1. Carina wakes up at 5 am. Great. We all wake up.
2. 5:30 am all settled down again and I have a sudden sore throat & think I will die if I don’t deal with the situation. Get up, take cough syrup.
3. Lay there until 6.
4. Got showered & dressed without incident.
5. Made my lunch & Carina’s. She sits in the highchair supervising and picking at her Cheerios, while drinking her milk.
6. Decided to wear new brown loafers that I am much enamored with. Put right foot in and am delighted with fit of the shoe and the way the shoe goes perfectly with my outfit. Cannot. Jam. Left foot. Into. Shoe. Agghhh! Look carefully at “left” shoe. Is right shoe. They both are. Also, real right shoe is size 8.5, which is nice. The wrong shoe is entirely wrong and is size 10. Kohls. WTF?
7. Resort to plan B – older shoes.
8. Report to bathroom to dry hair. Cannot find wide-toothed comb that I use every day of my life. Is not in bathroom. Begin search of Carina’s hiding spots – under sofas, under beds, in corners of the room, near her highchair. No luck. Hair begins drying wildly around head as I run around the house.
9. Rob is mad. He is stuck trying to get ready while Carina roams the bedroom in search of forbidden items, while I hunt. She attacks my jewelry box and he defends it.
10. Give up on the comb, use fingers and travel-sized brush to sort out hair that is still weird, but more acceptable. Put Carina’s hair into ponytail.
11. Go to kitchen. Put slice of bread on counter. Microwave egg for egg sandwich I eat for breakfast every day (lunches are already packed & made). Turn around. Bread is gone. Search for comb & bread. Call dog, cursing him, as he stole the bread two weeks ago. No dog. Dog is still outside. Hear Rob saying in the bathroom, “Did Mommy give you that big piece of bread?” Walk into bathroom. There is Carina eating a large slice of whole wheat bread.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The hostage
Our 17 month old daughter has fought sleep tooth and nail since she was born. Most babies barely move their heads, but she was swiveling her head in the hospital looking at everything - she always seems concerned that she might miss something. She is very tall for her age and approaches life with the fierce dedication of a professional athlete. When she was learning to walk, she did not take each day as it came - she stood against the picture window holding onto the window crank handle and literally did squats until she had the muscle and coordination to stand upright. She would do this for as long as we would let her and would squeal when we tried to re-direct her to something else.
So, quickly she learned to walk. She rarely slept through the night, but luckily at least grew cheerier and was crying less. Finally at nearly 17 months she did start sleeping through the night - or so we thought. We heard a banging at the door the night before New Year's Eve and swiftly learned that she whose nose did not yet reach the top rail of the crib had enough upper body strength to haul her body to the top rail, then fall onto her feet on the floor. I assume I mistook the quiet of sleep for her doing pullups on the bed. We figured out her escape routine, because after we put her back into her crib, we observed the whole thing on the baby monitor. The next day, we converted her bed to a daybed, so that she wouldn't hurt herself hurtling out of bed.
Now, when we put her to bed and shut the door, she stands there banging on the door crying. Put her back into bed and she's out and banging. So, we have to let her bang and yell. Despite the fact that we are parents and should be mature and ready for this, I still feel awkward about imprisoning someone in my home.
So, quickly she learned to walk. She rarely slept through the night, but luckily at least grew cheerier and was crying less. Finally at nearly 17 months she did start sleeping through the night - or so we thought. We heard a banging at the door the night before New Year's Eve and swiftly learned that she whose nose did not yet reach the top rail of the crib had enough upper body strength to haul her body to the top rail, then fall onto her feet on the floor. I assume I mistook the quiet of sleep for her doing pullups on the bed. We figured out her escape routine, because after we put her back into her crib, we observed the whole thing on the baby monitor. The next day, we converted her bed to a daybed, so that she wouldn't hurt herself hurtling out of bed.
Now, when we put her to bed and shut the door, she stands there banging on the door crying. Put her back into bed and she's out and banging. So, we have to let her bang and yell. Despite the fact that we are parents and should be mature and ready for this, I still feel awkward about imprisoning someone in my home.
Thoughts for 2010
I had enough time to read the Star Ledger today, which is rare & I love to do. I liked Dear Abby's reminder about New Year's resolutions.
In particular the first bit about living in the moment and not worrying about the future as much. For me, this applies to writing, which seems insurmountable in that I am concerned about how to direct my writing and what I should really be doing with it.
Plus, being healthy - not throwing the baby out with the bathwater and taking each day as a new opportunity to do the right thing.
The right thing for me right now is bed, though. This horrible cold is lingering and me not sleeping enough is not helping.
In particular the first bit about living in the moment and not worrying about the future as much. For me, this applies to writing, which seems insurmountable in that I am concerned about how to direct my writing and what I should really be doing with it.
Plus, being healthy - not throwing the baby out with the bathwater and taking each day as a new opportunity to do the right thing.
The right thing for me right now is bed, though. This horrible cold is lingering and me not sleeping enough is not helping.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
De-inflated Christmas
There's nothing sadder to me than inflatable Santas that are un-inflated resting on the lawn mournfully. I don't like inflatables at all, actually, because they seem moody that way and, for me, Christmas should be staunchly upbeat. There is one visible from outside my picture window and I hope it takes to the skies like a wayward kite and finds its way to another neighborhood.
It's December 27th and the live Christmas tree in the living room is starting to droop. We're past the point where gifts are universally infatuating and now looking at gifts like TLC's Clean Sweep show where they put three king-sized sheets on the lawn labeled "Keep," "Toss," or "Donate."
The homemade Christmas cookies are starting to get stale, but we're eating them anyway.
Early thoughts for New Year's resolutions:
1. Eat less
2. Exercise more
3. Write regularly and attempt to market said writing
It's December 27th and the live Christmas tree in the living room is starting to droop. We're past the point where gifts are universally infatuating and now looking at gifts like TLC's Clean Sweep show where they put three king-sized sheets on the lawn labeled "Keep," "Toss," or "Donate."
The homemade Christmas cookies are starting to get stale, but we're eating them anyway.
Early thoughts for New Year's resolutions:
1. Eat less
2. Exercise more
3. Write regularly and attempt to market said writing
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Yogi-ouch-ees
The 7:15 pm interval aerobics class I normally take has morphed into a Yogilates class. The alternative is sticking with my old class that moved to 6:15 pm, which is peak dinnertime in my house and damn near impossible.
Anyway, this was my second time at Yogilates - before Thanksgiving, classes were shifted around and I gave it a whirl. We did a lot of slow poses that I found mostly funny, since I can't envision myself as a tree without giggling. I think I'm missing a microchip for dignity somewhere in my head. I never feel dignified. In the back of my head there's always a little voice suggesting my pantyhose may be tucked into my underwear, my makeup may have shifted into a Kiss-like mask or I may have misjudged the mirror in the morning, approached the day with childlike innocence believing my outfit was flattering, while in reality I look lumpy, bumpy and frumpy. Sometimes I look at photos of myself and am literally horrified, in particular there was the turquoise maternity top I wore to my shower, which I thought was graceful and flowing, but made me look like the mothership. But, I digress.
Since Thanksgiving I've not actually gone to the aerobics classes, savoring the leftovers - turkey, trimmings and desserts. One aerobics class evening, instead of attending, I went with my husband and daughter to Home Depot and bought a Christmas tree. The other was sheer laziness on my part. I operate under the belief that during The Holiday Season, which, to me, extends from around 11/1 through 1/1 most people spend the time cooking, eating, watching holiday specials on television and drinking with their friends and families. Clearly, I've misjudged this.
These Yogilates women are in incredible shape. Even the big one. They quickly flapped their legs in the air, while deftly doing situps with their front end. There was a lot of flapping, plus holding excruciatingly uncomfortable positions. The coup de grâce, however, was this: laying on the side resting on the hip, with legs elevated and frogging in and out, while crunching with the top half, resting precariously on seemingly one rib.
If I hadn't seen it done, I would have thought it was like airbrushing on magazines.
It saddens me to realize that we are not all in this together. Everyone says we gain weight during The Holidays and I was fine with that. But, clearly there are people out there who are using this time to get ahead of the rest of us, so that by the time New Years rolls around and we are deciding to lose weight, they are already svelte and are working smugly on "toning."
Image from The Onion
Anyway, this was my second time at Yogilates - before Thanksgiving, classes were shifted around and I gave it a whirl. We did a lot of slow poses that I found mostly funny, since I can't envision myself as a tree without giggling. I think I'm missing a microchip for dignity somewhere in my head. I never feel dignified. In the back of my head there's always a little voice suggesting my pantyhose may be tucked into my underwear, my makeup may have shifted into a Kiss-like mask or I may have misjudged the mirror in the morning, approached the day with childlike innocence believing my outfit was flattering, while in reality I look lumpy, bumpy and frumpy. Sometimes I look at photos of myself and am literally horrified, in particular there was the turquoise maternity top I wore to my shower, which I thought was graceful and flowing, but made me look like the mothership. But, I digress.
Since Thanksgiving I've not actually gone to the aerobics classes, savoring the leftovers - turkey, trimmings and desserts. One aerobics class evening, instead of attending, I went with my husband and daughter to Home Depot and bought a Christmas tree. The other was sheer laziness on my part. I operate under the belief that during The Holiday Season, which, to me, extends from around 11/1 through 1/1 most people spend the time cooking, eating, watching holiday specials on television and drinking with their friends and families. Clearly, I've misjudged this.
These Yogilates women are in incredible shape. Even the big one. They quickly flapped their legs in the air, while deftly doing situps with their front end. There was a lot of flapping, plus holding excruciatingly uncomfortable positions. The coup de grâce, however, was this: laying on the side resting on the hip, with legs elevated and frogging in and out, while crunching with the top half, resting precariously on seemingly one rib.
If I hadn't seen it done, I would have thought it was like airbrushing on magazines.
It saddens me to realize that we are not all in this together. Everyone says we gain weight during The Holidays and I was fine with that. But, clearly there are people out there who are using this time to get ahead of the rest of us, so that by the time New Years rolls around and we are deciding to lose weight, they are already svelte and are working smugly on "toning."
Image from The Onion
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Thanksgiving
My Thanksgiving was really good. The best ever food –wise, for sure, since it’s so much easier to cook for 10 than 20.
There was bit of apprehension, though. I had thought Great Aunt Gloria and Great Uncle Warren would not be coming, because he had just had a pacemaker installed the day before. And the week before that, they thought he had TB and we visited him and had to wear masks, but they then decided it was “just” pneumonia and a kidney problem. So, I was pretty sure, we were setting the table for 8. The night before I called my Great Aunt, just to be sure. She said Uncle Warren had just been moved to rehab that day, but that she was going to “break him out” out of rehab (her words), against all of his doctor’s strong recommendations and warnings, because she thought it would be better for his spirits to be with family for that day. She would then return him back to his recovery room afterwards.
I played it off like I wasn’t disturbed, although inwardly it seemed to me that the place for him is somewhere where someone else is responsible for his well-being. I told Rob that they would be attending in a very offhanded way, as if it was no big deal. Rob started over-analyzing, as Rob does and wondered if he died in our house, if we’d have to move and pondered about whether my mother (who has saved 2 people’s lives who stopped breathing using CPR) would be able to do it a third time.
They came – he shuffled around and I tried not to watch him eat, because he is diabetic and Thanksgiving is a carb-hardy dinner. Apparently after the cranberry sauce he tested himself and his sugar was so high, he was shooting himself up in the stomach at the table (Rob saw this, I didn’t – I have to tell you, I was trying not to look, in general). After dinner, he needed to lay down in the guestroom, which is when I started to get very nervous. My great aunt pulled the shades and he curled up in the fetal position, with her coat over him (I would have given him a blanket, but when I checked on him he was out cold). I head a whispery sound coming out of his mouth and ascertained that he was alive. I did not feel well myself until he re-emerged in time for dessert. I’m happy to report that eventually they departed to drop him back off at rehab.
I made sure everyone left with a little bit of a Thanksgiving in disposable Gladware. And, I remain grateful that the only mammal dead in my house that day was the turkey.
There was bit of apprehension, though. I had thought Great Aunt Gloria and Great Uncle Warren would not be coming, because he had just had a pacemaker installed the day before. And the week before that, they thought he had TB and we visited him and had to wear masks, but they then decided it was “just” pneumonia and a kidney problem. So, I was pretty sure, we were setting the table for 8. The night before I called my Great Aunt, just to be sure. She said Uncle Warren had just been moved to rehab that day, but that she was going to “break him out” out of rehab (her words), against all of his doctor’s strong recommendations and warnings, because she thought it would be better for his spirits to be with family for that day. She would then return him back to his recovery room afterwards.
I played it off like I wasn’t disturbed, although inwardly it seemed to me that the place for him is somewhere where someone else is responsible for his well-being. I told Rob that they would be attending in a very offhanded way, as if it was no big deal. Rob started over-analyzing, as Rob does and wondered if he died in our house, if we’d have to move and pondered about whether my mother (who has saved 2 people’s lives who stopped breathing using CPR) would be able to do it a third time.
They came – he shuffled around and I tried not to watch him eat, because he is diabetic and Thanksgiving is a carb-hardy dinner. Apparently after the cranberry sauce he tested himself and his sugar was so high, he was shooting himself up in the stomach at the table (Rob saw this, I didn’t – I have to tell you, I was trying not to look, in general). After dinner, he needed to lay down in the guestroom, which is when I started to get very nervous. My great aunt pulled the shades and he curled up in the fetal position, with her coat over him (I would have given him a blanket, but when I checked on him he was out cold). I head a whispery sound coming out of his mouth and ascertained that he was alive. I did not feel well myself until he re-emerged in time for dessert. I’m happy to report that eventually they departed to drop him back off at rehab.
I made sure everyone left with a little bit of a Thanksgiving in disposable Gladware. And, I remain grateful that the only mammal dead in my house that day was the turkey.
Friday, November 13, 2009
It's the Great Potato, Charlie Brown!
The front of my office consists almost entirely of glass squares, so it is like working in a phone booth.
I'm sitting at my desk typing away on my laptop and I happen to glance up.
Typically the cubicle in front of me is unoccupied, since the tenant relocated to a southern state and works from home. She is required to make an appearance once a month, so sometimes she'll appear - tan and miserable to leave her home and nice weather and come to NJ where inhospitable weather always seems to suggest that she made the right choice.
I glanced up and there she was, leaning forward into her deep black handbag. I watched idly, as she rummaged through determinedly. With a sigh, she sunk back into her chair, withdrawing her hand and clutching what looked like a giant, lumpy, brown rock. I watched with interest as she brought the dome shaped tip to her mouth and bit it off without a wince. Bright orange flesh appeared and I realized she was chewing hurriedly on a large, whole yam.
I would expect this kind of treatment of a pear, a peach, an apple. A tomato would be a stretch, but I could handle it. This, though. This was something.
A coworker happened by and remarked that she might want to heat it up to which she replied that she had cooked it that morning in the microwave in her hotel room and she liked it room temperature and was finding it delicious.
She joined me at lunch although she'd long since finished the tuber. I asked her if she was dieting and she admitted that she was trying to lower her cholesterol. I didn't press the issue, because she seemed to be very nonchalant about eating a large, whole, unbuttered, unquartered, unbrown-sugared big, honking sweet potato.
She chased the potato with some Halloween candy later in the afternoon.
She's gone home, but I'm left wondering about what other vegetables she's mistreating back home where the weather is nicer and hopefully, the people more forgiving. Me, I'm still thinking, "It's freaking weird to take a whole, cooked sweet potato out of your purse and just start gnawing on it."
I'm sitting at my desk typing away on my laptop and I happen to glance up.
Typically the cubicle in front of me is unoccupied, since the tenant relocated to a southern state and works from home. She is required to make an appearance once a month, so sometimes she'll appear - tan and miserable to leave her home and nice weather and come to NJ where inhospitable weather always seems to suggest that she made the right choice.
I glanced up and there she was, leaning forward into her deep black handbag. I watched idly, as she rummaged through determinedly. With a sigh, she sunk back into her chair, withdrawing her hand and clutching what looked like a giant, lumpy, brown rock. I watched with interest as she brought the dome shaped tip to her mouth and bit it off without a wince. Bright orange flesh appeared and I realized she was chewing hurriedly on a large, whole yam.
I would expect this kind of treatment of a pear, a peach, an apple. A tomato would be a stretch, but I could handle it. This, though. This was something.
A coworker happened by and remarked that she might want to heat it up to which she replied that she had cooked it that morning in the microwave in her hotel room and she liked it room temperature and was finding it delicious.
She joined me at lunch although she'd long since finished the tuber. I asked her if she was dieting and she admitted that she was trying to lower her cholesterol. I didn't press the issue, because she seemed to be very nonchalant about eating a large, whole, unbuttered, unquartered, unbrown-sugared big, honking sweet potato.
She chased the potato with some Halloween candy later in the afternoon.
She's gone home, but I'm left wondering about what other vegetables she's mistreating back home where the weather is nicer and hopefully, the people more forgiving. Me, I'm still thinking, "It's freaking weird to take a whole, cooked sweet potato out of your purse and just start gnawing on it."
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