Anyone who thinks they had a worse day than I had is wrong. ....Okay, maybe yours was worse if you lost a family member or had to have a foot amputated or something of that nature, but otherwise I win. Or lose, depending on how you look at it.
The last 7 months have been wrought with minor meltdowns on my part. Lack of sleep, frustration with a baby who just don't understand what you're saying (because she's, you know, a baby), dealing with feelings of loneliness in the transition from socializing adult to home-bound hermit. There has been crying, yelling, throwing of things, screaming into pillows, and a general stank attitude on many occasions. Plenty of meltdowns to be had. Yesterday was probably the worst one.
So Clara has been teething which isn't fun, for her or me. She has been generally crabby and inconsolable for the last few days and I am reaching the end of my rope. I always hear from people that "some babies have a harder time with teething than others", and if I ever meet someone whose child wasn't at all phased by teething I will seriously kick them in the shins. And why are baby teeth so painful anyway? They're just these teeny tiny little bone spurs, essentially, and they fall out in 5 to 10 years. What a friggin' waste. Anyway. She was really cranky yesterday and I was frustrated.
Her newest move is the alligator roll. Whenever I try to change her diaper, as soon as I take off the dirty diaper and go to put a new one on, she rolls onto her belly. This is not easy to deal with on a changing table because she almost always nearly falls off. When she has a poop diaper this is particularly problematic because she rolls and the poop gets eeeeeeeevvvvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyywwwwwwwhhhhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrrrreeeeeeee. On her, on me, on the changing table, on her clothes, on the new diaper. It's awful and it's one of the most frustrating things I've ever dealt with. I've tried giving her things to hold while I change her diaper but she just holds them and rolls with them so she ends up lying on them. I've tried keeping her attention upward with a mobile, with things on the wall, with singing, nothing works. This scene is simply destined to repeat itself. Yesterday she had two awful poop diapers that this happened with. Two outfits, two changing table covers, two baths, two shirts for me. And that wasn't the end.
Clara was playing in the living room and I thought I smelled poop, so I checked her diaper and it was clean. A few minutes later I look down at my feet (I had been sitting on the couch because sitting on the floor hurts my back after a few minutes), and Clara was sitting in front of a big pile of glop. She held her hand up in pure delight and I saw that she was grasping a huge hunk of something green. I looked down and saw that it was poop. She was holding a chunk of poop. Then I looked at the glop and realized it was poop, too. And none of it was hers. Eventually I surmised that it belonged to one of my cats. He must have gotten sick and had a huge, disgusting accident right in front of me and I didn't even realize it, and now my daughter was playing in it. I scooped her up and put her in the sink and washed off her hand, then put her in her crib so I could clean up the mess without her getting into it again. Only since she was so cranky, as soon as I walked out of the room she just sat up in her crib sobbing and screaming at the top of her lungs. I cleaned the poop mess up the best I could, gagging the whole time, and brought her out into her hair chair, hoping that she would be happier if she could see me.
At this point I wanted to vacuum the rest of the floor because I had discovered a second pile of poop. Our carpet is shaggy and brown so things that I don't want to step have a tendency to just blend in. I wanted to vacuum and make sure there were no other surprises.
As I put Clara in her high chair, I saw a very large gathering of ants underneath it. Great. I strapped her in, grabbed the Swiffer Wet Jet and got started on killing and cleaning up the piles of ants. Unfortunately, some of Clara's toys that were on the floor had ants on them (curse me and my laziness for not picking them up the night before!), so I brushed them off and gave them to her to play with while I kept cleaning. When I was done with the floor I looked at her and saw that her whole food tray was covered in ants, and there were a bunch crawling on her, too.
Are you sympathizing with me yet? No? Then get out.
I stripped her down, cleaned her off, cleaned the chair off, all with her shrieking and screaming and being generally upset with me, and I decided I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to call the husband.
Eric knows how stubborn I am and he knows that I only ask for help about 3 seconds before I am about to literally fall into a heap on the floor, so he came straight home and took over for me while I lay on the bed crying. He walked up and down the hall with Clara, looking at photos and talking quietly, changed her next diaper and got her dressed to go to her grandpa's house, and he even offered to let me have some beers with dinner, which is a VERY generous offer in our household. So I guess that I can take comfort in the fact that my day at least ended in a nice note, even though most of it was shitty. Pun intended.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Temper tantrums
When I read that quote by Rick Santorum saying that single mothers were the reason for the welfare system failing, or something equally absurd and bigoted, it really upset me. I hate when people feel the need to alienate an entire group of people and blame them for something that is completely out of their hands and isn't remotely true. But I was especially upset because this week I've been getting a glimpse of what it's like to be a single mom, and it is really fucking hard. (I would like to take this opportunity to say that I usually try to tone down the swearing in this blog because my grandma usually reads it, and although she is the queen of creative swear words, I'm sure she doesn't like to know that her youngest granddaughter has a potty mouth. But on this matter, I simply can't help myself. Sorry Grandma!)
Being a mom is really, really hard. I'm sure that anyone reading this who doesn't have children is probably sick of me posting about my kid, but you will have to get over it and bear with me. Talking incessantly about their children is just what happens when one becomes a mother. Sucks to be you. Being a mom is really hard. A mom of one, two, five, seven, it only gets more difficult the more there are, I imagine. Michelle Duggar is either a saint or a masochist...although I suppose when the age gap between kids is 20 years, the older ones can eventually help the younger... anyway. HARD. REALLY HARD. And I'm married and am fortunate enough to be able to stay home full-time with my baby. Being a single mom who has to work? Oy. I couldn't handle it.
Eric has been out of town this entire week. He is on the coast for work and the commute is too far to be practical, so he's staying in a hotel while I go it alone. I typically take care of Clara for the majority of the day, but I have to say, when Eric comes home in the evening it a huge relief to be able to have him hold Clara for a few minutes at least while I pee, cook, shower, SOMETHING that doesn't involve a chubby bunny ripping out handfuls of my swiftly-graying hair or barfing down my shirt. So far it's been going okay, until today.
I knew something was amiss when Clara didn't wake up until 10am. She usually wakes me up between 6 and 7am, so I really enjoyed my morning, but didn't expect it to last. The rest of the day was rather uneventful. There were no naps, because there are never any naps, but we had some quality play time crawling around the house together and both grandmas stopped by for a visit, so that was a rare treat. Sometime around 9 everything fell apart. Clara started screaming for no apparent reason and was uncontrollably crabby and slightly hysterical for at least two hours after that. I was trying to get her to bed for her 9:30 bedtime and she was having none of it. I tried every trick in the book; rocking, singing, bouncing, swinging, everything the damn Baby Whisperer guy suggested except swaddling, because she's too tall for that. NOTHING. By 11pm I was getting pretty crabby myself. And then the problem presented itself. A toxic poop diaper.
Let me just say that no poopy diapers are fun, but lately Clara's have been especially foul. Almost every single one manages to leak out of the diaper and drip down her legs, up her back and it causes a really arduous and disgusting clean-up process for me. Add that to the fact that she usually only has 2 a day and today she had 6, well, this one sucked. Her pajamas were ruined. The carpet has a puddle of poop juice where she had been sitting. The changing pad cover was toast. My shirt was covered. Her legs and back and tummy and hands were coated. And when I tried to undress her she was trashing around and almost fell off the changing table, and the stupid cats were attacking each other and clawing my legs and feet... I lost it. I took the tube of diaper cream and chucked it at the wall, I flung the cats off me, I hastily threw away her dirty jammies and the changing table cover, and started sobbing. I was begging Clara to cooperate, to hold still while I got her cleaned up, praying to God to give me patience to deal with all the crap. No pun intended. Ok, pun intended. It wasn't a pretty sight.
And an hour later, she still wasn't asleep.
So, aside from getting you to all feel sorry for me, the point is that I don't know how women do this alone. I am by myself for a week and basically had a nervous breakdown. So for anyone, especially some closed-minded politician, to accuse single mothers of being the ruination of any facet of our country's economic system.... well, I'd like to send them one of Clara's toxic diapers.
Being a mom is really, really hard. I'm sure that anyone reading this who doesn't have children is probably sick of me posting about my kid, but you will have to get over it and bear with me. Talking incessantly about their children is just what happens when one becomes a mother. Sucks to be you. Being a mom is really hard. A mom of one, two, five, seven, it only gets more difficult the more there are, I imagine. Michelle Duggar is either a saint or a masochist...although I suppose when the age gap between kids is 20 years, the older ones can eventually help the younger... anyway. HARD. REALLY HARD. And I'm married and am fortunate enough to be able to stay home full-time with my baby. Being a single mom who has to work? Oy. I couldn't handle it.
Eric has been out of town this entire week. He is on the coast for work and the commute is too far to be practical, so he's staying in a hotel while I go it alone. I typically take care of Clara for the majority of the day, but I have to say, when Eric comes home in the evening it a huge relief to be able to have him hold Clara for a few minutes at least while I pee, cook, shower, SOMETHING that doesn't involve a chubby bunny ripping out handfuls of my swiftly-graying hair or barfing down my shirt. So far it's been going okay, until today.
I knew something was amiss when Clara didn't wake up until 10am. She usually wakes me up between 6 and 7am, so I really enjoyed my morning, but didn't expect it to last. The rest of the day was rather uneventful. There were no naps, because there are never any naps, but we had some quality play time crawling around the house together and both grandmas stopped by for a visit, so that was a rare treat. Sometime around 9 everything fell apart. Clara started screaming for no apparent reason and was uncontrollably crabby and slightly hysterical for at least two hours after that. I was trying to get her to bed for her 9:30 bedtime and she was having none of it. I tried every trick in the book; rocking, singing, bouncing, swinging, everything the damn Baby Whisperer guy suggested except swaddling, because she's too tall for that. NOTHING. By 11pm I was getting pretty crabby myself. And then the problem presented itself. A toxic poop diaper.
Let me just say that no poopy diapers are fun, but lately Clara's have been especially foul. Almost every single one manages to leak out of the diaper and drip down her legs, up her back and it causes a really arduous and disgusting clean-up process for me. Add that to the fact that she usually only has 2 a day and today she had 6, well, this one sucked. Her pajamas were ruined. The carpet has a puddle of poop juice where she had been sitting. The changing pad cover was toast. My shirt was covered. Her legs and back and tummy and hands were coated. And when I tried to undress her she was trashing around and almost fell off the changing table, and the stupid cats were attacking each other and clawing my legs and feet... I lost it. I took the tube of diaper cream and chucked it at the wall, I flung the cats off me, I hastily threw away her dirty jammies and the changing table cover, and started sobbing. I was begging Clara to cooperate, to hold still while I got her cleaned up, praying to God to give me patience to deal with all the crap. No pun intended. Ok, pun intended. It wasn't a pretty sight.
And an hour later, she still wasn't asleep.
So, aside from getting you to all feel sorry for me, the point is that I don't know how women do this alone. I am by myself for a week and basically had a nervous breakdown. So for anyone, especially some closed-minded politician, to accuse single mothers of being the ruination of any facet of our country's economic system.... well, I'd like to send them one of Clara's toxic diapers.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A lesson in love
So today is Valentine's Day. Or, as my husband and I call it (because we purposely mispronounce words all the time.... I hope my daughter doesn't grow up stupid), Balentime's day. There seem to be two camps on this day every year since I can remember: for or against. Love is great or love stinks. Happy couples or bitter single people who feel like the world is out to get them for being single. I have always kind of been in the middle. I think love is wonderful, but I also know how shitty it feels to be single, not wanting to be, and having to see everyone around you going on dates and getting chocolates and whatever just because it's February 14th. Personally, I've never really understood what the big deal is either way.
I mean sure, my junior high boyfriend and I proclaimed our "anniversary" to be on Valentine's day, and if I happened to have a boyfriend at that time later in life it was always nice to get a card or a present or something. But otherwise I don't get it. Why is it so important on this ONE day of the year to feel like your significant other loves you? What about all the other days? I don't think forced frivolities or guilt-ridden gifting is especially meaningful. But I also don't understand why people feel like they need to crawl into a hole and die just because they're single.
A friend of mine always tells me how lucky I am to be married. And she's right, I am lucky, but not for the reason she thinks. She said I'm lucky to be married because I can stop looking for the right guy and that I always have someone there for me. That's true. She also mentioned how it must be nice to never have to worry about someone asking me out for a date or getting me a birthday gift or a Christmas gift and that I'll always have something special for Valentine's day. Uh.... well... in theory.
Let me preface this by saying that my husband is a wonderful, wonderful man. He works his ass off to provide for our family. He always listens to my bitching, and when I'm feeling depressed he lets me cry on his chest until I calm down, and he never judges me for it. He tells me every single day that I'm beautiful (even though I'm like 75 pounds heavier than when we started dating and usually only get to shower two or three times a week since Clara was born) and how much he appreciates me. He is a great husband. But he doesn't give a shit about holidays. And that's ok, because I love them enough for the both of us. However, I've never gotten a birthday, Christmas, anniversary or Valentine's gift in the nearly 5 years we've been together. He has financially supported me through pretty much that entire time, and he's always generous in every day life (with me AND my family... pretty much everything I've ever asked for he's gotten me at some point), so a present on a holiday doesn't really mean anything to me, so it's no big deal. But my point is that marriage doesn't automatically make Valentine's day more magical.
The myth:
A husband will send his wife a beautiful bouquet of flowers. He will have picked out some lavish gift, probably jewelry, and planned an elaborate scheme for her to discover it, like having it tied to the dog's collar and having the dog deliver it to her feet. He will take her out for an expensive and romantic dinner where they will hold hands, gaze into each other's eyes and, after sharing a dessert sprinkled with edible gold dust, go home and have crazy passionate sex featuring a special lingerie number the wife picked out, because that's her gift to her husband.
My truth:
A wife will spend the day taking care of a sick baby who not once, not twice, but three times had poop diapers that leaked into the wife's lap. Her husband comes home bearing a box of Girl Scout cookies he bought from the daughter of a guy he works with. Thin Mint, of course. He kisses the wife on the cheek and then takes over baby duties from the wife. She then cooks a half-assed dinner of steak and zucchini, does a half-assed cleaning job and starts a half-assed load of laundry. The couple then argues about who will change the latest poopy diaper. The wife wins. The husband goes to bed. The wife stays up with the baby until the baby falls asleep. Then she watches "Dance Moms" while eating Thin Mints and drinking coconut milk, trying to figure out what the big deal is about this holiday.
I think a friend of mine really put it best:
"
I mean sure, my junior high boyfriend and I proclaimed our "anniversary" to be on Valentine's day, and if I happened to have a boyfriend at that time later in life it was always nice to get a card or a present or something. But otherwise I don't get it. Why is it so important on this ONE day of the year to feel like your significant other loves you? What about all the other days? I don't think forced frivolities or guilt-ridden gifting is especially meaningful. But I also don't understand why people feel like they need to crawl into a hole and die just because they're single.
A friend of mine always tells me how lucky I am to be married. And she's right, I am lucky, but not for the reason she thinks. She said I'm lucky to be married because I can stop looking for the right guy and that I always have someone there for me. That's true. She also mentioned how it must be nice to never have to worry about someone asking me out for a date or getting me a birthday gift or a Christmas gift and that I'll always have something special for Valentine's day. Uh.... well... in theory.
Let me preface this by saying that my husband is a wonderful, wonderful man. He works his ass off to provide for our family. He always listens to my bitching, and when I'm feeling depressed he lets me cry on his chest until I calm down, and he never judges me for it. He tells me every single day that I'm beautiful (even though I'm like 75 pounds heavier than when we started dating and usually only get to shower two or three times a week since Clara was born) and how much he appreciates me. He is a great husband. But he doesn't give a shit about holidays. And that's ok, because I love them enough for the both of us. However, I've never gotten a birthday, Christmas, anniversary or Valentine's gift in the nearly 5 years we've been together. He has financially supported me through pretty much that entire time, and he's always generous in every day life (with me AND my family... pretty much everything I've ever asked for he's gotten me at some point), so a present on a holiday doesn't really mean anything to me, so it's no big deal. But my point is that marriage doesn't automatically make Valentine's day more magical.
The myth:
A husband will send his wife a beautiful bouquet of flowers. He will have picked out some lavish gift, probably jewelry, and planned an elaborate scheme for her to discover it, like having it tied to the dog's collar and having the dog deliver it to her feet. He will take her out for an expensive and romantic dinner where they will hold hands, gaze into each other's eyes and, after sharing a dessert sprinkled with edible gold dust, go home and have crazy passionate sex featuring a special lingerie number the wife picked out, because that's her gift to her husband.
My truth:
A wife will spend the day taking care of a sick baby who not once, not twice, but three times had poop diapers that leaked into the wife's lap. Her husband comes home bearing a box of Girl Scout cookies he bought from the daughter of a guy he works with. Thin Mint, of course. He kisses the wife on the cheek and then takes over baby duties from the wife. She then cooks a half-assed dinner of steak and zucchini, does a half-assed cleaning job and starts a half-assed load of laundry. The couple then argues about who will change the latest poopy diaper. The wife wins. The husband goes to bed. The wife stays up with the baby until the baby falls asleep. Then she watches "Dance Moms" while eating Thin Mints and drinking coconut milk, trying to figure out what the big deal is about this holiday.
I think a friend of mine really put it best:
"
Monday, January 30, 2012
Cave man food and vengeful bats
So I have taken a rather long hiatus from blogging. Unintentional. My sweet little girl has turned into a baby who sleeps like a dream most nights but does not nap at all during the day. She also has reverted back to newborn neediness regarding being held. So basically I have no free time. Add that to the fact that I am performing in an opera that has been in production since September, and I don't have a lot of energy to blog, let alone come up with something witty to say. Here's a break down of the last, mm, 3 months.
Clara had her first plane ride. We went to Minnesota to visit my sister and her family. My mom came with, which is the only reason I even considered taking a baby on a plane. Clara did great. Aside from the first 10 minutes on the plane to Minnesota, she didn't cry at all. It made me feel very smug to be able to glare at all the assholes who saw my adorable child and thought, "Oh, great. Another damn baby that's going to ruin my flight." Also, to the TINY woman who found it necessary to recline her seat into my mom's lap for a super luxurious 2 inches of extra room... you are a terrible person. I hope you get an incurable case of athlete's foot.
Also, in Minnesota I got to meet my sister's two youngest sons and see her two oldest for the first time in about 4 years. They are hilarious and frighteningly energetic. My favorite quote of the trip was from my 3 year-old nephew, Drew, who tried sparkling cider for the first time: "Thith tickleth meeee!" (he has a little lisp at the moment)
I am singing one of the lead roles, Rosalinda, in the opera Die Fledermaus. It's a really funny opera, and it's the biggest role I've ever had. I'm probably not as nervous as I should be, but considering that last year I had pregnancy brain and couldn't remember any of my music AND was trying not to barf from "morning" sickness right before I went on stage, this year has been much more pleasant. The awkward part is that I have to kiss two different guys, and I'm pretty sure both of them feel really, really uncomfortable with it. It's not that big a deal, it's just stage kissing, but I can't help but feel bad that they don't get to kiss a hotter girl. Although my chin acne and ever-growing nose hair is quite seductive, I'm sure.
Recently I've started following the Paleo diet. Basically, you don't eat any grains or processed foods, particularly anything with refined sugar in it. I've cheated here and there, but in the first week I lost 9 pounds and as of right now I'm down 11 pounds. It's a lot easier than I expected it to be, you just have to be prepared to cook more (at least I do). It's also really interesting to see how your body reacts when you DO eat crap again. I had cake and ice cream at my in-laws last night, and after a few minutes I had a really intense headache. Tomorrow I will be getting back on track with my favorite smoothie recipe. Mmmm, strawberry-coconut-date smoothie.
I am officially a stay-at-home mom. While describing what it's like to a friend, I decided this is the best way to put it: It's awesome because I get to wear pajamas all day and never have to leave the house. It kind of sucks because I sometimes have to wear pajamas all day and never get to leave the house. Still way better than processing health insurance claims, a job that I was teeeeeerrible at.
My child is growing like a weed. She's basically the size of a 1 year-old, which strangers never fail to point out to me. "How old is she? 5 months?! My GAWD, she's HUGE!!!" Thanks, asshole. I couldn't have figured that out from my chiropractor bills.
I have been avidly following Project Runway: All Stars, and I have to say that I am really, really excited to see who wins. I'm pulling for Rami or Michael, although I love Mondo, too. Austin is great but his clothes are a little too flouncy for me.
That's all for now. I will blog again when I find something interesting....or not.... to share. Hope all is well out there on the interwebs.
Clara had her first plane ride. We went to Minnesota to visit my sister and her family. My mom came with, which is the only reason I even considered taking a baby on a plane. Clara did great. Aside from the first 10 minutes on the plane to Minnesota, she didn't cry at all. It made me feel very smug to be able to glare at all the assholes who saw my adorable child and thought, "Oh, great. Another damn baby that's going to ruin my flight." Also, to the TINY woman who found it necessary to recline her seat into my mom's lap for a super luxurious 2 inches of extra room... you are a terrible person. I hope you get an incurable case of athlete's foot.
Also, in Minnesota I got to meet my sister's two youngest sons and see her two oldest for the first time in about 4 years. They are hilarious and frighteningly energetic. My favorite quote of the trip was from my 3 year-old nephew, Drew, who tried sparkling cider for the first time: "Thith tickleth meeee!" (he has a little lisp at the moment)
I am singing one of the lead roles, Rosalinda, in the opera Die Fledermaus. It's a really funny opera, and it's the biggest role I've ever had. I'm probably not as nervous as I should be, but considering that last year I had pregnancy brain and couldn't remember any of my music AND was trying not to barf from "morning" sickness right before I went on stage, this year has been much more pleasant. The awkward part is that I have to kiss two different guys, and I'm pretty sure both of them feel really, really uncomfortable with it. It's not that big a deal, it's just stage kissing, but I can't help but feel bad that they don't get to kiss a hotter girl. Although my chin acne and ever-growing nose hair is quite seductive, I'm sure.
Recently I've started following the Paleo diet. Basically, you don't eat any grains or processed foods, particularly anything with refined sugar in it. I've cheated here and there, but in the first week I lost 9 pounds and as of right now I'm down 11 pounds. It's a lot easier than I expected it to be, you just have to be prepared to cook more (at least I do). It's also really interesting to see how your body reacts when you DO eat crap again. I had cake and ice cream at my in-laws last night, and after a few minutes I had a really intense headache. Tomorrow I will be getting back on track with my favorite smoothie recipe. Mmmm, strawberry-coconut-date smoothie.
I am officially a stay-at-home mom. While describing what it's like to a friend, I decided this is the best way to put it: It's awesome because I get to wear pajamas all day and never have to leave the house. It kind of sucks because I sometimes have to wear pajamas all day and never get to leave the house. Still way better than processing health insurance claims, a job that I was teeeeeerrible at.
My child is growing like a weed. She's basically the size of a 1 year-old, which strangers never fail to point out to me. "How old is she? 5 months?! My GAWD, she's HUGE!!!" Thanks, asshole. I couldn't have figured that out from my chiropractor bills.
I have been avidly following Project Runway: All Stars, and I have to say that I am really, really excited to see who wins. I'm pulling for Rami or Michael, although I love Mondo, too. Austin is great but his clothes are a little too flouncy for me.
That's all for now. I will blog again when I find something interesting....or not.... to share. Hope all is well out there on the interwebs.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Scrooge McGrump.
When I was a kid my mom and grandma decorated for every holiday. We put our American flags out for every patriotic holiday, there were special cookie jars for Valentine's day and halloween, and there were ceramic figurines that we painted for Halloween and Easter. Christmas was an event all its own. Decorating the tree was always a big affair. My mom would take an entire day and unwrap each ornament one by one and find the exact right spot on the tree. She would enlist our help to make it a family affair, but then after we went to bed she'd rearrange all the ornaments to her liking. As a child, I loved the fourth of July but there was something special about Christmas. Even to this day there is a feeling of magic that surrounds it, and I can't picture a Christmas tree without thinking of snow, hot chocolate, warm air smelling like cinnamon buns and my family parked in front of the fireplace.
The week before Halloween, my mom unpacked those same ceramic figurines that we decorated as kids and pulled out her special cookie jar. It was then that I realized this is the first year that I get to decorate an entire house by myself. Eric and I purchased our home at the beginning of the summer and even then I was ecstatic about the idea of having our own Christmas tree for the first time.
I started stocking up around Halloween. I bought material to make my own wreath to hang on the door. I bought a nativity set that I love, even though the baby Jesus looks like an elf. I bought a little block sculpture that says "Happy Holidays" and has snowmen posing as some of the letters. I put out the Santa Claus that my grandpa carved for Clara and as soon as I get it from my mom's house I will pair it with the larger Santa he carved for me. I bought an ornament to commemorate Clara's first Christmas, and I plan to hit up World Market after Thanksgiving to get some more beautiful ornaments. And I've been Christmas tree shopping for about a month now.
The point is that I could not be happier about decorating for the holidays because there's no time of year that makes me happier and I want to revel in that feeling as long as possible. I'm that person. I'm the person who doesn't skip past the Christmas carols when they come on my mp3 player in July. I'm the person who doesn't bitch when stores put out Christmas decorations in August. I'm the person who gets their Christmas shopping done way before Thanksgiving (this year I set my own personal record and finished before Halloween). I'm the person most people probably hate. I can't help it, and I'm not ashamed of it. It makes me so sad to hear other people complain about Christmas or other winter holidays as being commercialized, or that they hate Christmas carols or that Thanksgiving just doesn't have a chance because of consumer craziness. WHATEVER, SCROOGE. You don't have to like Christmas, but do you have to try and ruin it for the people who look past all that media-driven madness? And for the record, I do enjoy Thanksgiving very much, but in my mind I kind of lump it in with Christmas in terms of decorating and well-wishing. Don't like it? Blame the pilgrims. They shouldn't have chosen such a close date to Christmas for slaughtering the Indians and conducting witch hunts.
I once read somewhere that Christmas is a child's holiday. I'm not sure what the author of that sentiment meant, and come to think of it, they probably meant it as an insult, but I agree for other reasons. When I remember being a child at Christmas, I can't think of any time in my life that made me happier. Not because of presents--even as a little girl I loved shopping for other people and watching someone open a gift I picked out for them was the greatest thrill of my life. Still is. There is a sense of wonderment not entirely related to Santa Claus that possesses children around Christmas. Snowflakes, sugar plum fairies, hot cocoa... what's not to love about that? I hope that I never lose that sense of wonderment and warmth that comes back to me during the winter holidays, and I can only hope that I can pass that on to my daughter, along with the decorating tradition.
The week before Halloween, my mom unpacked those same ceramic figurines that we decorated as kids and pulled out her special cookie jar. It was then that I realized this is the first year that I get to decorate an entire house by myself. Eric and I purchased our home at the beginning of the summer and even then I was ecstatic about the idea of having our own Christmas tree for the first time.
I started stocking up around Halloween. I bought material to make my own wreath to hang on the door. I bought a nativity set that I love, even though the baby Jesus looks like an elf. I bought a little block sculpture that says "Happy Holidays" and has snowmen posing as some of the letters. I put out the Santa Claus that my grandpa carved for Clara and as soon as I get it from my mom's house I will pair it with the larger Santa he carved for me. I bought an ornament to commemorate Clara's first Christmas, and I plan to hit up World Market after Thanksgiving to get some more beautiful ornaments. And I've been Christmas tree shopping for about a month now.
The point is that I could not be happier about decorating for the holidays because there's no time of year that makes me happier and I want to revel in that feeling as long as possible. I'm that person. I'm the person who doesn't skip past the Christmas carols when they come on my mp3 player in July. I'm the person who doesn't bitch when stores put out Christmas decorations in August. I'm the person who gets their Christmas shopping done way before Thanksgiving (this year I set my own personal record and finished before Halloween). I'm the person most people probably hate. I can't help it, and I'm not ashamed of it. It makes me so sad to hear other people complain about Christmas or other winter holidays as being commercialized, or that they hate Christmas carols or that Thanksgiving just doesn't have a chance because of consumer craziness. WHATEVER, SCROOGE. You don't have to like Christmas, but do you have to try and ruin it for the people who look past all that media-driven madness? And for the record, I do enjoy Thanksgiving very much, but in my mind I kind of lump it in with Christmas in terms of decorating and well-wishing. Don't like it? Blame the pilgrims. They shouldn't have chosen such a close date to Christmas for slaughtering the Indians and conducting witch hunts.
I once read somewhere that Christmas is a child's holiday. I'm not sure what the author of that sentiment meant, and come to think of it, they probably meant it as an insult, but I agree for other reasons. When I remember being a child at Christmas, I can't think of any time in my life that made me happier. Not because of presents--even as a little girl I loved shopping for other people and watching someone open a gift I picked out for them was the greatest thrill of my life. Still is. There is a sense of wonderment not entirely related to Santa Claus that possesses children around Christmas. Snowflakes, sugar plum fairies, hot cocoa... what's not to love about that? I hope that I never lose that sense of wonderment and warmth that comes back to me during the winter holidays, and I can only hope that I can pass that on to my daughter, along with the decorating tradition.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Cat Lady
I have been teased by my friends for a long time about being a crazy cat lady. This is fairly justified, as I have always had cats, and I talk to them all in special voices. I don't know why, I just feel like they understand me better when I sound more like them, and it's totally true. To this day, my cats know their names and come when I call them in the special voices. But anyway. I love cats. As cliche as it sounds, my pets are more than just pets; they are family.
My mom's house is crawling with cats because of her asshole neighbors who don't think they need to spay or neuter their animals. There are constantly kittens in the backyard, with new ones showing up every few months. Sometimes I try to befriend the kittens. There was one little in particular that I bonded with, 4 orange tabby cats who I named after the Marx Brothers. Shortly after they were comfortable enough with me to let me pet them, a new kitten showed up from the neighbors' house. I tried to chase him away, but he didn't give a damn and stayed put. He eventually became best friends with Groucho, the bravest of the orange tabbies. I named him Bosco Hollingsworth.
When we bought and moved into our new house, we brought Groucho and Bosco with us. This was new for them because they had always been outdoor, borderline feral cats. After the first two days in the house, Groucho disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, and it makes me sad every time I think about it. Bosco was pretty depressed as a result, and Eric and I decided to adopt a cat from the shelter to keep him company.
When I went to look at cats, I fully intended on getting an adult cat, because most people only want kittens and the older ones end up being put down more often than not. It also had to be a female, because Bosco can be territorial and I didn't want him spraying in response to a new boy.
Walking through the kennels, one of the first cages I passed had this teeny little kitten that was part tabby, part calico with gorgeous markings and gigantic eyes and ears. She was the only kitten that was in a cage all by herself; everyone else had a friend. When I passed her cage, she climbed up the door and reached her paw out towards me. I knew I had to hold her, and as soon as I did, she scurried up onto my shoulder and started furiously rubbing my face with hers. I was sold. I named her Minnie-May.
I was almost 8 months pregnant when I brought Minnie home and she became my constant companion. She would sleep for hours on my belly and on my chest and at night she would tuck herself under my chin and lick my nose to wake me up. When the baby kicked, she would poke at my stomach with her paw and purr like mad. She was kind of crazy sometimes, running up and down the hallway and break-neck speeds, climbing the curtains, and it was impossible to keep her off the counters and table. But I loved her. She kept me company during the end of a very hard pregnancy and I began to think of her as my other baby. I got to pour my love into her until I had my daughter to take care of, and in a lot of ways Minnie helped me make it through the last month.
After Clara was born, I felt really guilty about neglecting my cat duties. Minnie would constantly run across my lap when I was holding Clara, and she always wanted to climb on top of her while she was eating. She wanted to snuggle up with both of us and most of the time I just shoved her off my lap because I didn't want her licking the baby's face. She would always sneak into Clara's crib and cuddle up with her blankets, and even though it was cute, I would get exasperated because then I would have to re-wash all the bedding. I eventually started putting her outside to help her burn off some energy, and she seemed to like it.
Today the cats were constantly underfoot. They literally have this method of getting my attention that consists of them galloping past me and then flopping down on the floor right where I'm about to step so that I can't ignore them. Minnie learned this from Bosco, and today it just pissed me off. Clara had had a bad time the night before and I had hardly any sleep. Today was an early morning rehearsal followed by me feeling feverish and sick, and I just wasn't in the mood to put up with energetic cats, so I kicked them outside. I usually bring Minnie in around dusk, because she's still a baby and I don't want her getting eaten by racoons or anything, but tonight I was distracted doing laundry and dishes. For some reason I had been thinking of vets and had a fleeting thought of, "If anything happened to the cats on the weekend, where would I take them for emergency treatment?"
I asked Eric to go to the grocery store for me. He came back inside a few minutes after leaving and he looked really upset. He said, "I'm totally not joking, but..."
A million thoughts ran through my head. The first was that the car had been broken into or stolen. The second was that he lost the car key (something we went through last week). I wasn't expecting what he said next.
"....I think Minnie's dead. She's laying in the street with blood on her, and I don't think she's breathing."
I couldn't even formulate a sentence, I just put Clara down and put my shoes on. By the time I got outside, Eric had moved Minnie onto the hood of the car. I couldn't even look at her face to see how much blood there was, I could tell by the way she was curled up that she was dead. She appeared to have been hit by a car, and whoever it was just left in the middle of the street directly in front of our house. It's not that surprising that she was hit because she liked to run underneath parked cars and stalk people as they walked down the sidewalk. But it is inconceivable to me that someone would hit an animal and then not go to at least one house to see if it was someone's pet. I realize that California law doesn't mandate this for cats, but... come on.
Anyway, Eric and I spent the better part of the evening crying and feeling miserable. I'm sad for a lot of reasons, but mainly I can't reconcile the fact that I have been kind of mean to my little kitty for the last two months, and it breaks me heart. All she wanted was love and attention, and I never seemed to have the time. It may seem ridiculous to some people that I'm so emotional over a cat, but I have really never experienced a severe loss of a loved one in my life. Even my other cats that died weren't as hard at this because they were adults, and I never had to see their dead bodies. Minnie was my little angel kitty, and I wish I had treated her better. It really blows that it takes a dead cat to give me some perspective on life, but there it is.
I love you, Minnie-May.
(photo courtesy of www.kmillerphotographs.com)
My mom's house is crawling with cats because of her asshole neighbors who don't think they need to spay or neuter their animals. There are constantly kittens in the backyard, with new ones showing up every few months. Sometimes I try to befriend the kittens. There was one little in particular that I bonded with, 4 orange tabby cats who I named after the Marx Brothers. Shortly after they were comfortable enough with me to let me pet them, a new kitten showed up from the neighbors' house. I tried to chase him away, but he didn't give a damn and stayed put. He eventually became best friends with Groucho, the bravest of the orange tabbies. I named him Bosco Hollingsworth.
When we bought and moved into our new house, we brought Groucho and Bosco with us. This was new for them because they had always been outdoor, borderline feral cats. After the first two days in the house, Groucho disappeared. I don't know what happened to him, and it makes me sad every time I think about it. Bosco was pretty depressed as a result, and Eric and I decided to adopt a cat from the shelter to keep him company.
When I went to look at cats, I fully intended on getting an adult cat, because most people only want kittens and the older ones end up being put down more often than not. It also had to be a female, because Bosco can be territorial and I didn't want him spraying in response to a new boy.
Walking through the kennels, one of the first cages I passed had this teeny little kitten that was part tabby, part calico with gorgeous markings and gigantic eyes and ears. She was the only kitten that was in a cage all by herself; everyone else had a friend. When I passed her cage, she climbed up the door and reached her paw out towards me. I knew I had to hold her, and as soon as I did, she scurried up onto my shoulder and started furiously rubbing my face with hers. I was sold. I named her Minnie-May.
I was almost 8 months pregnant when I brought Minnie home and she became my constant companion. She would sleep for hours on my belly and on my chest and at night she would tuck herself under my chin and lick my nose to wake me up. When the baby kicked, she would poke at my stomach with her paw and purr like mad. She was kind of crazy sometimes, running up and down the hallway and break-neck speeds, climbing the curtains, and it was impossible to keep her off the counters and table. But I loved her. She kept me company during the end of a very hard pregnancy and I began to think of her as my other baby. I got to pour my love into her until I had my daughter to take care of, and in a lot of ways Minnie helped me make it through the last month.
After Clara was born, I felt really guilty about neglecting my cat duties. Minnie would constantly run across my lap when I was holding Clara, and she always wanted to climb on top of her while she was eating. She wanted to snuggle up with both of us and most of the time I just shoved her off my lap because I didn't want her licking the baby's face. She would always sneak into Clara's crib and cuddle up with her blankets, and even though it was cute, I would get exasperated because then I would have to re-wash all the bedding. I eventually started putting her outside to help her burn off some energy, and she seemed to like it.
Today the cats were constantly underfoot. They literally have this method of getting my attention that consists of them galloping past me and then flopping down on the floor right where I'm about to step so that I can't ignore them. Minnie learned this from Bosco, and today it just pissed me off. Clara had had a bad time the night before and I had hardly any sleep. Today was an early morning rehearsal followed by me feeling feverish and sick, and I just wasn't in the mood to put up with energetic cats, so I kicked them outside. I usually bring Minnie in around dusk, because she's still a baby and I don't want her getting eaten by racoons or anything, but tonight I was distracted doing laundry and dishes. For some reason I had been thinking of vets and had a fleeting thought of, "If anything happened to the cats on the weekend, where would I take them for emergency treatment?"
I asked Eric to go to the grocery store for me. He came back inside a few minutes after leaving and he looked really upset. He said, "I'm totally not joking, but..."
A million thoughts ran through my head. The first was that the car had been broken into or stolen. The second was that he lost the car key (something we went through last week). I wasn't expecting what he said next.
"....I think Minnie's dead. She's laying in the street with blood on her, and I don't think she's breathing."
I couldn't even formulate a sentence, I just put Clara down and put my shoes on. By the time I got outside, Eric had moved Minnie onto the hood of the car. I couldn't even look at her face to see how much blood there was, I could tell by the way she was curled up that she was dead. She appeared to have been hit by a car, and whoever it was just left in the middle of the street directly in front of our house. It's not that surprising that she was hit because she liked to run underneath parked cars and stalk people as they walked down the sidewalk. But it is inconceivable to me that someone would hit an animal and then not go to at least one house to see if it was someone's pet. I realize that California law doesn't mandate this for cats, but... come on.
Anyway, Eric and I spent the better part of the evening crying and feeling miserable. I'm sad for a lot of reasons, but mainly I can't reconcile the fact that I have been kind of mean to my little kitty for the last two months, and it breaks me heart. All she wanted was love and attention, and I never seemed to have the time. It may seem ridiculous to some people that I'm so emotional over a cat, but I have really never experienced a severe loss of a loved one in my life. Even my other cats that died weren't as hard at this because they were adults, and I never had to see their dead bodies. Minnie was my little angel kitty, and I wish I had treated her better. It really blows that it takes a dead cat to give me some perspective on life, but there it is.
I love you, Minnie-May.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Life Choices
I've been a mother for one month. When I was pregnant, my friend's mother told me that once the baby was born, it would feel like she had always been with me. This is true, I have a hard time remember what it felt like to not have a 10 pound meatloaf attached to me at all times. But it's still completely bizarre at the same time.
I've heard that there is nothing like motherly wisdom and I have to agree, I have learned a lot of things in this relatively short period of time. Not all of them apply to outside life or anyone who hasn't had a newborn baby, but I've decided to keep track as I accumulate them for my own amusement.
Primarily, becoming a mother means having all new choices in life. Having a baby who only sleeps for short periods of time during the day means having to allot every day tasks into time slots. For example, during her morning nap I have about 20 minutes. I can choose to do laundry or take a shower. Afternoon nap is anywhere from 10 minutes to three hours. I can choose to clean the house or take a nap and, if I'm lucky, poop. Laundry and poop usually win out over all others.
Every day is a lesson in feeling guilty about something. Either it's not getting the laundry done and having your husband left with no clean clothes, or feeling guilty about laughing at the baby's cries when they sound like a goat.
You can much longer without eating than you think. All it takes is a baby attached to your arm before you realize that it's 4pm and you haven't eaten anything all day and still don't feel hungry. It also makes it harder to eat anything substantial because you have no time, so sometimes all you can eat is a couple cookies. No wonder my ass is getting bigger.
Poop is not nearly as disgusting as you think it is. At least not as disgusting as I thought. Seriously, I lost sleep during my last month of pregnancy because I was worrying about being grossed out by poop diapers and not wanting to change them or anything, and it's not bad at all. It stinks, sure, and I wouldn't want to use it as a face mask or anything, but it's no big deal. It also helps that my formula-fed baby only has one or two poop diapers on an average day.
Other mothers are both the kindest and bitchiest people in the world. I don't know what it is about motherhood that makes you think you need to impart all sorts of advice on other people, especially new mothers, but I kind of hate it. I have had so many people act like it's so precious that I don't always know what I'm doing or that the decisions I'm making for my daughter are questionable, and they have a kid that's only a few months older than mine. While some women have been wonderfully encouraging, all others can take their shitty advice and shove it.
The TV really can freak out a baby. I generally don't like to have the TV on while my daughter is awake because I want to take in as much time with her as possible before I wake up and she's 30. However, in the middle of the night sometimes I have to watch TV in order to stay awake and avoid dropping my child onto the cat curled up in my lap. She seems to enjoy shitty smut TV like Millionaire Matchmaker and Teen Mom, but she despises anything with a ton of flashing lights or explosions. Just like her mama.
I've heard that there is nothing like motherly wisdom and I have to agree, I have learned a lot of things in this relatively short period of time. Not all of them apply to outside life or anyone who hasn't had a newborn baby, but I've decided to keep track as I accumulate them for my own amusement.
Primarily, becoming a mother means having all new choices in life. Having a baby who only sleeps for short periods of time during the day means having to allot every day tasks into time slots. For example, during her morning nap I have about 20 minutes. I can choose to do laundry or take a shower. Afternoon nap is anywhere from 10 minutes to three hours. I can choose to clean the house or take a nap and, if I'm lucky, poop. Laundry and poop usually win out over all others.
Every day is a lesson in feeling guilty about something. Either it's not getting the laundry done and having your husband left with no clean clothes, or feeling guilty about laughing at the baby's cries when they sound like a goat.
You can much longer without eating than you think. All it takes is a baby attached to your arm before you realize that it's 4pm and you haven't eaten anything all day and still don't feel hungry. It also makes it harder to eat anything substantial because you have no time, so sometimes all you can eat is a couple cookies. No wonder my ass is getting bigger.
Poop is not nearly as disgusting as you think it is. At least not as disgusting as I thought. Seriously, I lost sleep during my last month of pregnancy because I was worrying about being grossed out by poop diapers and not wanting to change them or anything, and it's not bad at all. It stinks, sure, and I wouldn't want to use it as a face mask or anything, but it's no big deal. It also helps that my formula-fed baby only has one or two poop diapers on an average day.
Other mothers are both the kindest and bitchiest people in the world. I don't know what it is about motherhood that makes you think you need to impart all sorts of advice on other people, especially new mothers, but I kind of hate it. I have had so many people act like it's so precious that I don't always know what I'm doing or that the decisions I'm making for my daughter are questionable, and they have a kid that's only a few months older than mine. While some women have been wonderfully encouraging, all others can take their shitty advice and shove it.
The TV really can freak out a baby. I generally don't like to have the TV on while my daughter is awake because I want to take in as much time with her as possible before I wake up and she's 30. However, in the middle of the night sometimes I have to watch TV in order to stay awake and avoid dropping my child onto the cat curled up in my lap. She seems to enjoy shitty smut TV like Millionaire Matchmaker and Teen Mom, but she despises anything with a ton of flashing lights or explosions. Just like her mama.
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