Jackson to a portrait studio again, I will be accompanied by no less than 5 other adults, and possibly an air-traffic controller.
The actual PHOTO SHOOT wasn't the worst part. Yes, Jackson ran around like a meerkat on PCP, but I'm kind of accustomed to that.
While we were waiting our turn, Jackson spazzed out and made a bee-line for the escalator, which was just outside the studio. When I caught him and tried to pull him back, he threw himself on the floor and rolled around like he was on fire, thereby completely wrinkling his Easter suit, which I had just ironed. For those of you who know me, I don't iron. The Pope could come to my house, and I'd be wearing something wrinkled. By the time I got him off the floor, he looked like a crazed Garbage Pail Kid.
But the hardest part was when they loaded the photos and I had to sit down and pick the one I wanted. I'm trying to look through 10 billion shots, all of which are heart-breakingly adorable, while my son flies around the studio, ripping USB cables out of computers and trying to jam things in electrical sockets. My blood pressure shot through the roof. Fortunately, God took pity on me.
There was a little 4-year-old girl who was there with her mother and siblings having THEIR Easter pictures done, and while she waited patiently on her mother, she saw my plight and came over and played with Jackson while I finished choosing my shots. I don't know who this little girl was, but I'm half tempted to track her down and send her a pony.
Then came the fun part.
The people that run these portrait studios are trained in sales tactics that have been devised by Satan himself. They lure you into their studios with these mail-out coupons advertising a portrait package for 10 bucks, but once they have you in there, they start pushing you to buy these insane packages that cost as much as Jackson's college tuition.
Reading between the lines, this is the sales pitch:
"Well, first you have our Platinum Package, which gives you blah blah blah, and it's $390. Since you love your child, this is obviously the package you're going to get. Then there's our Gold Package blah blah blah, it's $300, then the Silver Package, blah blah blah it's $250, and then there's our crappy Bronze Package, and it's $200, but that's only for people that hate their kids."
I'm sitting there staring at these packages like a dog listening to a high-pitched sound. I love my son tremendously, but I don't feel the need to plaster a portrait of his angelic face the size of my living room on my wall. My purpose in getting his picture made was to have an 8x10 for David and me, some 5x7s for the grandparents, and a bunch of wallet shots to foist on friends.
So they offer you these crazy photo packages that only a certified Narcissist would buy, and it's up to you to bring up the $10 mail-out package that sucked you in. I felt like a complete jerk saying, "Uhhh... can I just order a few photo sheets? Because I really had that $400 earmarked for my mortgage."
To make a long story short, I managed to escape from the portrait studio for less than $50, but the guilt-trip they laid on me will probably take a few grand in therapy to correct, so I'm not sure I made the most fiscally savvy decision.
But we survived. And I have some adorable pictures of Jackson to show for it.
I had anticipated that getting Jackson to sit still for a portrait might be a bit daunting. I can't get him to sit still for a diaper change, so I figured getting him to sit for a portrait would be tricky. I had no idea. The only thing I can really liken it to is running a 10k while trying to teach Calculus to a cat. I am physically and emotionally exhausted.
My first mistake was going alone. If I do ever decide to take Jackson to a portrait studio again, I will be accompanied by no less than 5 other adults, and possibly an air-traffic controller.
The actual PHOTO SHOOT wasn't the worst part. Yes, Jackson ran around like a meerkat on PCP, but I'm kind of accustomed to that.
While we were waiting our turn, Jackson spazzed out and made a bee-line for the escalator, which was just outside the studio. When I caught him and tried to pull him back, he threw himself on the floor and rolled around like he was on fire, thereby completely wrinkling his Easter suit, which I had just ironed. For those of you who know me, I don't iron. The Pope could come to my house, and I'd be wearing something wrinkled. By the time I got him off the floor, he looked like a crazed Garbage Pail Kid.
But the hardest part was when they loaded the photos and I had to sit down and pick the one I wanted. I'm trying to look through 10 billion shots, all of which are heart-breakingly adorable, while my son flies around the studio, ripping USB cables out of computers and trying to jam things in electrical sockets. My blood pressure shot through the roof. Fortunately, God took pity on me.
There was a little 4-year-old girl who was there with her mother and siblings having THEIR Easter pictures done, and while she waited patiently on her mother, she saw my plight and came over and played with Jackson while I finished choosing my shots. I don't know who this little girl was, but I'm half tempted to track her down and send her a pony.
Then came the fun part.
The people that run these portrait studios are trained in sales tactics that have been devised by Satan himself. They lure you into their studios with these mail-out coupons advertising a portrait package for 10 bucks, but once they have you in there, they start pushing you to buy these insane packages that cost as much as Jackson's college tuition.
Reading between the lines, this is the sales pitch:
"Well, first you have our Platinum Package, which gives you blah blah blah, and it's $390. Since you love your child, this is obviously the package you're going to get. Then there's our Gold Package blah blah blah, it's $300, then the Silver Package, blah blah blah it's $250, and then there's our crappy Bronze Package, and it's $200, but that's only for people that hate their kids."
I'm sitting there staring at these packages like a dog listening to a high-pitched sound. I love my son tremendously, but I don't feel the need to plaster a portrait of his angelic face the size of my living room on my wall. My purpose in getting his picture made was to have an 8x10 for David and me, some 5x7s for the grandparents, and a bunch of wallet shots to foist on friends.
So they offer you these crazy photo packages that only a certified Narcissist would buy, and it's up to you to bring up the $10 mail-out package that sucked you in. I felt like a complete jerk saying, "Uhhh... can I just order a few photo sheets? Because I really had that $400 earmarked for my mortgage."
To make a long story short, I managed to escape from the portrait studio for less than $50, but the guilt-trip they laid on me will probably take a few grand in therapy to correct, so I'm not sure I made the most fiscally savvy decision.
But we survived. And I have some adorable pictures of Jackson to show for it.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Baby #2
Okay, everybody just relax (especially you, Mom and Sami). I'm talking about second babies in GENERAL, not MY second baby. To my knowledge, I'm not pregnant, though God does seem to have a sense of humor where I'm concerned, so I'm not ruling anything out.
It's been a long time since I've posted. So long, in fact, that I actually forgot my password. Alas, I've been busy doing things that most people might actually call "productive", so the blog has taken a back seat. My garage looks great, though.
Anyway.
I'm not sure what it is about a woman struggling to keep up with a toddler that makes everyone on the planet speculate about when the next round of progeny will be making his or her debut. But for some reason, everyone, from the nurse in my doctor's office to the woman behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store, wants to know when the next Little Goodman will be here. I guess something about a frazzled-looking woman trying to keep a kid from running into traffic or constantly repeating "No, no, Sweetie! Please don't touch that!" like a hook from a Britney Spears song just screams, "Hey, you know what she needs? More of those."
Regardless, that's pretty much how it goes. Apparently once you have one, you're contractually obligated to have another.
I'm just going to go ahead and say it: I'm not entirely sure I want more. That's kind of a taboo thing to say, because it makes people assume that 1) you must not really like your first kid, otherwise you'd be dying to make more and/or 2) you are selfish for intentionally depriving your child of the joy of siblings.
It would be easiest for me to say that I'm hesitant to have more because of what I went through to get #1 here. After having a horrible pregnancy, almost dying twice in childbirth, and then having PPD, I think I've earned the right to have just one. And while the thought of going through all that AGAIN gives me nightmares, (no really, it does give me nightmares), my main concern is this: babies scare the living hell out of me.
It's no shock to anyone who has read this blog that I'm kind of ambivalent toward babies. Yeah, they're really cute and snuggly. (Although "cute" is kind of relative, because if we're all really honest with ourselves, newborns look a lot like blind mole rats.) But they're just so incredibly needy and helpless.
I've gotten to a point where I LOVE being a Mom. I've loved my son ferociously since the moment he was born, but I didn't really have fun with him for a while. It takes a special kind of person to really enjoy a baby, and I guess I'm just not one of them. But now that Jackson is a toddler, I'm having an absolute blast with him. He's like a little miniature HUMAN now.
The way I see it, babies are almost like a different species. They eat different food, they're nocturnal (or at least they seem to be when you're on your 4th feeding of the night), and they can't do anything we really associate with being human (walking upright, talking, watching 30 Rock, etc.) They breathe through lungs, but that's where the similarities end.
Oh, and they're incredibly aloof. They don't care that you're "Mommy" and that you love them with every fiber of your being and would lay down your life for them without a single thought. No, that really doesn't register. You could be Mommy or the Queen of England and they wouldn't care, so long as you're warm and willing to shove food in their mouths.
But then, gradually, they start doing things that we do. They begin eating solid foods. They laugh. (Granted their little senses of humor are a bit primitive, but that's okay.) They start using their opposable thumbs. And best of all, they love you.
I have to say, having a toddler is the greatest thing in the entire world. He's a bit more difficult to take in public, but that's a small price to pay. He plays with blocks and cars. He plays catch with me (okay, so his aim is a bit off most of the time...) He runs around the house terrorizing the animals. And no matter what he's doing, he has to take a break every 15 minutes to run over to me for a hug.
In short, I'm so happy right now that I'm not sure I want to start all over again.
I'm assuming at some point I'll be bitten by what some people refer to as "The Baby Bug", which is essentially nature's way of making sure that even cynics like me pass on our DNA to more than one offspring. I guess our species needs pessimists, too.
But until that time, I'm going to enjoy the little miniature person my son has become.
It's been a long time since I've posted. So long, in fact, that I actually forgot my password. Alas, I've been busy doing things that most people might actually call "productive", so the blog has taken a back seat. My garage looks great, though.
Anyway.
I'm not sure what it is about a woman struggling to keep up with a toddler that makes everyone on the planet speculate about when the next round of progeny will be making his or her debut. But for some reason, everyone, from the nurse in my doctor's office to the woman behind me in the checkout line at the grocery store, wants to know when the next Little Goodman will be here. I guess something about a frazzled-looking woman trying to keep a kid from running into traffic or constantly repeating "No, no, Sweetie! Please don't touch that!" like a hook from a Britney Spears song just screams, "Hey, you know what she needs? More of those."
Regardless, that's pretty much how it goes. Apparently once you have one, you're contractually obligated to have another.
I'm just going to go ahead and say it: I'm not entirely sure I want more. That's kind of a taboo thing to say, because it makes people assume that 1) you must not really like your first kid, otherwise you'd be dying to make more and/or 2) you are selfish for intentionally depriving your child of the joy of siblings.
It would be easiest for me to say that I'm hesitant to have more because of what I went through to get #1 here. After having a horrible pregnancy, almost dying twice in childbirth, and then having PPD, I think I've earned the right to have just one. And while the thought of going through all that AGAIN gives me nightmares, (no really, it does give me nightmares), my main concern is this: babies scare the living hell out of me.
It's no shock to anyone who has read this blog that I'm kind of ambivalent toward babies. Yeah, they're really cute and snuggly. (Although "cute" is kind of relative, because if we're all really honest with ourselves, newborns look a lot like blind mole rats.) But they're just so incredibly needy and helpless.
I've gotten to a point where I LOVE being a Mom. I've loved my son ferociously since the moment he was born, but I didn't really have fun with him for a while. It takes a special kind of person to really enjoy a baby, and I guess I'm just not one of them. But now that Jackson is a toddler, I'm having an absolute blast with him. He's like a little miniature HUMAN now.
The way I see it, babies are almost like a different species. They eat different food, they're nocturnal (or at least they seem to be when you're on your 4th feeding of the night), and they can't do anything we really associate with being human (walking upright, talking, watching 30 Rock, etc.) They breathe through lungs, but that's where the similarities end.
Oh, and they're incredibly aloof. They don't care that you're "Mommy" and that you love them with every fiber of your being and would lay down your life for them without a single thought. No, that really doesn't register. You could be Mommy or the Queen of England and they wouldn't care, so long as you're warm and willing to shove food in their mouths.
But then, gradually, they start doing things that we do. They begin eating solid foods. They laugh. (Granted their little senses of humor are a bit primitive, but that's okay.) They start using their opposable thumbs. And best of all, they love you.
I have to say, having a toddler is the greatest thing in the entire world. He's a bit more difficult to take in public, but that's a small price to pay. He plays with blocks and cars. He plays catch with me (okay, so his aim is a bit off most of the time...) He runs around the house terrorizing the animals. And no matter what he's doing, he has to take a break every 15 minutes to run over to me for a hug.
In short, I'm so happy right now that I'm not sure I want to start all over again.
I'm assuming at some point I'll be bitten by what some people refer to as "The Baby Bug", which is essentially nature's way of making sure that even cynics like me pass on our DNA to more than one offspring. I guess our species needs pessimists, too.
But until that time, I'm going to enjoy the little miniature person my son has become.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
One small step for Jackson....
Jackson took his first steps today. First steps are arguably the most iconic of childhood milestones. He took his sweet time taking them, too. Even though he’s 13-months, and 15-months is considered “average”, it seems like everyone I talked to had kids walking before a year. He’s the only kid in his Gymboree class that can’t walk. And of course, in typical mom-style projection, I was terribly upset by this; as if Jack’s inability to walk early was the result of some failure on my part.
But then today, he just walked. There was nothing essentially amazing about it: he took two steps, and then just sat his little butt back down. But I was absolutely ecstatic.
I was excited for several reasons. First and foremost, Jackson was getting really heavy. He’s roughly the size of a collegiate shot-putter, and while I like having enough upper-arm strength to lift a Volkswagen, it would be nice to set him down every so often.
Second, there are lots of times when we’re out in public and he wants to wander around, but I refuse to set a crawler on a public floor. Dirt, I’ve learned to handle. But I can’t shake the feeling he’s going to catch something crazy like scurvy or The Consumption from public floors. Once he starts proficiently walking, I think I’ll feel better letting him explore. Until then, he just sits in my lap shrieking and trying to wrestle out of my grip in a vain effort to get down onto the malaria-riddled floor.
Third, there is just something indescribably adorable about the way a new toddler walks. They waddle around with their fat little diapered butts looking like a drunken Donald Duck from behind. It’s hilarious and painfully cute.
Finally, as I’ve mentioned before, I was beginning to think he was just never going to walk. He expressed zero interest in it. I had visions of him crawling around his college campus and crawling down the aisle at his wedding.
But with those first steps, all my fears were assuaged. Granted, it’s a long way from two steps to full-time walking, but it’s a start.
It was also an affirmation of exactly why I stay home. My sanity has taken a serious hit, and we have to live on one income, but seeing my son take his first steps made it all worth it. The thought of an indifferent daycare worker being the first person to see my son walk reminds me why we’ve sacrificed so much so that I can stay home. But I’m the one that got to see it, and I’m the one who got to hug him and shriek with joy and hug him after.
Now we just have to work on his talking….
Monday, February 7, 2011
Worry = My New BFF
Jackson has been awake most of the night for the past three days. Fortunately, this time it was not due to illness (as it had been the past week) but teething. He has two molars coming in, and judging from the shrieks of pain coming from my child at midnight, 2 am, 5 am, and 7 am, it HURTS.
I have yet to meet a parent who wasn’t totally exhausted. I saw an episode of “The Twilight Zone” where this guy when totally insane, and at the end of the episode, you find out that he was part of a military experiment in sleep deprivation. HA. They could have just filmed any given parent for that episode. We’re all permanently exhausted.
New parents have it worst, with babies waking up every two hours to be fed for two solid months (if you’re lucky!). But even when they’re older, they’re keeping you up due to illness, teething, nightmares, or the topic of today’s blog: WORRY.
Much like True Love, a tattoo, or that Lady Gaga song you’ve had stuck in your head since 2009, once you become a mother, worry will never leave you.
Worry accompanies you at every stage in your child’s development. From the moment they are born, you start worrying, and it doesn’t stop. Are they eating enough? Why are they crying so much? And don’t even get me started on the sheer horror that is SIDS.
Now that my child has passed his first birthday with all his fingers and toes and most of his mental faculties, my worries have changed. I worry that he’s not getting enough social interaction with other children his age. I worry that I don’t play with him enough. I worry because he’s not walking yet. It seems I’m always encountering moms who have amazing stories about their child walking when he or she was 6-months-old, talking at 10 months, and solving differential equations by one-year. Then there’s Jackson, who has yet to show even the slightest interest in walking.
From what I hear, worrying doesn’t ebb as time goes on. When they go off to school you have to worry about bullies and oh-dear-God, pedophiles. I have so much to say about pedophiles that they should probably be a separate entry, but this is my blog, and I’ll go off on a tangent if I want to. The abridged version goes something like this: I have to be careful when I look up the registered sex offender list, not because I’m afraid of what I’ll find, but because I know that if I DO find a sex offender living on my street, I’ll get a posse together with pitch forks and torches and show up at their house demanding blood. And since severely premeditated murder is a capital offense in the Great State of Texas, I probably don’t want to go there. Instead, as a precaution, my son will go off to school with a homing beacon strapped to his head, a Taser in his lunch box, and a 200 pound Rottweiler by his side. (I looked into getting a Navy Seal for a body guard, but they ended up being prohibitively expensive.)
Anyway, psychotic child-molesting freaks aside, there’s plenty of things to worry about. Soon they start driving and dating. The very thought of that makes my stomach churn, and suddenly I understand why my own parents were so paranoid and hovering as I was growing up.
Since I still have a few years before I have to worry about the more treacherous aspects of raising a child, I’ll just stick to what I know: that being a mother is terrifying. It’s terrifying because for the first time in my life, I love something more than life itself. Before, there was always a sense that I was invulnerable. I could handle anything that life threw at me. But when you have a child, your soul starts walking around outside your body, and you can only protect it so much.
So from the moment your child is born, you get to wander around sleep-deprived. I figure I’ll be able to finally get some rest when I die. Until then, a good night’s sleep is a distant memory.
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