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.