Wednesday, December 15, 2010

O Christmas tree, how ever-synthetic your branches

Each year I am faced with the same Christmas dilemma...real or fake?  The pure, fragrant, traditional, nostalgia of a real tree?  Or the hassle and mess free ease of an artificial one?  Years ago we started using an artificial tree and haven't really looked back, except that for the nagging sense of guilt that I feel every year as I pop the tree up, lights and all, in two minutes flat. 

You see I'm the kinda girl that takes a certain pleasure in the simple things this world offers - home cooked meals, baking from scratch, walks in the woods, you get the idea.  And I really try hard not to get caught up in the commercial consumerism that has become Christmas for so many people.  So an artificial tree kinda goes against my beliefs, if you will.

But then I remember.  You see, putting up the Christmas tree brings back some childhood memories that are the complete opposite of joyful or merry.  After my parent's divorce, there wasn't a handy man around to do the manly things required to get a tree from the lot to your living room (like strap a tree to the roof of the car or saw off the bottom branches).  My mom didn't let that stop her by any means (she's a champ) but the going was tough.  By the time we had the tree home and ready to go into the stand we were all pretty worn out.

Ah yes.  The tree stand.  I'm pretty sure they've come a long way since the last one that I had to deal with almost 20 years ago (for you real-tree people I truly hope they have), but the one I remember was green metal with four curved legs coming off of a round bowl.  There were 4 bolt-like pegs that poked through the bowl so you could tighten them into the trunk of the tree to hold it up. 

It sucked.  I vividly remember my brother and I fighting to hold the tree upright as my mom tried to tighten those stupid pegs to secure the tree, all the while we were getting poked in the hands and arms by a thousand little needles.  After what seemed like hours of battling to get the tree just UP, we still had to untangle and string lights.  Once the tree was finally decorated, it would inevitably fall down in the middle of the night and we'd have to start over again.  I remember one year all three of us ended up crying over the tree that just wouldn't stand.  That was the last year we had a real tree.

I guess all the memories aren't bad.  I do recall the excitement of running through the maze of freshly cut and snow covered trees with my brother trying to pick the perfect one.  And of course there's the unbeatable fragrance of pine in your home.  And once we finally did get the tree up it was always beautiful.

So I do feel a little guilty having an artificial tree, but not nearly guilty enough to go back and relive that nightmare.  Plus, the baby would totally just eat the needles and I'm pretty sure that wouldn't be good.  Oh yeah and I'm also saving the planet a little by not cutting a tree down.  So there.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Where'd she go?

Okay so it's been over a month since I've posted, and it's been a very busy month indeed.  Perhaps I temporarily had my priorities straight and was focused on my real life...(cough)

Anyway my apologies for the lack of commitment on my part.  I also apologize in advance for this post as it really has no particular theme and is really more of an update.  Because I needed to post about something.  Right.

So in the last month we've moved, semi-unpacked, and are sort of settled in our new (old) rental place.  We officially own a little piece of land that's nothing more than snow and trees right now, but I'm very proud and pleased just the same.  Hopefully we'll have a hole in the ground soon.

My little monkey is sick again with an ear infection and it's looking like he'll need tubes.  Initially I was relieved to hear this, as I had tubes in my ears as a child and they essentially put an end to painful ear infections.  Then I thought about letting go of my little guy while strangers whisked him away to put him under anaesthetic whilst we both sob in terror....and then I hyperventilated a little and decided it was best if I just didn't think about it until I absolutely HAVE to.  I think it's safer for everyone that way.

Let's see....what else....oh yeah - CHRISTMAS.  We'll it sure snuck up on me this year.  I detest Christmas shopping but this year I did most of it online which was freaking fantastic and is officially my new favourite thing.  Also, we're poor this year so I've been busy making preserves to give as gifts.  Still have to bake and wrap.  Can't wait to spend time with the fam (by fam I of course mean wine, cranberry martinis, and coffee with Baileys).

I'm pretty sure I'm missing some stuff because I literally haven't stopped for weeks but that's the gist of it.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

In Remembrance

Today I remember. 

I remember those who fought and continue to fight.
I remember the sacrifice they made.
I remember why they made it.
I remember what's important.
I remember what isn't.
I remember war, so my child will remember peace.

Lest we forget.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Pack it up, pack it in

Only 3 weeks to go before our house no longer belongs to us, and we finally found a place to live.  Phew.  That was cutting it a little close.  I guess I should be packing or something.  But I so hate packing.  So here I am.

This move is bitter-sweet.  Because the plan is to build a beautiful home that we'll love (actually this is the back-up plan after this happened), but in the meantime we have to move out of our beautiful home that we almost love and into a dumpy rental that is costing as much as our mortgage.  Plus it's covered in wall to wall shag carpeting that the baby is going to be crawling around on - shudder.  Not ideal, but it's a roof over our heads.  Oh yeah, and it doesn't have a dishwasher, which is going to be interesting.  I'm going to stop there because I don't want y'all to think I'm a spoiled brat.

So 2 weeks until we move.  Holy crap.  Have you ever tried to wrap things in newspaper with a toddler at your feet?  Have you ever seen a toddler with newspaper, even?  I don't know what it is about rustling and crumpling papers but it's like catnip or speed or something.  He goes ballistic.  He'll go at it with a pile of newspapers and won't stop until the living room looks like a hamster cage.  So I'm having a hard time being productive.  Plus, he thinks cardboard is food, so I can't exactly leave boxes lying around if you know what I mean. 

If there's one thing about moving I hate more than packing (or lifting, or unpacking), it's phoning all the utility people to cancel or move services.  Especially BELL.  There's waiting on hold.  Getting disconnected.  Waiting on hold just to get disconnected.  Dealing with miserable people who hate their job.  Dealing with overly cheerful people who also probably hate their job, but must not get paid or something unless they're overly cheerful.  And then there's the arguers; you know the ones who try desperately to convince you not to disconnect your service, or to improve your package, or to increase your coverage, or whatever.  After waiting on hold and being disconnected, I honestly don't have the time, patience, or energy to argue people.  Not to mention that my husband and I have done a year's worth of arguing in the last two weeks as it is.  So gimme a break.

Okay.  That's enough complaining for now.  I better go pack something. 

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Trick or Treat

Halloween's approaching and I'm getting excited.  I'm going to try and take the little guy to a few houses this year.  Yes, I guess I officially became one of those moms.  The ones I used to roll my eyes at during my pre-baby years of shelling out, wondering why anyone would take a kid out when they're too young to understand.  Well now I know why.  One: They're so freakin' cute all dressed up.  Two: I get the candy.

Last year the baby was just over a month so I didn't take him trick or treating (you gotta draw the line somewhere people), but I'll admit I did put him in a costume.  It was a little bat costume that was basically a hat with bat ears, a cape, and little bat feet booties.  He HATED it.  He screamed until I took it off.  I felt terrible.  So hopefully this year won't be quite so traumatizing for him.

I've always really loved Halloween, and my childhood memories of trick or treating are some of my most vivid and fun memories of all.  For me I think it's special because you really get a sense of community on Halloween.  Unlike other holidays, everyone is out and about on the streets on Halloween night.  There's something surreal about seeing every single kid in the neighborhood out in the street at the same time.  You get to meet your neighbors, get to see into their houses.  And that's a rare thing these days, when people just seem to keep to themselves.  They hunker down behind closed doors and reach out to total strangers online (ahem....) but don't know who lives on their street. 

True, for some kids Halloween is about greedily gathering as much candy as they (and their parents) can carry home.  Ok for most kids.  But I like to think that Halloween also still holds that magic eerie energy that I remember from my childhood.  When the leafless trees take on an ominous presence and dark corners hold horrible possibilities.  When you look up at the wispy clouds drifting over the moon and half-expect to see a witch fly by on her broom.  When you diligently light your jack-o-lanterns just in case there is any truth to the legends.  When you let yourself get a little spooked, because it's sooo much fun. 

Happy Halloween.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Domestic disturbance

So yesterday was pretty much the worst day ever.

It starts out with me getting up at 5:30 with our son who barely slept all night because he is sick with a cold.  Why, I ask, with the advances of modern medicine, have they not come up with cold medication that is safe for babies and toddlers?  He doesn't know how to blow his nose for crying out loud.  He tries to eat and big snot bubbles are coming out of his little nostrils.

In addition to his cold, and a tooth popping through, the little monkey has had an ear infection for like six weeks now.  He just started his third kind of antibiotics the other day, which gave him a rash and upset stomach so I stopped them.  So he's totally miserable.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, our house has been for sale.  We've been trying to sell it in time to buy this other place that we wanted to fix up and flip.  So yesterday our agents call.  Good news: our house sold.  Bad news: the individual selling the house we want decides at the last minute to increase the price we verbally agreed upon by forty thousand dollars, so essentially we wouldn't make any money flipping it (lesson: you can't trust anyone).  But our house is already sold.  SO, we have exactly one month to find someplace to go.

So my hubby comes home from work and I give him the bad news, all the while the baby's wailing because his teeth or ears or tummy or something hurts and apparently Tylenol isn't cutting it.  Then I catch a whiff of something not normal and I ask my husband to assist me in changing one nightmare of a dirty diaper (I guess it was his tummy hurting after all).  So as we're trying to argue discuss where the hell we're going to live, my hubby is trying to hold the baby still while I clean up the other end.  So naturally the baby screeches louder and tries even harder to do back flips on his change table, effectively getting poop everywhere.  So I snap at hubby to hold him still, and he snaps at me that he's trying to.

And then he catches a glimpse of the rash from the antibiotics and is all, "Holy crap! I don't want him to have any more of that shit." And I'm like, "I already stopped giving it to him.  I knew that stuff would make him sick".  And then he says, "Well if you knew it would make him sick then why'd you give it to him?"  I think my jaw dropped because I saw the look on his face as he realized what he'd said.  But it was too late.  I had officially exceeded my ability to cope, and all my ugliness came bubbling over.  "So it's my fault he's sick?  You're an asshole."  And then I stomped off in a most mature fashion.

Now just to be clear, we're not a couple who call names or swear at each other.  We decided very early in the game that it was too damaging and promised we wouldn't do it.  So we squabble and bitch and even yell sometimes, but we don't hit below the belt.  Until today.  Anyway, my words apparently hurt me more than him because I was the one who ended up blubbering into the sofa cushion.  I felt terrible for reacting that way, but mostly I was upset that we had fought in front of the baby.  Another thing we promised never to do from the beginning.  And I hope we don't forget that promise again.

We ended up both apologizing and realizing that the combined stress of being exhausted, having a sick baby, and selling our house out from under us had gotten the better of us.  So at least we didn't go to bed mad at each other. 

But it was still the worst day ever.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Got the mac and cheese blues

Did you know that everything that is yummy has cheese or milk in it?  And I can't have it?

I'm on a strict dairy-free diet due to my son's milk allergy.  So as long as I'm breastfeeding him I'm not allowed to eat anything good.  Although I'd do anything for him, I can't help but feel a little sorry for myself - especially this time of year when comfort food becomes my lifeline until spring. 

Sure it was hard not having ice cream and milkshakes this summer, but now I'm missing out all the warm fall foods that require cheese, butter, and cream to be yummy.  I'm dreaming about lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, a big fat cheeseburger, cream soups with grilled cheese sandwiches, baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, pizza....mmmmpizza.  And I would literally KILL if someone tempted me with homemade mac and cheese.  
cheesy goodness

And CHOCOLATE...what I would do for some chocolate.  I think I'd eat a chocolate boot right about now.  In fact, I'd eat a cheese boot too.  And if I have to watch my husband savour another steaming cup of coffee with cream, I think I might stab him in the eye.  Sorry, honey. 

I'm trying to remind myself that I'm doing myself a healthy favour by avoiding all the fatty, high-calorie food...but who am I kidding?  I want it.  I need it. 

How's a girl supposed to stay warm in Canada without packin' on a few pounds for the winter?    

Friday, October 15, 2010

To work, or not to work?

I suppose there comes a time for most new moms when they are faced with the decision about daycare.  I'm struggling with this decision.  To say the least.  I've already convinced my husband and workplace to give me an extra 6 months or so, and let me tell you I am extremely grateful for it.  But I'm only prolonging the inevitable. 

Here's the thing:  Nobody else can look after my baby the way I can.  There, I said it.  Ha. 

I know there are people out there rolling their eyes and thinking what an uptight control freak I probably am, and I guess I'm not really in a position to deny such allegations, but I don't really give a shit either.  The thought of leaving my child with anyone makes me uneasy; the thought of leaving him with a stranger makes me feel a little crazy.  Visions of a cave woman come to mind: Some primitive cave woman backed into a corner by a saber-toothed tiger, determined that she will claw the animal's eyes out with her bare hands before she lets it have her young.  You get the idea.  A little dramatic maybe, but that's how I'd feel if I was forced to leave my son at some random daycare.  I already told my husband I'd rather quit my job, sell everything we own and move into a trailer before I'll leave him anyplace I'm not comfortable with.  He agreed with me, and that's why I love him. 

Now I know I'm not the first mom out there to feel overprotective, if that's what you want to call this (personally I prefer concerned, or loving).  It feels totally unnatural to be leaving him to go back to work...for what?  For money?  I'll do without it thankyouverymuch.  My priorities changed the moment I felt his warm little body next to mine.  I heard that in France women get two years paid maternity leave; now that's what I'm talking about.  Or how about going back to the Leave-it-to-Beaver days where women could just stay home, and one income was enough?  I'm grateful for equal rights and all that, but lets face it - I still do all the flippin' cooking and housework anyway.  Just gimme an apron and call me June Cleaver - and I promise I won't complain.

Now, I know there are some darn good child care people out there.  In fact I'm friends with some of them.  But that doesn't make me feel any better for some reason.  Because I wanna do it (yes, I'm whining a little).  I want to be there to see all his first things.  All his goofy smiles.  All his bumps and bruises.  I don't want to miss any of it.  Does that make me selfish?  And am I deluding myself into thinking that he wants me to be there for all those things too?  Or is my father right when he tells me that "there comes a time when a child needs to learn to be without his mother"?  True, I know, but is now that time?  Every bone in my body tells me NO.  Is this instinct irrational, or should I listen to it?  DOESN'T ANYONE HAVE ANSWERS FOR ME?

I know that I'll probably have to go back to work eventually, even if it's only part-time, until we can afford for me to stay home.  I dread it every day.  I just hope we can find someone I know and trust to watch him by then, so we can avoid the whole cave woman thing. 

To all the stay-at-home moms out there:  Keep up the good work, and enjoy every minute.  I envy you.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

That hat

Where to begin....

My husband has this hat.  He bought it as a souvenir on a trip we took to Alberta several years ago.  It is the unrivalled winner when it comes to things to argue about in our house.  Hands down.

He loved his new hat, more commonly known as "the Banff hat", and wore it every day for the longest time.  Even at inappropriate times like when we were out for dinner (argument topic #1).  He wore it so much that it started to fade and tear and come apart - but he continued to wear it anyway, even though it made him look unkempt and sloppy (argument topic #2).  We had this argument once on our way to dinner at a friend's place when I was pregnant.  I don't remember the entire fight, but I do remember crying (gimme a break I was pregnant) and holding that stupid hat out the car window threatening to throw it.  I don't know what stopped me but I've since regretted my hesitation on many occasions. 

The hat finally started to look awful enough that some friends started to tease him about it along with me, and then it finally got demoted from his "everyday" hat to his "work" hat.  I could live with that.  I thought...

Hat prior to work use.  Note frayed edges and sweat stains.

But we weren't done fighting about that hat yet.  You see, my husband builds homes for a living, so most days comes home looking like he crawled out of a mud hole.  So needless to say, the hat is filthy.  I mean filthy.  And the smell of it would make your eyes water.  How anyone could put a dirty, reeking hat on their clean head in the morning is way beyond me (argument topic #3).  And then he complains that he's losing his hair, and refuses to acknowledge the possibility that it's because he wears that radioactive thing on his head day after day (argument topic #4). 

Hat today - on my table
 Sure, I wash it whenever I can get my hands on it, but it doesn't matter because it's dirty again the next day anyway.  Really, the fact that he wears the disgusting thing to work doesn't really bother me that much.  It's the fact that I find it lying around the house that I have a problem with (argument topic #5).  Like on the kitchen counter.  On the table.  On our bed.  On the couch or floor (where the baby can, and does, find it and put it in his mouth - GAG).  Need I go on? 

I don't want to look at it.  I don't want to smell it.  And I really don't want to touch it.  Yet for some reason I still seem to have to get up close and personal with that hat on a daily basis.

The things we do for love.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

A word of thanks

To my fellow Canadians in blog world:  Happy Thanksgiving!

Fall colours are at their peak, it's starting to get cooler, and the birds are hauling ass outta town (wisely).  'Cause they know what's coming - but we're not going to think about that right now.  Because this is what it looks like outside today:

trees in my back yard

birds getting the "flock" outta town

not my pumpkin stand


So at the risk of being a total sap or sounding like a kindergarten teacher, I'm feeling the need to express my gratitude today.  To give thanks, if you will, for all that I have.  Because even though I'm so tired I'm having trouble focusing right now, I have so much to be thankful for I could cry.  Truly.  Here we go (in no particular order):

I'm thankful.....
  • that I live in the most beautiful country in the world, and I have the freedom to express myself
  • for the 2 wonderful men in my life - one big, one little
  • for all my family and friends
  • for my health, and my family's health
  • for my home
  • for food, and wine (again, no particular order)
  • that I am able to be home with my son and not at work, even though it's making us poor
  • and lastly, that I've finally found the piece that had been missing from my life - that which has allowed me to find new meaning and happiness everyday - motherhood.
There are days, I'll admit, when I forget to be damned grateful for all that I have.  When I feel envious of others.  When I wish I had more, better, different.  And I have to stop and remind myself how fortunate I am. 

But not today.  Today, I feel nothing but gratitude.  And love.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Got (breast)Milk?

I apologize in advance, but I need to rant.  Deal.

So my son is officially over the one year mark that - according to North American societal norms and the baby food companies - indicates it's time to start weaning him from breastfeeding.  Well I'm not weaning yet.  That's right, I'm still nursing my 24 pound toddler 4 times a day.  DEAL.  (Sorry...I'm a little sensitive about this).

I was not prepared for the pressure (from family, strangers, the media, my own imagination) to STOP breastfeeding.  It seems like breastfeeding is strongly encouraged up to a point, but after that it's not really accepted by society.  You become "one of those" moms.  You know, the vegan ones with dreadlocks and hairy armpits who swear by 'the family bed' and breastfeed until their kids are 5 (please know that I'm not judging or making fun, it's just a stereo-type I'm trying to describe).

I hear:
"You're still breastfeeding?"
"Doesn't he have teeth?"
"It's time to stop when they can ask for it."
"If you breastfeed too long he'll remember it and be emotionally damaged."
"Doesn't he eat real food yet?"

F--- off!  You ignorant mother fu......(sigh).  Sorry.  Still a little touchy.

I'd like to clear a few things up: 
  • Yes,  he has teeth.  No, he doesn't bite me when he's nursing.  (But he bites everything else.)
  • I have clean hair, and hairless armpits, and I eat meat.
  • My son sleeps in his crib, mostly.
  • He will not remember feeding from my breast.
  • If he learns to ask for it without whining or crying, then frankly my life will get a lot easier.
  • He eats real food several times a day.
The truth is, I didn't expect that I would be continuing to breastfeed into the second year.  I didn't expect that my tiny baby would violently vomit for hours anytime I tried to give him a bottle of formula.  I didn't expect him to start having problems with eczema and ear infections.  And as he approached his first birthday, I didn't expect to learn that he was allergic to dairy (which, by the way, is in everything they make for babies).   Continuing to breastfeed is the best thing I can do to help him overcome these problems.

Consider the facts (and forgive me, as I don't mean to preach):
  • breastfed children benefit nutritionally
  • breastfeeding into the second and third years is healthy and NORMAL in most parts of the world
  • breastfed children get sick less often
  • they have fewer allergies
  • they develop normally psychologically, emotionally, and socially (some research indicates they are more well-adjusted) 
If you can't sustain breastfeeding or choose not to, then there's no harm done.  But if you can, then why not?  And what's with the pressure to wean kids to cow's milk anyway?  What's natural about that?  If babies still require nutrients they can only get from milk, why does society insist we use milk from cows?  Doesn't anyone else think this is a little odd?  Why do I even have to explain this to people??

Okay, I'm feeling a little better having gotten that off my chest (no pun intended).  I hope I didn't sound like a breastfeeding pamphlet, because I'm all for mom's having the choice.  Ultimately, I think we all do our best and want the same thing - happy, healthy babies, and sane moms. 

So kindly get off my case, m'kay?

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Confession: My fridge looks like it belongs to a hoarder

I finally cleaned out the fridge today.  This is a big deal.  I decided it was high time I did something about the state my fridge was in after my sister-in-law did nothing to hide her horror when she opened the door on the weekend.  She's always known that I'm a slacker when it comes to cleaning out the fridge, but as she rummaged around trying to find a spot for something she finally exclaimed, "That's it!  I'm coming over this week and we're cleaning out your fridge!  This is ridiculous!"

I was suddenly reminded of an episode of Hoarders where this lady wouldn't throw anything out of her fridge and it was so full of rotting food that she couldn't shut the door and her family had to do an intervention...well, you get the idea.  It's not that I have some unconscious need to keep the crap that's in there.  As a matter of fact, if some magic cleaning fairy came one night and cleaned it out for me I would be ridiculously happy.  I guess it's just laziness.  That and the fact that I have better things to do (ahem, rationalization?).

It's not as though I never clean it out.  It just doesn't get done until:
     a) there's no more room to put things,
     b) something smells bad, or
     c) I put my hand into the crisper drawer and pull it out dripping with sludge from an unknown source.

Anyway, it's a problem and one I'm not proud of.  It's humiliating actually.  Because, aside from the fridge, my house is pretty clean.  Sure, I have my issues with stashing clutter and putting off laundry the same as most people, but dirty I am not.  So there was no way in hell I was going to have my sister-in-law coming over to do this - I decided then and there that I would clean out the fridge today, come hell or high water (plus, me sticking my finger through a liquefied english cucumber pretty much sealed the deal).

Among the treasures in this stainless steel chest were:
  • 3 expired sour cream containers, one unopened
  • 2 nearly empty jars of salsa
  • 5 jars of jam (count 'em, FIVE - I kept one, the rest weren't quite empty but were low enough that you couldn't get the jam out without getting all sticky)
  • 3 empty mustard containers
  • 4 containers of unidentifiable leftovers
  • 2 nearly full bottles of Bailey's Irish Cream - one from last Christmas and one from the year before (you got it - that would have been 2008)
  • 4 leftover chunks of butter, all expired
  • 2 half-empty jars of Cheez-Whiz (I don't even remember buying or eating Cheez-Whiz)
  • 3 english cucumbers - all at different stages of decomposition.
  • about 50 of those little plum and soya sauces that come with chinese take-out

I wonder what the garbage man will think when he sees my recycling bin.

But it's all done - squeaky clean.  And the process was surprisingly cathartic.  I'm going to seriously try not to let this happen again.  Seriously.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

No sleep makes mommy something something...

Four.  Thirty.


That's what time I've been up every morning this week.  Why. Won't. This. Child. Sleep?  At night?  By 8:30am he's ready for a 2 hour nap.  And another leisurely siesta after lunch.  But at night he's up like every hour or 2, and then is up for good at four flippin' thirty.  Rearing to go.  Ready to play.  Why? 

A friend of mine just updated her Facebook status to say, "So thankful for a child who sleeps well, I got up at 9 and she's still sleeping :)" (You know who you are...).  I'm sooo jealous.  No, jealous doesn't cover it - I'm desperate.  I would do anything for that kind of sleep.

Also, I think maybe I'm a little psychotic with sleep deprivation.  Like I keep thinking I see things out of the corner of my eye, and then there's nothing there.  I've experienced this before when I've been exhausted from working nights, so I know I not going completely off my rocker, but's a little disturbing.

The other night around 3am I held the baby in the darkness of his room, waiting for him to be enough asleep that I could slip him back into his crib without waking him.  As I stared at his little face in the darkness, it started to look...well, not right.  Kinda distorted.  I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong, so I start inspecting his features, finally deciding that it was his lip that didn't look right.  His upper lip.  It looked all puffy and lumpy and swollen like he was having an allergic reaction or something.  I poked it...and it felt puffy too.  So I start tilting him this way and that, trying to get the nightlight to shine on his face better so I can get a better look, starting to get a little panicky that there's something terribly wrong.  Something definitely didn't look right.  I finally dashed over to the light switch and flipped it on - just to find his face and lips just as I had left them at bedtime.  Perfect.  No puffy lumps.  Just perfect little baby lips.

I'm losing my mind. 

Naturally the journey to the light switch disturbed him enough that we had to start over with going back to sleep, and I ultimately robbed myself needlessly of 15 minutes of sweet, luxurious slumber.  Rats.

Friday, October 1, 2010

What, no gifts?

I had the dreaded Christmas dream last night.  You know the one - perhaps you've had it too - where it's Christmas Eve and you suddenly realize that you haven't bought any gifts yet.  You're filled with a sense of guilt and dread, and it becomes a frantic rush to try and get to the store, but you can't seem to get there because weird, random shit keeps happening to keep you from being able to leave the house.  So the stress and anxiety just builds and builds until you finally wake up, all sweaty and tense.  With a wave a relief you realize it was just a dream, but you have a tension headache anyway.

Like that could ever happen, that you just forget to buy gifts.  There's no way the advertising industry would let that happen.  It's barely October and the Christmas crap is already competing with the Halloween crap in the stores.  It's maddening.

But let's just say it did happen for some reason.  You just showed up at the family functions and holiday parties empty handed.  What would happen?  Would people me mad, annoyed?  Or would they totally understand, wishing that they, too, had forgotten to buy presents?  Does anyone really care about all the gifts, aside from the children?  I'd sooner see my loved ones spend their money on themselves than buy me another gift that, lets face it, I probably don't want or need.  Maybe we need to rethink things a little.

Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas:  the food, the decorations, the time with family and friends, the magic warmth of your home around the holidays.  I love it.  But I could seriously do without the hectic last minute trips to Walmart.  I'm just sayin'.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Chew, chew

As I've mentioned before, my son has a bit of an issue when it comes to biting and chewing things.  And people.  Actually I guess it's more accurate to say that I'm the one that has the issue with it, but whatever.  It's an issue.  I've tried to be as patient and understanding as possible, because I can't imagine how uncomfortable it must be to have teeth gnawing their way out of your gums like hungry piranhas.  But now that he's got all of his front teeth, he's can do some pretty significant damage. 

Don't be fooled by this innocent grin:

I've tried every kind of teething apparatus you can think of - smooth, rough, squishy, hard, vibrating, edible - all to no avail.  For some reason, my son would rather chew furniture.  Wood furniture in particular, but he'll have a go at our leather chairs every once in a while to keep things interesting.  I'm pulling big splinters of wood out of his mouth on a daily basis.  And I can't give him books any more because he can bite chunks out of them in a matter of seconds.

Consider the evidence:

The crib rail

A hardwood bench

One of many chewed books

The other day I could hear him tap-tap-tapping what sounded like a toy block on a piece of furniture; I looked over to see that he was banging his teeth against the edge - like a flippin' woodpecker!  This can't be other children do this?  I've only known puppies to inflict this kind of damage to furniture. 

I've tried to teach him not to do it.  I tell him "no", and move him away from whatever he's chomping on.  He patiently waits until I stop paying attention for a second and then crawls back.  If he sees me coming he'll crawl away and then looks back all casual like, "What?  I wasn't doing anything."  So he knows he shouldn't do it, or at least that I don't want him to.  So what, then?   

I'm at a loss here, people.  This child never ceases to throw me curve balls.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Where's your nose?

I've been trying for the last little while to teach my son the names of his body parts.  He might not be able to say much but I know he's developmentally at the age where he can understand quite a bit.  We sing "head and shoulders" and name eyes, ears, mouth...and every chance I get I touch him on the nose and tell him "Nose." 

Every once in a while I ask him, "Where's your nose?" and then wait eagerly for the moment I've imagined, when he'll put his little finger on his nose and look up at me proudly as though to say, "Here it is, mommy!  Here's my nose." 
But he doesn't do it.  He just looks at me with this kind of puzzled expression.  So I touch his nose and tell him again, "Nose."  He pushes my hand away as if I'm totally annoying him and crawls away to do something more exciting.  Like chew furniture.

Bath time is always a good time to name body parts.  Lately he's taken a particular interest in his littleman parts (maybe he's making sure they're all there after our little testicle scare ).  Whenever I get him into the tub he spends a good few minutes checking things out.  "Penis," I tell him.  He quickly learned to anticipate this response from me; grabbing hold and then looking up at me expectantly.  "That's your penis," I tell him.  He grins.

Well tonight at bathtime we had a breakthrough.  On this particular evening he was much more entertained by splashing the bejeezus out of the water and thoroughly soaking me than exploring his nether regions.  I took advantage of the opportunity for a little anatomy lesson.  "Where's your nose?" I ask hopefully.  Nothing.

You've probably guessed by now where this is going.  I gave it a shot:  "Honey, where's your penis?"  Without hesitation he reached down and grabbed a hold of his little wanker, beaming up at me proudly as though to say, "Here it is mommy!  Here's my penis!" 

Not exactly the way I imagined the moment, but I'll take it.  That's my boy.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Game on

Yay.  Hockey season has begun again (does it ever really end?).  In my household that means a more than occasional argument over what to watch on TV.  Last year we even subscribed to "Leafs TV" so my husband could catch up on missed games later (as well as games he may have missed in the 60s and 70s - don't ask me why anyone would want to watch a 40 year old sports event).  Yet I still seemed to have to battle for control of the evening TV choice.  I'm not really used to having to battle my husband for control of anything.

I will occasionally swallow my estrogen and sit and watch a game - I'm not completely incapable of compromise after all.  And although I don't admit it easily, it is a little fun cheering for the home team.  When they're winning that is.

But I will never be able to understand the importance society places on professional sports.  In fact, the more I think about it the more disgusted I get.  I get athleticism, healthy competition, sport.  But the money.  So much money.  I'll save you the rant - suffice it to say I don't agree with it.

What's different about this hockey season is that I'm decidedly outnumbered now, 2 to 1. 
And it's not just about control of the TV.  As my husband fantasizes about the star athlete and hockey player my son will become one day, I cringe at the fact that I'm destined to become a hockey mom. 

Don't misunderstand me; I do like the idea of the camaraderie of team sports, as well as the confidence, fitness, and responsibility that they can instill.  But I also have memories of my own humiliating and confidence-smushing experiences with competitive sports (an athlete I am NOT - I fit in much better as a band geek).  Plus, I've seen the news about crazed hockey parents that put such tremendous pressure on their kids that it stops being fun for everybody.  I don't really want my son in that atmosphere.

But what am I going to say to the little guy - "Sorry honey, you can't play hockey because mommy thinks that the NHL is a waste of money and Billy's father is a raving competitive lunatic."?  Not likely.  Besides, as I told my husband the other day, who's to say our son will even want to play hockey when the time comes?  Maybe he'll be more interested in figure skating.  I wouldn't be disappointed.     

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

What next?

I sometimes wish my worrying mind had an off button.

I took my son for his one-year check up today.  We happily strolled into the office, no concerns.  Until the doctor looks into my son's ears (as we held the poor screaming child down) and informs me that he has an ear infection.  Quite common, I realize, but what concerns me is that I have no idea how long the poor child has had it.  He seems the same as any other day.  Also, as my son squirms on the table to get away from this strange man's probing hands, the doctor informs me that he "can't find" his right testicle.  That it must have "slipped back up", but that I should make sure I can "find it" later.  Right.  No problem doc. 

So we get a script for an antibiotic and are sent on our way.  No biggie right?  Well not quite.  Now I have to worry about my son getting an antibiotic for the first time and having an allergic reaction.  Or experiencing side-effects like diarrhea or thrush.  Or that I won't be able to find his poor hiding testicle and it will be lost forever. 

So I spend the afternoon on the computer researching which drug reactions to watch for and what to do about them, and where to find missing testicles.  And deciding if I should give him probiotics to prevent the diarrhea and thrush.  And what if he's in pain but isn't showing it?  Should I give him something for that?  And what should I take for the ulcer that is now burning it's way through my stomach lining?

As far as I knew this morning, he wasn't even sick.  How, exactly, did I end up here?  In my dark, sick, anxiety-laden worrying place?  (I don't like it here.  I want to go home...).

Believe it or not folks, I'm a nurse.  That's right - the one y'all count on to look after sick loved ones.  So why is it that when my loved ones are sick my ability to cope (or even think rationally) plummets?  Intellectually I know that I can handle whatever illness or emergency the kid will likely throw at me in his lifetime.  So why can't I just relax and deal with the problems as they arise?  Why must I torture myself with the what-ifs

Why, oh why can't I be a calm, sane, happy mommy instead of this uptight, neurotic, fearful one?

This will get easier right guys?

*Update*: Just in case you were going to lose sleep over it, I did find his little nut at bathtime, all safe and sound in it's nest.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

You've got to be sh*tting me! Part 2

*Disclaimer:  Although no animals were injured in the making of this blog entry, it does contain some pretty graphic discussion about pest control.  If you are a hardcore animal lover, please read no further.*

Back to the raccoon shit problem.

So the other day we're all getting ready to visit family for the afternoon, when suddenly I hear a crash in the garage.  I knew what I would find out there before I even looked, but I still just about peed my pants when I opened the door to find the raccoon about a foot away from me, chowing down on a bag of garbage that someone (ahem) left on the stoop.  Run away?  No, not this guy.  He starts reaching his creepy little paw (far too much like a hand for my liking) towards the door like he'd like to come in for a while.

I slammed the door and, like any mature adult would, went running and shrieking for my husband.  I told him that the raccoon was in the garage and trying to get in the house (I may have exaggerated a little for effect).  I don't know what I expected him to do, but I definitely wasn't expecting his reply:  "Well, that's it.  I'm going to have to kill it."  My husband said that.  The one who still reminds me about the day that I put a baby chipmunk out of it's misery after our cat mauled it half to death.  "What are you going to do?  How?  With what?  Are you serious??"  The questions came pouring out of me as I hopped from one foot to the other, following my husband around the bedroom while he got dressed.   "What choice do I have?" he answered matter-of-factly, "It's shitting everywhere and destroying everything and we're trying to sell the house...".  "Should you wear your good clothes?" I asked finally.  "What if there's like....spattering?"

Let's roll it back a bit to a story my brother told me.  About a friend of his who tried to take care of a little raccoon problem using a bow and arrow.  So picture this (and if you're at all squeamish please stop here):  This raccoon is being a nuisance on this guy's deck so he shoots it with an arrow (and don't ask me why he has a bow and arrow) and stakes him right through the chest, pinning him to the deck rail behind him.  Bye-bye raccoon, right?  Wrong.  This little bugger screeched and writhed and finally snapped the arrow, leaving the long part through it's chest and the arrow head still in the deck.  And then it takes off running for the bush, leaving the guy with the decision of having to follow him into the darkness to finish the job or trying to sleep at night wondering if the poor thing was suffering.

What I learned from that disturbing tale was that raccoons are not easily killed.  Not to mention that the raccoon we were dealing with was, like freakishly bold and smart.  And here's my husband going out to the garage to try and take care of our little problem with something far more primitive than a bow and arrow.  Like a shovel...or a hammer (eww).

So out he goes to do the deed and I'm frantically pacing around the house with horrible images running through my mind of my kind, gentle, man doing horrible things to this poor creature.  After an eternity he comes back in house.  I waited, expectantly, for the news.  " away," my husband stammered.  I think we were both equally relieved.

I apologize for the anti-climactic ending to my story, but the sad truth is we are looking into getting a live trap, so we can drop our little friend off somewhere to become someone else's problem.  In the meantime, I cringe as I listen to the pitter-patter of little paws up on my roof in the middle of the night and try not to think about what I know he's doing up there.  Just to be sure we don't forget who has the upper hand though, he occasionally leaves a steaming pile by my front door where I'll be sure to see it.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Happy Birthday Baby

Saturday is my son's first birthday.  Holy crap.  I must have fallen into some kind of worm hole or something around February because I'm pretty sure I lost a couple of months somewhere.  For reals.

I'm not sure who has changed more in the last year - him or me.  Yeah sure, so he's grown, and learned to crawl around, and laugh, and stand up, and torment the cat, and climb on stuff, and clap, and wave, and all kinds of impressive things...but I became a MOM.  Okay so he wins, but still.   

When I think back to those first few days after he was born I wasn't sure we were going to make it this far.  I was sooo tired, and all my girly parts hurt so much, and I was a blubbering emotional wreck, and all he did was eat and cry and poop and cry.  I remember thinking (although I never would have admitted it then), What. Have. I. Done?  Okay, you can take him back now.  I changed my mind.  I don't think I'm cut out for this mommy business.  Hello?  He he....joke's over guys....he he....very funny.  Guys?  Anybody?... 

I can't really remember when or how, but it got better.  And easier.  And way funner (yeah that's right I said funner).  And while I still occasionally wonder how I'm going to get through this, I wouldn't take it back.  In fact I can hardly remember how I lived without him, or why I would want to.  I didn't think it was possible to love someone so much.

One of the most special changes in my life since my son was born has been watching my husband become the best dad ever.  I'll admit I had my doubts when I married him.  He is, afterall, a giant child himself.  Literally.  Video games, Family Guy, junk food for meals, zero sense of responsibility...GIANT CHILD.  But all those things are what make him a good daddy. 

For example, when he was bathing the baby the other evening I went in to see what was taking so flippin' long, and there he is blowing great big soap bubbles just to get the baby giggling.  I felt an instant of guilt because I'm all scrub-rinse-bing-bang-done when it comes to bathtime (mostly because I've used up all my creative baby entertaining tactics by that time of day).  But together we're a pretty good team.  And I can tell when Nate grins that heart-melting baby grin at us that he thinks so too.

So Happy Birthday my precious baby boy.  And thank you for changing my life.

Monday, September 13, 2010

You've got to be sh*tting me!

*Disclaimer:  Although I assure you that no animal was injured in the making of this blog entry, if you are a hardcore animal lover you may want to stop here.*

A few weeks ago as I sat in my living room watching TV, I looked out my patio door to see a big fat raccoon staring back in at me.  Startled, I thought out loud, "shouldn't you be sleeping?" as it was mid-day and raccoons are allegedly nocturnal.  I called my husband into the room and we watched for a while as the cute critter explored our BBQ and gazebo. 

But when he began to climb up the gazebo screen, ripping holes in it along the way, I became a little annoyed and asked my husband to do something about it.  My hubby left to get something to shoo it away with; since he was taking too long I took matters into my own hands and hurled a shoe in the direction of the raccoon, which was now perched on the roof of our gazebo.  He just stared back at me mockingly, waddled over to the shoe I had thrown, picked it up and began to chew on it.  My husband arrived with a broom - "How the hell did it get my shoe!?" - I shrugged.  When the raccoon was completely unfazed by my husband's shouts and somewhat amusing gestures with the broom, he resorted to poking at it with the broom handle.  Again, totally fearless, the little bugger just grabbed a hold of the other end in the strangest game of tug-of-war I've ever witnessed. 

Since we were clearly dealing with either the boldest (and perhaps smartest) raccoon ever, or one infected with rabies, we decided to leave it be and hope it would leave on it's own. 
Perhaps the biggest mistake we've made.  Ever.  Because now we had let it win the first power struggle in what would soon become a small nightmare.

The next morning I was leaving the house and was greeted at the front door by a steaming pile of poop.  A little gift from our new friend.  Lovely.  My husband cleaned it up and disinfected the porch to make sure there was no odour left.  But again the next morning - not one, but two piles of poop on my porch.  "What the f**k is this!?  Is this some kind of sick joke?"  No my friends, it was not.  

Later that day my husband informs me that the little bastard hasn't just been defecating on the porch, but has left a nice pile of poop around the side of the house too.  This was not funny anymore. Not at all.  After we cleaned up all the mess and did some research to determine why the little vermin was so attracted to our house, we cleaned the BBQ and made sure that we weren't leaving any food or garbage where he could smell it.  And then we didn't see him for a few days.  We thought we had taken care of it.  Until my husband finds yet another ginormous pile of poop at the side of the house.  "That's impossible!" he exclaimed, "That shit wasn't there yesterday - I checked.  There's no way one little raccoon can shit that much in one day!" 

Initially stumped, it suddenly occurred to me.  The pile of poop was right at the bottom of one of the downspouts from the eaves trough, and it had rained heavily through the night.  That's right folks - that little    f*cker was shitting on my roof.            This is war. be continued...

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

A little self pity

I gotta get out more.  Like seriously.  I apologize in advance for the pathetic-ness of this entry. 

I think I've checked my email like 5 times today.  Okay, more like 10.  I actually read some junk mail.  I love being home with my son, and I'm not ready to go back to work yet, but dude I'm bored.  I tried all day to get a hold of my husband on his cell and when he finally called back I didn't even really have anything to say other than to bitch at him for not answering earlier - what if there had been an emergency?  He was all "Well, was there an emergency?" and since there obviously wasn't I just got even more pissed off and let him go.  And then I actually sat and watched an entire episode of Yo Gabba Gabba that my son wasn't even interested in.  

Normally when faced with boredom I would simply pack the baby up and head into town for some shopping therapy, but I'm trying not to spend money (since I technically don't have any).  Plus it was pissing down rain and, well, getting rained on sucks.  How depressing.  I'm pretty sure the baby even thinks I'm pathetic.  Maybe he'll take pity on me and dirty his diaper so I'll have something to do.  Sigh.   

Monday, September 6, 2010

Open house

We're in the process of selling our house, which is not a process I enjoy.  It essentially requires making your house look like one out of a magazine that nobody lives in, and then keeping it that way.  Keeping a house clean and tidy enough to have buyers come through at a moments notice is not an easy task, even without a toddler tearing around the house like a Tasmanian devil (keeping it even civilized is difficult with this little monkey).

Plus, it's kinda creepy to think about strangers snooping through your home when you're not there - opening closets and cupboard doors (I have a bad habit of stashing clutter in these places to put away "later"), scrutinizing every detail.  I have anxiety every time we leave the house about whether I've adequately hidden embarrassing unmentionables or forgotten to flush a toilet (yes, sometimes I leap off the toilet just in time to stop the baby from eating a handful of cat hair or a dirty Q-tip out of the garbage and forget to sue me). 

I remember one time when we were kids and my mom was trying to sell the house.  We were rushing to finish dinner and get out so people could come through, and my brother threw up all over the carpet in his bedroom like 10 minutes before we had to leave.  Just thought I'd throw that out there.
I don't know what would be worse - an unflushed toilet or a room that smells like vomit.

I'll be glad when this is over.   

Friday, September 3, 2010

Vampire love in the closet

Here's a confession for you:  I'm a Twilight fan. 

I know...the shame.  But I can't help it.  I started reading the series before they made the movies.  The first book was a gift from my brother ("I know you like vampire stories..."), and then I was hooked.  I've since re-read the entire saga, and I'll admit I enjoyed it equally the second time.  To be humiliatingly honest, I'll even admit I was pretty bummed out when I was done.  What would serve as my indulgent escape from reality now?  It's totally embarrassing, but I don't care...I can't get enough.

Now here's another confession: a dirty little secret that's not mine to tell.  My husband is a fan too - almost as much as I am, but I'm assuming without the Edward dreams.  At first he just watched the movies with me, rolling his eyes and pretending not to like them.  But after watching New Moon (the second part of the series for those who don't know), he was eager to find out what happened next and so started reading my copy of Eclipse.  He was completely absorbed.  Baby screaming, phone ringing, me nagging - he didn't hear any of it.  Let me just clarify that my husband is not a reader - I don't think I've seen him finish a book the entire time I've known him.

So one day my brother comes by and sees one of the books sitting on the counter and says to me with disgust, "Oh god, don't tell me you're reading Twilight..." (My brother is opposed to anything mainstream).  I glanced up in time to see a look of horrified panic flicker across my husband's face as he waited to see if I would blurt out to my brother that he was the one reading it.  I can just imagine the dread he must have felt at the thought of being outed, especially to a Twilight hater like my little bro.  Don't worry love, I thought to myself, your secret's safe with me.  So I kept quiet and smugly reminded my brother that he bought me the book, which he tried to deny at first but then quickly blamed the sales girl for suggesting it to him.  My hubby shot me the most relieved and grateful look ever.

I guess neither of us are ready to reveal our love of a phenomenon marketed to teeny-boppers.  Alas, closet Twilight fans we shall remain.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Kraft Dinner anyone?

Lately I've been feeling pretty sorry for my husband at mealtimes.  Since the baby was born my time, energy, and motivation to prepare interesting meals has pretty much gone down the toilet (or I suppose 'into the diaper pail' is more appropriate).  We still eat pretty healthy meals, but variety?  Forget it.  I'm out of ideas.  Dried right up.  Perhaps it has something to do with the TV being perpetually tuned-in to Treehouse instead of The Food Network as was the case pre-baby. 

Not that I think I should have to prepare interesting meals - or even meals at all  (I'm all for equal distribution of household duties and woman power and all that), but the unfair truth is that for almost 10 years I did make a pretty solid effort in the kitchen, and it's not really fair to lead the poor guy on like that you know?  Not to mention the fact that he's a positively hopeless cook (before we met a typical dinner for him would consist of a bag of microwave popcorn or a Mr. Noodles cup - frankly I don't know how he didn't have scurvy).

My tongue-in-cheek claim to be a domestic goddess seems to be less accurate as each day passes - let's face it, I'm no Nigella or Giada.  I can see my secret dream of quitting my career in nursing to pursue my interests in the culinary world fading into the past.  Maybe I'll be able to revive it one day.  But for now...the proverbial Kraft Dinner box will still have a home in my pantry.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Because I must...

What is the fascination babies have with emptying everything?!  Blocks in a bucket?  Empty them out one at a time.  Clothes in the drawer?  Same.  Toys in a basket?  Ditto.  A cupboard full of tupperware?  Well, see for yourself:

Needless to say I've since more thoroughly baby-proofed the kitchen cupboards.

It's not just emptying either.  If I stack objects he'll come tearing over from across the room to knock them down.  He has a little toy that has a row of animals that pop up, and once they're up he's determined to put them back down.  Like obsessively. 

Cute and harmless baby quirk?  Perhaps.  But the other day I watched him as he determinedly gobbled up the Cheerios I had sprinkled onto his highchair tray for him, and I wondered....does he eat them because he's hungry, or just because they're there?  Because he must?  Food for thought...

Tuesday, August 24, 2010


I got a phonecall the other day from an old friend.  She was in full-blown meltdown mode, and needed to talk.  She vented for a bit, I supported, we had a laugh, she felt better.  Love you, bye. 

When I got off the phone I was struck once again at how close we've remained after all these years.  We were best friends in highschool, but since then our lives have taken different paths.  We've stayed in touch, but really only see eachother a few times a year, even though we live only about thirty minutes from eachother.  Sometimes weeks go by when we don't hear from eachother.  But when shit gets bad (and let's face it, shit does occasionally get bad), she's the first person I turn to, and vise-versa.  And we just pick up where we left off like we haven't missed a beat, confindent in knowing the other will understand.  I never have to pause and wonder, "what will she think of me?" or "is this too embarassing to talk about?"  No judgement, no conditions.

I've had other friends over the years; friends that I see and talk to far more often.  But none of them have ever really come close, and I'm not sure why that is.  Maybe there's something about knowing where one comes from - who they were before they were a grown-up.  Or maybe it's because we grew up together, starting out little more than children and blossoming into young women.  When I think about it we really went through a lot together in those high school years - from first cars to first loves.  Maybe our influence on each other sculpted the people we became.  Who knows?  But whatever bond we created seems unaffected by time and space.

I'm pretty sure we'll still be counting on one another when we're old and wrinkled.  What a comforting thought.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Enter Sandman...

I'm so tired I'm pretty sure I'm legally impaired.  My son has never been a really good sleeper - even now at 11 months he still gets up at least once or twice on a good night.  And that's a good night.  Those nights are few and far between.  A typical night is more like 5 or 6 times, and I don't have the energy to tell you about what a bad night is like. 
I've done my research about ways to get your child to sleep through the night. FYI:
BAD book

GOOD book
I don't have the stomach or nerves for the "cry it out" method, which seems to be the only solution that is "guaranteed" to work (for those who aren't familiar the cry it out method essentially means letting your baby cry themselves to sleep or at least until they've otherwise given up hope that anyone is coming to comfort them).  I can't...I won't.  So I've tried a multitude of other strategies including room darkening curtains, white noise machines, cereal at bedtime, a pillow under the head of the mattress, a cuddly stuffed animal, and eliminating foods from my diet. 
He still doesn't sleep.  I don't sleep.  I really used to love sleeping, you know? 
If I have to hear about one more baby that has been sleeping for 12 hours every night since they were 2 weeks old than I'm gonna...well, I'm not sure what I'm gonna do, but please just don't tell me about it anymore, okay?  I can't take it.  And just in case you've never been warned before, don't mess with a sleep deprived mama (my husband can attest to the consequences of such messing).

I totally get how some moms just go right off the deep end.  Now here's the part I don't get:  I wouldn't trade it for anything.  Not one minute of it.  As exhausted (and I'll admit it - angry) as I am as I stumble into his room for the fourteenth flippin' time a night, when he reaches his little arms for me it all just melts away.  I smell his sweet head and feel his little hand stroking my arm and I realize how precious every second of it is.
Goodnight sweet child.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Into the mouths of babes

What is it with this child putting everything in his mouth?  Seriously?  It's not even 8am and so far this morning I've pulled out a pebble, a splinter of wood (I think he chewed it off of a piece of furniture), a chunk of one of his board books, and a piece of dried rice from the kitchen floor.  Previous culinary exploration is too vast to cover here but appetizers have included a couple lady bugs, a dead fly, and cat kibble.  All this and he GAGS over a spoonful of pureed carrot.  Good grief.  Plus now that he's got so many teeth I can't fetch anything from his mouth without getting bitten.  HARD.

So I know what you're thinking: "clean your floors lady!  He can't eat bugs if they're not there!"  I know, right?  I do clean, I promise.  I don't know how this crap gets dragged in so quickly (but I'm willing to point a finger or two at the cat and my husband).  Lord only knows what the poor kid snacks on when I don't catch him in the act - and believe me I watch the little monkey like a hawk.

You know the childhood expression, "God made dirt so dirt don't hurt"?  Yeah, well I'm not really a firm believer in the concept.  In fact I'm a bit of a germophobe, so needless to say I'm having some personal issues with this whole oral exploration stage.  But don't worry...I'm sure it'll be over soon.  It'll be over soon, right?   

Friday, August 20, 2010

Let this be the first...

Okay so I'll begin by saying that I know nothing about blogging, aside from what I learned watching "Julie and Julia".  So why would I start a blog you might ask?  Good question, dear reader.  I don't have a good answer.  I don't have anything particularly interesting to write about.  I'm not a particularly interesting person.  In fact I would consider myself a rather average, boring, quiet kind of person.  But I seem to have this rambling dialogue inside my head that I recently starting letting loose on the keyboard - and I felt better.  I really don't expect anyone to read my pointless musings and observations.  It just somehow seemed like a waste of time to be keeping a journal that no one could read.  And I guess maybe I secretly hope that there's someone out there just like me.  That someone will stumble on this collection of my deepest thoughts and see a kindred spirit.

So that's me.  An average 29 year old wife and mother of 1 whose life revolves around meal preparation, house work, diaper changes, and the latest programming on Treehouse.  And so it begins.