There was a time when I never thought I would be a mother. Ever. I went through a period of time (basically up until Eric proposed to me) where I was literally incapable of picturing myself getting married or having children. I guess I had been through so many failed relationships and played the dating game so long that I just assumed that would be my whole life. I wasn't in love with the idea but I had come to terms with it. Then I got married, shortly after that I found out I was pregnant and my whole world turned upside down in the best way possible.
I realize that it's annoying for people who haven't experienced something to read about other people spewing their personal experiences and gushing about how wonderful something is. Oooooh, marriage is soooooo greeeeeeeeat, being a mother is sooooooo amaaaaaaaaaazing! Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! I get it. It's annoying. So you might want to stop reading now.
No, seriously though, these admittedly wonderful things are not flawless. There are some women who appear to having everything all together. They are in great shape. Their houses are spotless. They wear clothing that is both classy and on trend. Their husbands have awesome jobs and college degrees. Their hair always looks like they just stepped out of a salon. Their child(ren) are adorable and also wearing trendy and adorable clothing. They have nap schedules down to a science. They never raise their voices. They are pissing me off.
Okay, these things are not what they seem. Even these stepford mothers have bad days. They might not broadcast them to the world, but they have bad days where their hair is flat, their kids get sick and barf all over their trendy clothes, they don't have the energy to scrapbook or cook dinner so they just order pizza and leave the dishes in the sink. It happens. They might not write blogs about it, but it happens. So stop getting down on yourself. K? Thanks.
I myself have many of these days. Granted I didn't start in the same scenario as described above.... I'm seriously overweight. My house is typically pretty trashed. I wear clothing that is usually found on clearance at Target or Lane Bryant. My husband has an awesome job and a college degree, but I have neither and it makes me feel inferior. My hair always looks like crap because I am perpetually growing it out or too lazy to style it. My child is definitely adorable and is usually wearing adorable clothing, but most of it is hand-me-down or bought from a used clothing store, and I often use her cute appearance as a reason why I don't have to try as hard on my own. We almost have naps down but for 9 months there were basically no naps, which is hellish. I raise my voice... um... a lot. Like... a lot. Not necessarily at my daughter, but just in general. At the cats, at other drivers, at the radio, at myself... yeah. I do not have it all "together".
Every time someone asks me what it's like to be a mom, I immediately think to myself, "I couldn't possibly describe it", so I just say, "It's the hardest and best thing I've ever done." Which is true. Clara is the most amazing thing I've ever done in my entire life. Granted she was an unexpected surprise (don't rely on birth control alone, friends), my pregnancy was kinda crappy and my birth experience was downright traumatic, I wouldn't trade her for anything in the world. Even when she screams at me for hours because I can't figure out what will make her feel better. Even when she rips out chunks of my swiftly-graying hair. Even when she refuses to fall asleep without me rocking her for hours on end. Even when I think I'm going to go crazy and put my head through a window... the good moments (and there are hundreds of them every single day) make up for all the unpleasant ones, ten-fold.
If you are in the market for a child, I suggest taking your time. Live your life, experience all the things you want to experience like travel or daredevil kicks, anything that you can't see yourself doing while toting a kid around with you. Don't lose heart about falling in love, because I firmly believe that people who are wonderful together will always connect sooner or later. But if you want to be a mother... please, be a mother, and be a damn good one.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
An exercise in futility: My audition for reality television
So ever since American Idol came around I have had people ask me the same general question when they find out I sing: "Oh, really? Have you ever thought about audition for American Idol or something?" And the answer is always "No, not really." There are a few reasons for this. One is that I don't appreciate that most of the talent shows on television purposely put people who are not talented on and exploit them for entertainment's sake. It's both cruel and a waste of time for anyone truly talented who went to the audition and got turned down. The other reason is that, while I know that I'm a good singer and that people (generally) enjoy my voice, I am not Christina Aguilera. I'm not a pop singer. I can't sing Mariah Carey notes without tapping into some serious operatic vibrato. I have a pleasant voice and I am a good musician, but I don't really know if anyone would buy a record of me singing. But then along came The Voice, a tv show that didn't put on terrible singers and embarrass the crap out of them.
A friend of mine had a friend who was a casting agent for the first season of this show, and I was all prepared to audition for it... and then I found out I was pregnant. So not only would I have not been allowed to compete, my stupid morning sickness wasn't really conducive to auditioning for anything (I actually missed two other really big auditions that fall because of my damn morning sickness). Ever since that first season, my good friend has been harassing me to audition for it. This year was the first time I really considered it. Eric and I talked about it and ultimately we figured that it was something I needed to at least try before dismissing it. So I did. I flew down to Los Angeles and auditioned. It went a little something like this:
First of all, can I just say that fat people get the shit end of the stick in a lot of situations, but none so much as when they have to fly on an airplane. I'm not so huge that I have to buy myself two seats or anything, but I know I'm a hefty lady. I know that people are about as eager to sit next to me on a plane as they are to sit in front of a screaming, kicking toddler. But these fears are unfounded, people! I almost always cross my arms or am reading a book on top of my tray so the arm rests are all yours. I am terribly polite and would NEVER make you feel bad about getting up to use the bathroom. I never recline my seat because those extra two inches are a joke. And I don't smell. At least not usually. So if you happen to be sitting in the aisle seat of a very crowded plane and a very polite albeit fat person asks if they could sit in the middle seat next to you, do not scoff and be a rude bitch about it, otherwise you MIGHT find that the Chanel handbag you left in front of your seat gets stepped on. Just sayin'.
I got there a day early so I would have a day to rest and get prepared. And rest. I. did. I spent almost an entire day in my hotel room lying on a giant bed with a bajillion pillows, reading The Hunger Games (I did my best to hold out on this trend, but I caved when I burned through the book I brought halfway through the plane ride down). Then I spent the night with one of my old besties and her girlfriend who is, honestly, pretty damn rad. We probably stayed out a little too late and I had a kink in my neck from plane, but I still went to sleep earlier than I usually do.
The next morning I woke up at 5am. The audition was at 7 and my friend was coming to pick me up at 5:45 to take me to downtown LA. When we got there at 6:10, there were already a few hundred people in line. The way they formatted the auditions was four major cities, three days in each city, two major time slots on each day. I was in the first slot of the second day in the last city. I showed up almost an hour early and there was already that many people in line? Ugh. I knew I had a long day ahead of me. All in all there HAD to have been at least a thousand people that showed up for the first time slot, let alone the second.
I stood in line outside the building for over an hour, inching forward here and there. It was freezing outside and I didn't bring a coat because I'm one of those idiots that assumes southern California is always warm. I was surrounded by people doing their makeup, wearing insane outfits and teenagers with their parents. There were people trying to cut here and there and the stage parents were not having it, which was pretty amusing. There was a girl behind me who was 17 and with both her parents. They seemed friendly enough but very, very confident. By "confident" I mean "arrogant." Their conversation went a little like this:
Dad: Ok baby girl, when you get in there just focus on your singing. You know that your voice brings so much joy to people so just focus on the joy, baby girl, and you'll get it.
Girl: Oh, I KNOW I'm going to get it, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to make it through.
Dad: Just don't make a fool of yourself, otherwise they'll put that clip on TV and make you look like a damn fool.
Mom: Whatever makes her famous.
Yeah. This is the kind of crap I had to listen to for several hours. There was another girl who I wanted to kick directly in the teeth. She was 19 but looked 30, was from San Francisco (which probably accounted for at least half of her annoying factor), had short, bleached blonde spiky hair, and was wearing a tank top, zebra print hoodie with a zebra head on the hood, and a crap load of chains. Seriously. Chain wallet (because apparently it was 1996 at the audition), chain necklaces, leather dog collar with spikes coming out of it, and somehow she made it through the metal detector. And THAT wasn't even what made her so annoying. She kept asking everyone around in a very condescending manner, "What's your genre?" When she asked me I informed her that I didn't have a genre, I sang a lot of different things. She didn't even bother to respond and then ignored me. When I asked her what her genre was she replied, "Oh, I'm singing Madonna." Because apparently Madonna IS her own genre. Crap genre.
The other thing I noticed was that every single person I heard talking about themselves was talking about their previous audition experiences. I think I must have been one of the only people in my general vicinity who hadn't previously auditioned for American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent or The Voice. On one hand I really admire these people for tenaciously pursuing their dream of singing. And on the other hand it's pretty sad that they apparently spend so much of their life trying out for these stupid shows.
Once I actually got to the audition room (around 9:30), they took us in 10 at a time and had is sit in chairs in front of a single judge who I assume was a casting agent. He called people randomly to stand in the center of the room and sing about a minute of the song we prepared. Some of these people sounded awesome, some of them were terrible. Like this one girl who sang a Mariah Carey song that I couldn't even recognize because it was so lacking in melody and, um, pitch. Until the end. Good lord, this girl pulled out two, bonafide dog-whistle level notes and she was so proud of herself. I was trying really hard not to crack up. When it was my turn, I got up, said where I was from and went into my song. I had been really worried about what I would sing because sometimes your song choice can make or break your audition, regardless of how well you sing it. I ultimately went with "Make You Feel My Love" in the style of Adele. I probably shouldn't have picked an artist who just got a shitload of grammies because I'm sure they heard a million of her songs all weekend, but I wanted to sing something that I emotionally connected with and that made me happy. I sang this song at the wedding of my best friend who was urging me to audition, so I felt like it was appropriate. I did pretty well although at one point I spaced out and started singing in kind of a different key, and if I hadn't been the seasoned pro that I am *cough* I would have stopped and asked to start again. I kind of figured I blew it and sat down feeling angry at myself.
The 17 year-old girl who had been behind me in line with her parents was in my group, and she sang right before me. She chose "At Last", which I kind of rolled my eyes at because it's so overdone by people who try to sound older than they are. She sounded okay, but she kept changing keys, and not intentionally. However, after everyone had finished their songs, the judge asked her to come back up and sing a second song. She chose, "Listen" from Dream Girls in the style of Beyonce. It. Was. Bad. She was basically shouting and doing vocals runs that she had no business trying to do. The tone of her voice was nice but that's about all I can say. There were at least three people in our group who sounded 10 times better than she did, but lo and behold, they asked her to stay behind for a callback. That's when I started feeling really heated and I wanted to lash out and say that they only picked her because she was cute and young and it makes for good TV. And that's probably true, but I was not about to be one of the people in the lobby crying because they didn't make it. Seriously, there were people sobbing and saying things like, "They didn't hear me at my best, I have a sore throat! This isn't faaaaaaaair!" And I had to laugh.
It's true, that girl probably was chosen for television purposes rather than musical merit, but I wasn't the only person that got snubbed in that audition. I know for a fact that I am a good singer, I know even better singers than me who have been turned down for TV competitions. I didn't leave feeling defeated because I had approximately 45 Facebook comments from people wishing me good luck and sending me votes of confidence on my ability. I have performed too many times and heard too many good things to let ONE audition make me feel inadequate.
And after all that, I got to spend the rest of the day and night with friends who I hadn't seen in years, drinking during the day and shopping without a child barfing down the front of my shirt. We went to the ocean, we ate Indian food, we played card games and word games and even sang Christmas songs from high school. It was a total nerd's weekend and I had an amazing time, whether I became a TV star or not.
On the plane ride home I sat next to a young Asian guy who looked apprehensive at sitting next to a fat lady... until I offered him some of my licorice. See? There are perks to being polite to the fatties.
A friend of mine had a friend who was a casting agent for the first season of this show, and I was all prepared to audition for it... and then I found out I was pregnant. So not only would I have not been allowed to compete, my stupid morning sickness wasn't really conducive to auditioning for anything (I actually missed two other really big auditions that fall because of my damn morning sickness). Ever since that first season, my good friend has been harassing me to audition for it. This year was the first time I really considered it. Eric and I talked about it and ultimately we figured that it was something I needed to at least try before dismissing it. So I did. I flew down to Los Angeles and auditioned. It went a little something like this:
First of all, can I just say that fat people get the shit end of the stick in a lot of situations, but none so much as when they have to fly on an airplane. I'm not so huge that I have to buy myself two seats or anything, but I know I'm a hefty lady. I know that people are about as eager to sit next to me on a plane as they are to sit in front of a screaming, kicking toddler. But these fears are unfounded, people! I almost always cross my arms or am reading a book on top of my tray so the arm rests are all yours. I am terribly polite and would NEVER make you feel bad about getting up to use the bathroom. I never recline my seat because those extra two inches are a joke. And I don't smell. At least not usually. So if you happen to be sitting in the aisle seat of a very crowded plane and a very polite albeit fat person asks if they could sit in the middle seat next to you, do not scoff and be a rude bitch about it, otherwise you MIGHT find that the Chanel handbag you left in front of your seat gets stepped on. Just sayin'.
I got there a day early so I would have a day to rest and get prepared. And rest. I. did. I spent almost an entire day in my hotel room lying on a giant bed with a bajillion pillows, reading The Hunger Games (I did my best to hold out on this trend, but I caved when I burned through the book I brought halfway through the plane ride down). Then I spent the night with one of my old besties and her girlfriend who is, honestly, pretty damn rad. We probably stayed out a little too late and I had a kink in my neck from plane, but I still went to sleep earlier than I usually do.
The next morning I woke up at 5am. The audition was at 7 and my friend was coming to pick me up at 5:45 to take me to downtown LA. When we got there at 6:10, there were already a few hundred people in line. The way they formatted the auditions was four major cities, three days in each city, two major time slots on each day. I was in the first slot of the second day in the last city. I showed up almost an hour early and there was already that many people in line? Ugh. I knew I had a long day ahead of me. All in all there HAD to have been at least a thousand people that showed up for the first time slot, let alone the second.
I stood in line outside the building for over an hour, inching forward here and there. It was freezing outside and I didn't bring a coat because I'm one of those idiots that assumes southern California is always warm. I was surrounded by people doing their makeup, wearing insane outfits and teenagers with their parents. There were people trying to cut here and there and the stage parents were not having it, which was pretty amusing. There was a girl behind me who was 17 and with both her parents. They seemed friendly enough but very, very confident. By "confident" I mean "arrogant." Their conversation went a little like this:
Dad: Ok baby girl, when you get in there just focus on your singing. You know that your voice brings so much joy to people so just focus on the joy, baby girl, and you'll get it.
Girl: Oh, I KNOW I'm going to get it, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to make it through.
Dad: Just don't make a fool of yourself, otherwise they'll put that clip on TV and make you look like a damn fool.
Mom: Whatever makes her famous.
Yeah. This is the kind of crap I had to listen to for several hours. There was another girl who I wanted to kick directly in the teeth. She was 19 but looked 30, was from San Francisco (which probably accounted for at least half of her annoying factor), had short, bleached blonde spiky hair, and was wearing a tank top, zebra print hoodie with a zebra head on the hood, and a crap load of chains. Seriously. Chain wallet (because apparently it was 1996 at the audition), chain necklaces, leather dog collar with spikes coming out of it, and somehow she made it through the metal detector. And THAT wasn't even what made her so annoying. She kept asking everyone around in a very condescending manner, "What's your genre?" When she asked me I informed her that I didn't have a genre, I sang a lot of different things. She didn't even bother to respond and then ignored me. When I asked her what her genre was she replied, "Oh, I'm singing Madonna." Because apparently Madonna IS her own genre. Crap genre.
The other thing I noticed was that every single person I heard talking about themselves was talking about their previous audition experiences. I think I must have been one of the only people in my general vicinity who hadn't previously auditioned for American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent or The Voice. On one hand I really admire these people for tenaciously pursuing their dream of singing. And on the other hand it's pretty sad that they apparently spend so much of their life trying out for these stupid shows.
Once I actually got to the audition room (around 9:30), they took us in 10 at a time and had is sit in chairs in front of a single judge who I assume was a casting agent. He called people randomly to stand in the center of the room and sing about a minute of the song we prepared. Some of these people sounded awesome, some of them were terrible. Like this one girl who sang a Mariah Carey song that I couldn't even recognize because it was so lacking in melody and, um, pitch. Until the end. Good lord, this girl pulled out two, bonafide dog-whistle level notes and she was so proud of herself. I was trying really hard not to crack up. When it was my turn, I got up, said where I was from and went into my song. I had been really worried about what I would sing because sometimes your song choice can make or break your audition, regardless of how well you sing it. I ultimately went with "Make You Feel My Love" in the style of Adele. I probably shouldn't have picked an artist who just got a shitload of grammies because I'm sure they heard a million of her songs all weekend, but I wanted to sing something that I emotionally connected with and that made me happy. I sang this song at the wedding of my best friend who was urging me to audition, so I felt like it was appropriate. I did pretty well although at one point I spaced out and started singing in kind of a different key, and if I hadn't been the seasoned pro that I am *cough* I would have stopped and asked to start again. I kind of figured I blew it and sat down feeling angry at myself.
The 17 year-old girl who had been behind me in line with her parents was in my group, and she sang right before me. She chose "At Last", which I kind of rolled my eyes at because it's so overdone by people who try to sound older than they are. She sounded okay, but she kept changing keys, and not intentionally. However, after everyone had finished their songs, the judge asked her to come back up and sing a second song. She chose, "Listen" from Dream Girls in the style of Beyonce. It. Was. Bad. She was basically shouting and doing vocals runs that she had no business trying to do. The tone of her voice was nice but that's about all I can say. There were at least three people in our group who sounded 10 times better than she did, but lo and behold, they asked her to stay behind for a callback. That's when I started feeling really heated and I wanted to lash out and say that they only picked her because she was cute and young and it makes for good TV. And that's probably true, but I was not about to be one of the people in the lobby crying because they didn't make it. Seriously, there were people sobbing and saying things like, "They didn't hear me at my best, I have a sore throat! This isn't faaaaaaaair!" And I had to laugh.
It's true, that girl probably was chosen for television purposes rather than musical merit, but I wasn't the only person that got snubbed in that audition. I know for a fact that I am a good singer, I know even better singers than me who have been turned down for TV competitions. I didn't leave feeling defeated because I had approximately 45 Facebook comments from people wishing me good luck and sending me votes of confidence on my ability. I have performed too many times and heard too many good things to let ONE audition make me feel inadequate.
And after all that, I got to spend the rest of the day and night with friends who I hadn't seen in years, drinking during the day and shopping without a child barfing down the front of my shirt. We went to the ocean, we ate Indian food, we played card games and word games and even sang Christmas songs from high school. It was a total nerd's weekend and I had an amazing time, whether I became a TV star or not.
On the plane ride home I sat next to a young Asian guy who looked apprehensive at sitting next to a fat lady... until I offered him some of my licorice. See? There are perks to being polite to the fatties.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
An aversion to all things poopy
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.
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.
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.
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