Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Thanksgiving beast

Fall through Christmas is my favorite time of year. Starting with September, the month to celebrate the birth of Lilah and the change to autumn, my favorite season. Cool weather, beautiful colors; the crispness of the weather and leaves add a sort of edge to life that makes things like knitting a steamy mug of something fabulous all the more cozy.
This year I'm missing out. Nothing is enjoyable when everyday is operated on survival mode and I am constantly trying to endure or distract myself from how miserable I feel. It is starting to feel like the holidays that weren't. We've canceled trips to see family, omitted treasured food preparations, and most regrettably, decided not to send Christmas cards this year. Shit, might as well cancel Christmas for Lilah.
To recap briefly, I feel ill constantly. There is an always present level of nausea/sour stomach/ taste of vomit in my mouth. It is intermixed with bouts of vomiting (3-5 times a day). This condition frequently escalates into stomach/ torso pain severe enough to wake me from sleep and prevent me from returning to slumber. This pregnancy is hell, and I am miserable.
I'm left feeling weak and isolated from the rest of the world. Lately I've been finding myself angry. Angry that growing a life feels like a long slow death. Bitter that so few other preggos feel ill to this extent and thus no one seems to understand. I am angry when Rob announces he is going running. Angry because I am jealous and have grown disgustingly codependent on my husband.
So this fall is going unfulfilled. No cool weather jogs. I'm knitting less and less these days. There is no steaming cup of anything that makes me feel fabulous. The only things steaming are the severely pissed off hemorrhoids that rival the size of a small country.
I'm usually thankful for fall. Thankful for a lot of things actually. And while I am still grateful for the many blessings I have in this life, I am mourning what I am missing and will be even more grateful to enjoy once again next year.
Feeling so ill does not bode well for me. I'm turning into a bit of an asshole. I don't even like me anymore. This is not to be confused with low self-esteem or a poor self-image. I am short-tempered, smile infrequently, bitch often, and sigh miserably non-stop. I like "me". I am not me lately and I miss me more and more.
So this Thanksgiving, instead of enjoying the feast, I am tolerating the beast. I'm thankful for my amazing husband and daughter. I'm also thankful for the ME they still love and know is in here somewhere.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

PREGNANT, the sequel

Pregnancy is not for the faint of heart, nor weak of stomach. Especially in my case. When I was pregnant with Grace I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum. In real terms this was nausea and vomiting. Lots of nausea and vomiting. All ten months. So much chunk spewing that after the failed trials with Reglan and oral forms of Zofran I ended up wearing a FANNY PACK with continuous INFUSION into a subcutaneous PORT (this kind of therapy is routinely used for chemotherapy patients to help manage the side effects of chemo). Pregnancy had turned me into a chemo patient. At least it felt like it. The downside to this (like it could get worse, fanny packs had been out for at least a decade) I didn't feel much better. It maybe cut the vomiting down by 30% and I was still nauseous all day, everyday. The worst part of the experience was the minor side effect of constipation. For the record, I literally stopped pooping (no joke). No Colace, Miralax, Docusate, Surfak, or any other related stool softening friends could get my poop to shoot. We should have bought stock in Fleet because for a number of months (the exact length of time I've blocked out) I would have to administer an enema every other day in order to poo. (The 48 hour rule was a "hard" lesson learned when I still didn't have the urge by day four and the enema only angered my bowels. After Rob had to be "Bobby" to my "Whitney" I promised to give a healthy saline squirt every two days. An FYI for this TMI, Labor was NOTHING compared to this event.)

One could imagine my initial reaction, only two days after my triathlon, to find this:
They say every pregnancy is different. I would like to find out who initially said this and punch them in the face. The first week or so I was a little fatigued and STARVING. I craved MEAT, big juicy steak type meat. Until one morning I woke up and all bets were off. I knew it was still early in the pregnancy, but it was ON. I could not have been more pregnant if my name were Kate or Octomom. It's still considered early, but this kid isn't going anywhere. I've got enough HCG coursing through me to rival that Twilight chick (sorry if you haven't read the last book). Lilah + pregnancy = no good for Rob, or anyone else in this household.

Here are the simple truths I have found in the past few weeks:
  1. I feel nauseous, all the time. It is worse at night, when I'm hungry, and after I eat. Fucking awesome. A new symptom with this pregnancy is the intense pain that frequently accompanies the nausea and the vomiting.
  2. I don't take Cymbalta recreationally, so Lilah - Cymbalta = no fun for anyone
  3. I miss running, or even walking for that matter.
  4. Grace is getting the shaft, BIG time. Not only do feel like shit 24/7, I am also overwhelmed/ angry/ sad/ frustrated/lack patience/ and wallow in mom-guilt.
  5. My mouth tastes like vomit most of the time. When it doesn't taste like vomit, it tastes like a very sour version of whatever I last ate.
  6. Nick Jr. is the 3rd parent in our house.
  7. I can eat McDonald's. If it is greasy, nasty, and comes in a white paper sack I can usually keep it down. This makes my inner Bob Green cringe. Hopefully this McFetus won't need to be on "Biggest Loser" by the 3rd trimester.
  8. My heart skips a beat victoriously every time I poop.
  9. I miss me and my fabulous life.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

I TRIed it

Today I ran my first triathlon. I wish I could say I had been training rigorously to prepare, but I really had not. I have ventured out on my bike twice since we bought it, and I swam ONCE in August with Jeff and Elaina. The only thing I had been doing with much regularity was running, and this was sparse at best. In hindsight, I was crazy to think I was in any way prepared for this, but I did it anyway.

I had three goals for each event:
  1. Keep a steady pace with the crawl stroke for the swim, and don't drown in the pool
  2. Stay on my bike and keep pedaling during the bike portion.
  3. Run the entire run, no matter how slow the trot.

I would be lying to say I wasn't nervous, but I was more excited than anything. So excited that I yelled out, "We are going to have so much fun!" while waiting to check in. (Extroversion sometimes can get the better of me).


The swim took place in an indoor pool. There were three-hundred participants and eight lanes. EIGHT. A new racer started every eight seconds and swam up the lane, back, and then moved to the next lane. Watching this was horrifying as clearly there were some faster swimmers than others. There were four people abreast in a lane at times. I was bib number #119 and was in the pool before I knew it. Keeping my limbs long and my stroke even, I tried to roll with each breath as to keep my head even with my body. Fortunately I had room to get in some kick turns at the wall almost every time. I even passed three mo-fo-ing people. To say I was Phelps-like is an understatement. It. Was. AWESOME. 400 meters in TEN MINUTES. I f*cking rocked the swim. It felt amazing and was by far, my favorite part of the whole race.

First Transition

It was flipping cold out this morning. When someone from Maine says it's cold, then you know it's friggin cold out. We were given the option to use the locker room to towel off and put on our clothing (if you as a racer wanted to take the extra time). I was not doing this race for speed, so of course I went and changed in the locker room. I quickly dried off, stripped off my bathing suit and threw on my shorts and top on over my sopping wet sports bra. Being a bit of a genius, I threw my hair up in a turban with my towel before I ran out to the "real" transition area to get my bike. There were a lot of laughs from Rob, Jeff, and the race officials, BUT letting the cottony absorption work to my benefit before I put on my helmet was just plain smart. (Rob later informed me I was the only racer to come running out with a towel on their head. I'm really not surprised I was the only one fabulous enough to come up with this idea).

The Bike

I came to the realization today that I am not a huge fan of riding a bike. Especially half wet and freezing. I really don't like it when there are lots and lots of "fun" hills to conquer. As easy as it was channeling my inner Michael Phelps, my inner Lance Armstrong was NO WHERE to be found. He was busy tuning into the thirty or more racers that ended up passing me. I'm not exaggerating. I passed ONE guy, who then passed me about two minutes later. When I came upon a sign bearing the number 5, I was a bit confused. Then I realized that was the mile marker, and I feared I would be on my bike THE REST OF THE DAY. Around mile 9 on a stretch I referred to as the "Hill de Hades" (the "Hill of Hell", per my Tour de France lingo) the chain came off my bike. Awesome. Thankfully I remembered what Jeff had told me to do in that situation and I had it back on in a matter of seconds. With my chin up, I just kept thinking to myself, "I'm just this girl, out here, riding my bike." It helped me find a rhythm and get through the fifteen plus miles of many hills.

Second Transition

I was so excited to get off my bike, because as fabulous as my seat is, my crotch was killing me. The sweet escape was temporary as I realized my legs were frozen and felt like noodles. I retied my hair, threw on some sunglasses, and as I passed a handful of volunteers and my support (Rob & Jeff) I rallied with, "Alright bitches, let's do this."

The Run

The first half mile I was just going through the motions of running. My legs were cold, numb, and exhausted. I kept at it and somehow, I found my stride. It was an odd feeling. My body still had some push, and I went for it. Running along, listening to the rhythm of my stride, I no longer cared about who passed me or vice versa. Just like in the pool, on the bike, and then jogging along. It was all me. My pace, my race.

I began to think about how critical I am of myself when it comes to life. Being the right size, a good wife, and definitely the perfect mother. Running along I realized the only person I need to live up to is me. I'm the only me there is, no matter what size I come in. I'm the only wife Rob has (hopefully), and I am irreplaceable as Grace's mother.

I crossed the finish, having ran the whole while (and thus completed all my goals). Right before I finished I made myself a promise. I will remind myself more often that I am not just "good enough," I'm great. In fact, I'm actually fabulous.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

our non-cation, the vacation that wasn't: Part I

Although this is much overdue, it's come time to finally write about our two week excursion in September. The vacation plan was to travel to Florida and visit my Grandmother (Memere) and her boyfriend Sam at the Villages for two nights (that's all anyone can handle in the land of free-roaming, cranky retirees). Then we were to venture over to Hudson, FL to spend the week with Rob's parents, where we would leave Grace and the dogs while we flew from Tampa to Boston a Thursday through Sunday for THE WEDDING.

This wedding was my fault, my fault entirely. The bride was my cousin and had been my maid of honor. The groom was Rob's best friend from college, and had also been his best man. With a well doctored garter toss and some friendly reception make out action, the rest became history. This was October 29, 2005. Fast forward to the weekend of September 19, 2009, their wedding at a very pricey resort in coastal Massachusetts. No children please.

Our two day stint at Memere's was great. As Memere-tastic as any visit can get. One must understand a few things about my Memere. She is French Canadian, has a limited working ability with the English language, but wields it well. She is old school and true to her heritage. Men come first, men are pampered, food and meals are non-negotiable, and you never ever want to piss her off. I'm pretty sure I can commit an entire blog topic to describing this fabulous lady, and someday I will. She is doting and bluntly critical. Memere stories are always funnier told in person because I do a damn good job imitating her voice and getting the tone of the story just right.

The food was too much as usual. Memere will tell you you're "bigger since last time" and that you're not eating enough all in the same breath. She loads our plates with servings large enough to bring Bob Green to tears, will get mad when we don't eat everything, and then rants about how much we should "hate ourselves" if we let ourselves go and get fatter. I told her about my training and my upcoming triathlon and she bluntly responded that I was "tinner at Christmas". She also came to the conclusion that Rob was "spoiled" because he worked a "lazy job" and this was all because the Navy "pays our electric bill." You just can't win with Memere.

Eager to get out for a break, I ventured out one morning to take a run. I had forgotten how hot it was in Florida. Hot all the effing time. The heat torture was probably made worse by the fact that Memere likes to keep her house at 80 degrees. (Rules of Lilah #364: heat only puts me in a bad mood and I cannot be held responsible for being short tempered when experiencing hot temperatures). It was early, but still too hot for a run, and I went anyway. Memere lives in a gated retirement community where there are no sidewalks. (There are plenty of golf-carts scooting around with the cars. The majority of drivers are at that very sensitive, yet very ill-equipped age to operate any sort of vehicle. A very SAFE set up, you know, having a gate and everything.) The distance from Memere's house to the front gate is three miles round-trip. A nice flat, easy run to keep up with my training while away and get a little stress relief. Wrong. It was hot as balls. I was sweating my shorts off the first quarter mile in. The humidity is just plain ridiculous and anyone who likes this weather is crazy in my opinion. Mark my words, I will NEVER live in Florida EVER again. Following the rules of the road I made sure to run against traffic (20 mph speed limit throughout, mind you). Whenever an oncoming car or cart approached I even straddled the adjacent lawn and rain gutter as to grant PLENTY of berth for the oncoming "traffic" (and also look out for my own safety). The few friendly waves or thumbs up were unquestionably outnumbered by the FINGER WAGS and disproving glares. Clearly a 27-year-old married white mother in Nike running shorts is up to NO GOOD disturbing the peace trotting down the street at seven in the morning.

It was not a relaxing jog at all, especially when I had an 80 degree household to cool down in, a Memere criticizing that my child is fussy because I don't feed her enough (not because she is a giant ball of sweat), and a very loving, patient Rob giving me The Look. We left the next day and I never ran again during this vacation.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

unusual errands, a normal morning for me

Grace and I accomplished a lot this morning:

  1. We paid my speeding ticket at the courthouse this morning. (yes, I know I need to slow down, but in my defense, I am fabulous). Unfortunately I chose to tackle the stair-laden entrance and exit with Grace all belted in to Big Red. I AM training for a triathlon, so I didn't think twice about picking up the whole problem and hoofing it up the steps. It wasn't too difficult, but I am pretty sure I looked ridiculous doing it.

  2. We then picked up more Tea Tree Essential oil for the crazy price of $24.95 (for way too small an amount) at the Earth Fare (aka hippy central). I was slightly offended when one passing granola-popper commented on how "handsome" Grace was. Hello? She is a gorgeous baby, yes I know, but she is Fabulous Jr and such a little girl. It's quite obvious by her shamelessly long eye-lashes. (The tea tree oil is for our cloth diaper pail. We may not be full-blown earth keepers, but we recycle and are saving the environment one cloth diaper at a time. The stench in the diaper pile is another issue entirely. The wafting odor of amonia is enough to knock me on my ass come time to wash a load o'piss. Hence the tea tree oil, a few drop of it's natural antiseptic properties keep the pail just this side of manageable.)

  3. We finally stopped at a local shop to buy Bridezilla a bridal shower gift. I was sad to miss her bridal shower, but she is the closest thing I have to a sister and it was important for me to get her something sentimental and fabulous. She may rival the Bridezillas you would see on TV, but she is MY Bridezilla and I love her anyway.

Tasks completed. Grace held up well, but lost her cool when we arrived home and I was preparing lunch. I felt a little hypocritical when I yelled, "Grace, stop your screaming!" from the kitchen.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Sunday's events, seemed like a good idea at the time

Things that I do throughout my day often seem like a good idea at the time, but later prove themselves otherwise. Today two such events occured:
  1. We have a lovely Sunday ritual. We eat lunch at Panera Bread, and then go grocery shopping at the Kroger. We do it all together, the three of us; Rob, Lilah (me), & Grace. Grace is at the tender age where she often falls asleep in the car on the way home from the store. So part of our Sunday ritual is to keep Grace awake during the drive home. Today we employed lots of fun, techno-laden dance tunes, and some car dancing. Eyelids still heavy, I handed her a straw (one of her favorite toys, mind you) LESS THAN A MILE FROM HOME. We made it home, parked, and turned around to find this:

"Here Grace, play with this straw and don't fall asleep."

2. I purchased a WATER SOLUBLE ink pad to make some cute thank-you cards with Gracie handprints on them. A simple project for three, with easy clean-up thanks to the WATER-SOLUBLE ink pad. WRONGO. Our fingers are stained pink. Rob's fingers. My fingers. And Grace's entire right hand. Stained pink.

This was after 20 minutes of washing. True story.

"Maybe if I drink this bottle of Burt's Bees shampoo it will help..."

"Alright, no more of your great ideas for today. " Rob


Sunday, August 23, 2009

Triathlon for Lilah, let's do this.

It's been a while, but I am still trying to find a way to fit writing into my everyday lifestyle. As I narrate in my mind throughout the day, I often run out of time before my head hits the pillow and I'm done. Of course it doesn't help that I'm all about picking up the knitting needles whenever I have a spare moment. I often wait until I finish a row before I tend to a Grace in need. *bad-mommy disclaimer: if my child is in serious need, there is no hesitation when I toss aside the knitting and tend to her latest head collision with furniture, which happens at least twice a day as she is mastering her baby-ninja walking skills (silent, quick, and oh so dangerous).*

Recently I stayed in the passenger seat of the car to finish knitting a row after Rob and Grace had exited the car. He stood outside the window looking at me and commented, "I hope I'm never in a life or death situation while you're knitting, because I don't believe you would be able to stop in order to save me." Well having never faced that conundrum dear husband, there is no need to speculate what my actions would be. Although secretly, I think he may be right.

There is momming throughout the day, knitting, the running of the AMC, playdates, Gymboree, random shopping trips, teaching knitting at the yarn barn, of course the Facebooking, and more recently fitness endeavours. More specifically, there has been running, biking and swimming because I AM going to do this mini-Lilah-appropriate triathlon. Call me crazy, but I'm tackling this off my bucket list because life is for living, not for cramming when you think you're dying, sorry Tim McGraw.

The first few runs around the Navy base have been interesting. Having a great shuffle of running tunes on the iphone has been invaluable...except for these few incidents:

  • When first getting going, I get all into my music and want to dance while running.I can't help it, I'm an extrovert. Bad idea. Especially while I'm stopped waiting to cross the street and I think this is an appropriate time to boogie. This girl dancing on the corner of Oglethorpe and Sunset on a Saturday morning is really not the entertainment the customers of the Farmer's' market expect. So I'm sorry Rihanna, sometimes please DO stop the music.

  • One evening I attempted to utilize the gym in order to try biking and then a light jog. Another BAD IDEA. It only ended up with me flicking off the TV when the Michael Vic was shown. This while bored out of my mind and getting my crotchy bits all smooshed uncomfortably is NOT a good time. Trying to get in a light jog on the treadmill did not help either. Once my iphone flew off the back and then me after, I had to agree with Scissor Sister, I didn't feel like dancing, at all.
  • Although a good motivator, I am leaving my itunes unplayed from now on while athleticizing about the neighborhood.

If I am about to embark on a perilous journey to triathlon success, there is no better inspiration than to have my sidekick, Grace along for the ride. So I am currently searching for a fabulous jogging stroller. And by fabulous I mean a BOB Revolution or a BabyJogger City Classic (hint hint if you have one still in great condition.) For now our good friend Merryn is letting us borrow a well-loved but still in great condition Schwinn jogging stroller. It does veer to the left a bit and the sunshade is a joke, but it is a monster stroller and we're kicking ass and taking names all about Normaltown on a daily basis.

I'm going to do this. It will be a success, or at least some entertaining tales as I attempt some training. So far here are the hard, fast rules of the road (er, sidewalk):

  1. During these morning jogs I am also taking it upon myself to be the change I wish to see in the world. I say "hello" or "good morning" to everyone. Regardless if you are black, white, pink, a toothless wonder smoking a butt outside Athens Regional waiting on the bus, or a sorostitute taking the walk of shame down Milledge, I treat you all the same my friends. A smile and a greeting for everyone. President Obama, yes we can!
  2. Around mile 2 my left shoe starts squeaking. It is the orthopedic insert rubbing up against the Nike shoe bits that makes this noise. Sadly enough I have very flat, wide, jumbo feet. A nine & half wide to be exact (one can even make farty noises with the if I can get the suction just right with a bare foot). My feet the podiatric equivalent the offspring of Shaq + Bilbo Baggins might possess. I'm sorry this doesn't paint a pretty picture, but I manage to hobble onward.
  3. It is hot as balls right now in Georgia! I need to get out before 10am otherwise sometime during my run I begin to get hot and disoriented all about my head. I don't think this bodes well or safe for poor Grace held hostage in the jogger.
  4. Other people running inspire me. Don't be surprised when you trot by if I try to high-five you. It is motivating and right in so many ways.
  5. If you are driving by, please feel free to honk, wave madly, and cheer me on. I may veer poor G into a utility pole, but the ego boost is so worth it!

Saturday, August 8, 2009

the never ending morning...

It all began the night before (Thursday) when neighbor-friend got me all excited about Triathlon. Being of a stature built more for comfort than for speed, I had always assumed that a triathlon was composed of the standard Ironman distances. Clearly not for me. However I was introduced to the notion that there are varying lengths including but not limited to a "Lilah-length" triathlon. I Googled well into the eleven o' clock hour all jacked up and excited for a shorter yet reasonable escapade into the world of athleticism, endorphins, and all that fabulous junk.

I turned in to bed a little after 11:00pm and proceeded to roll and toss and fidget myself unsuccessfully to sleep until about midnight. Having Rob breathing loudly beside me of course did not help. When the acquisition of sleep becomes too difficult I believe in taking a break and then trying again. Thus I trotted my wonderful self into the living where I parked my tush in the man-chair to knit while enjoying a bit of the "Sex & the City: the Movie". Because really, could a midnight break get any better than my beloved pastime and four of my favorite fabu-lebrities? I got my fix and crawled into bed a little after 1:00am for some well-prepared for slumber.

Shortly after 1:14am the Gracie alarm goes off. There were no initial worries, she occasionally needs a little help back to sleep and I'm more than happy to oblige because she's my baby and that's what this mom does. Only she sounded horrible. There was mucho congestion all about her nose area. I rocked her, she cried, and we rocked some more. And more. And more. I finally put her down asleep and she woke instantly, crying of course. The diaper was changed, more rocking. She was put down in the crib again and woke instantly, again. We tried a bottle, and of course more rocking. I got her in the bed and to sleep around 2:45am and then retired to my spot of intended slumber only to hear her wake up, crying. This proceeded until 4:00am. I cannot remember how or why she finally gives in, I only remember that she did.

Amazing Grace woke up at her usual 7:30am, of course. Fan-flipping-tastic. I am not joking when I say I cannot function on approximately four hours of sleep. Six hours is a REQUIREMENT but a good seven to eight is what I prefer. I stumbled into the living room to find Rob watching Sport Center while eating his breakfast (normal morning behavior for the Rob) but I then found there were no clean bottles in our kitchen (note: in our family, bottle cleaning is Rob's job, period). Sputtering something about having to teach a class full of Navy Supply Corps Officers shortly, I brusquely interrupted that I didn't care if President Obama was waiting for him, he would not be leaving the house without some clean bottle in it.

Amazingly enough I was then awake enough to notice that Sesame Street was a re-run (it may be public broadcasting, but Grace and I are so over the "hat-wearing contest" episode, my friends). I also found time to cut my nails, because I sport shorty-short mom nails. I believe this look is both stealth and efficient in eliminating the space I can get baby-bodily-bits trapped up in there. I snuck a quick shower and updated my Facebook status (my priorities are clearly questionable). We were then on the road a mere five minutes late to the appointment I was able to clinch with the pediatrician.

En route, a very rude man cut me off from the FAR RIGHT LANE to get into the left turning lane at about 15/mph. Overtired Lilah-instinct utilized not just the breaks but the newly mom-iquered middle finger as well. Go me. Generously enough, my ipod shuffled us up some ABBA and I was instantly uplifted and found my second wind.

After checking in at the pediatrician's office, I brought Grace to the bathroom to change her out of her pajamas and soiled diapery mess. Shortly thereafter, one of the office nurses knocked at the door and announced they were ready to see us (clearly NOT because we had to wait over an hour for the doctor in the exam room). I rapidly tried to cram our stuff into the diaper bag while slinging 23lb Grace onto my sweaty hip in one felled swoop. When exiting the bathroom, the door sprung back unexpectedly into my poor child's head. Awesome. Grace was shrieking and the whole waiting room gave me "that look" as we marched shamefully to the exam room.

In the end we left with the cold we arrived with, no more, no less. I'm a good mom, and despite the head injury, I got us there and back safely. Getting her checked out turned out to be a complete waste of time, but mommy-instinct let me know it was the thing to do. Friday was the longest morning I could remember. Probably because it was an adventure packed 12 hours I was able to experience every single one of. Then again I am a mom, and I love it.

Friday, July 31, 2009

Starbucks etiquette

This morning on our trip through the Starbucks drive-thru I had a large order. Four drinks to be exact. One for Amy (my pretty, and dedicated co-coordinator at Athens Mothers Center), one for me, one for Rob (to soften the blow of spending monies on overpriced sweet caffeine-y goodness), and of course the errant bottle of water I can never get myself to drink.

The barista-boy at the window was so cute and witty it made me smile. But when I politely asked for a drink-tray for my numerous beverages he informed me he had given the last one to the lady in front of me because her kids wanted one to play with. Excuse me? I find it a complete breach of etiquette to request a drink tray when:

  1. You don't need one.
  2. I do.
  3. You are in front of me and take the last one.

He and another member of the Epps Bridge Starbucks Brigade began peering curiously through my open window when they spotted Grace in the back seat. I unrolled the back window so they could get a better look and fully appreciate the adorability of my daughter. However, darling Grace had a scowl on her face.

Barrista-boy: "What a skeptical looking child you have there."

Me: "Yeah, she can't believe we didn't get drink-tray either."

stimulating the economy, one trip the Clinique counter at a time

Events from yesterday, Thursday, July 30th.

It all started yesterday morning when I received an email I assumed was spam but was truly legit. A 30%-off coupon for the GAP, Old Navy, BR, etc. was patiently waiting for me in my inbox. It had a bar code at the bottom and did not require me to fill out any random survey or forward to a gazillion friends to be activated. However it did encourage me to forward in efforts to share the savings (which of course I generously did). Included in the forward was husband Rob's email in efforts to "plant the seed" for the savings we would incur upon my utilizing aforementioned discount.
Rob came home for lunch and I discretely mentioned my need for more "me" clothes and that I was planning an upcoming venture to the mall during his basketball game that evening. I had the upper hand because a) he likes to have free time, and if it infringes upon time he is usually home with us, I can usually spend that block of time in retail therapy, and b) I had so innocently planted the idea in his subconscious by the coupon-gram via email.
The husband is not new to my tactics, and thus had some ammunition. In efforts to thwart the spend-o-thon he was foreseeing, he suggested that I pay for half of the collateral-checking-account damage with funds from the yarn barn I earn through teaching the world to knit. Well-played, Mr. Kalloch. However, he can pry my spending credit from my cold dead hands because there are a set of Addi-Click needles arriving to that store any day now with my name written all over them. Quickly I combated with the notion of "I'm saving for the double stroller of my dreams," because I will obviously need one with us trying for a second child. Let us be truthful, we all know he will not take spending upwards of $700 for baby-wheels lightly. (For the record, I have NO intention on contributing toward this expenditure because clearly what's mine is mine, and his is OURS.) He rolled his eyes and kept his stance.
"You'll spend $90 or so and have no remorse, but if I make you fund half, I know you'll keep your spending within limits," he expressed (truthfully).
I responded with a smile, nod, and eye-roll (my trademark non-committal response).
In the end I spent a little over $80, and halved NONE of it.
  1. It was less that the $90 he had so blatantly stated prior to the shopping.
  2. Only one item at the GAP was purchased for me, and the other four for Grace, so that doesn't count. ( I am shamelessly addicted to baby clothes, BTW)
  3. Items bought at the Clinique counter are makeup. Translation, a "need" which falls into the category of things our handsome breadwinner provides for his wonderful family.
  4. Stimulating the economy is part of our patriotic duty, and I love this country.

End of story. (insert Lilah-grin here)

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

tv is for rotting mommy's brain

While watching a few moments of the Today show this morning, Grace was glued to the screen. (As "glued" as a one-year-old can be from her toddler coral where she can Circ du Gracie without Katrina-ing the house. Sorry, I digress.) What's the deal with the little ones and the tube? It is clearly frowned upon by experts (non-parent experts in my opinion) that TV is "bad" for kids, delays some sort of important development blah, violence TV bad blah blah, blah blah increases chances of ADD, blah blah blah.

I get it. TV= bad for baby. Trying to be a decent mother, I like to limit the amount of televised crack Grace consumes. It's hard, even for those of us parents who care. When you just want a minute to use to bathroom facilities alone without worrying, the TV works great. I'm OK with her checking out a few commercials pertaining to erectile dysfunction if it means she's not digging through the trash in search of some errant piggy-flu virus. When does "just a little bit" of television turn into "better stock up on your Aderol and hide your guns" level of watching?? I'm guessing it's a fine line, and I'm pretty sure it's one I am toeing daily.

At the present moment while I'm sitting comfortably in Rob's recliner (his man-chair that I outwardly loath but secretly love). The television is off while Grace is playing contentedly in her prison yard. I'm blogging because I have been thinking and ranting about how I need to get blogging for way too long now. Maybe I'll take advantage of the "independent play" that I've become so dependent on to change out of my pajamas and brush my teeth. Or I could go stalking on Facebook....

Monday, May 18, 2009

Grace, the explorer

Me: "Grace, it's a little hard to clean the house with you crawling all into trouble and harassing the dogs."

Grace: "Mom, I'm an explorer. You can't hold me back, it's time to let me go."

Me: "Alright Sacajawea, but let's stick to the living room and forget the Northwest passage. By the way their names are Suzie & Peanut, not Lewis & Clark, and I'm pretty sure they're not interested in following you, so stop screaming at them."

Grace: "Daa."