I bought a sewing machine last spring. Last week I finally attended the class to teach me the basics. It was informative. There is so much information still to learn! It's fun to be at the beginning of a learning curve. I like to learn. (I like to learn the things I pick to learn.)
Thus far I've sewn a skirt and some curtains to cover up the cat litter box housed under the bathroom sink.
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I hate being misunderstood. I sometimes think that when someone appears to misunderstand me, that it's a failure on my part to explain properly. However some people probably will never "understand" in the way I'd like them to no matter how explicitly I explain. This is sometimes maddening. This is something I struggle to let go of. I can't change other people nor should I be able to! Their opinion is their business; no sense in letting it ruin my day (or evening, or hour.)
Things happened today that I thought I could safely bring to a group I regularly meet with tonight. I shared what was going on and was stunned to hear their take on the situation; they didn't seem to share my opinion that it was a big deal! Part of me never wants to return and part of me says, so what, people will think what they think. I know what's true and so does God and why can't that be enough? I guess maybe the disappointment was that I had an expectation that they would support and pray for me. It's really been messing with my head, though, because now I'm questioning myself, wondering if maybe I'm overreacting? I really don't think I am - and neither do the other adults in the situation!
I don't know. I just want to be free of the constant mulling over my brain is doing. Turn it over. Let it go. Keep on acting how I choose to act and let it be okay for the ladies who I see once a week to think and believe whatever they want. I just hate being misunderstood, if I was. If I wasn't then I'm even more mad.
I feel like I don't become truly angry about very much, but this situation had to do with my daughter and I feel my responses were completely appropriate and justified.
Alright fine, God. Take it. I don't want it. I hoped writing would help.
Showing posts with label Annoyed by. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Annoyed by. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The Sock Thrower
Remember that story about the man who was throwing starfish back into the ocean? No? Then here. It's been adapted many ways. Here's one adaptation taken from the Wikipedia page I just linked to, in which the star of the story is a woman:
It's been quite difficult for me to dissociate my worth from how successfully I do or do not do things. This worked very well when I was employed doing something I enjoyed and was good at. This did not work so well when I became employed in service to my family as a home "maker." The repetitive household chores necessary for life to run smoothly just do not appeal to me. At all. Not even a little bit. I derive no satisfaction from cleaning up after other people (or even myself.) It has been a challenge and how I've viewed myself has suffered, accordingly. If I don't get to be happy with myself until ALL the laundry is washed and put away and ALL the dishes are clean... well then the times I get to be happy with myself are very few and far between!1/2
Before we had children I made tasks like washing dishes and folding laundry slightly more palatable by listening to podcasts or audio books as I worked1. I also wasn't nursing, sleep-deprived, responsible for keeping two little people safe, fed, clean (mostly) and healthy, or distracted by earnest questions from a 5-yr-old such as, "but what is gravity MADE out of?!" Additionally, Superman usually helped. We both had full-time jobs. I didn't like doing dishes or laundry but it was manageable. Then I grew a few kids, stopped working for a paycheck and suddenly it all became my responsibility2.
Keeping the starfish story in mind, I now tell myself that no matter how many times a dirty sock may climb back out of the waves to beach itself upon my couch, or behind the toilet, or under the kitchen table... I can choose to pick it up and each time it will have made a difference for that one. Even if it's the same one. Multiple times a day. Each time I wash a dish it will have made a difference for that one, that time. All my precious little starfish... the paper scraps... the dirty underwear... the books... the stuffed animal... the cat toy... the pile of crayons... let me throw you back where you belong. It makes a difference every time.
This intentional shift of perspective has helped my expectations be a tad more reasonable. It's also given me the freedom to do what I can and accept that I may never have all the socks clean and folded and put away3.
Surprisingly, I've found I've been able to do so much more as a result. I've been freed to do more. Now that the pressure is off to get ALL the starfish back where they belong TODAY (which is an impossible expectation), I'm able to slow down and enjoy the process. Yes, I sometimes enjoy folding laundry and doing dishes. Whether or not I get them all done that hour or even that day has no bearing on my worth.
I'm learning to consistently find my worth in someone far more substantial than any of my accomplishments - a loving higher power.
Along those lines and with a lovely additional point, I highly recommend reading this post, by Kathryn Thompson at Daring Young Mom. It's long but the ending is so worth it.
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1/2Unless anti-depressants are involved and even then I wasn't convinced happiness with myself was an option.
1Now I choose to remain unplugged and available during the hours my kids and husband are awake and home.
2Which I initially agreed it should be. We're still working out the kinks in the balance of responsibilities we both have, as well as our skills and personal preferences.
3Until I train my children to do it all!
An old man had a habit of early morning walks on the beach. One day, after a storm, he saw a human figure in the distance moving like a dancer. As he came closer he saw that it was a young woman and she was not dancing but was reaching down to the sand, picking up a starfish and very gently throwing them into the ocean.I've decided to change my perspective. I don't have a starfish problem. I have a dirty sock problem. I don't have miles and miles of beach. I have inches and inches of counter with stranded cereal bowls littering its surface. Many times throughout my day I've found myself thinking "I cannot possibly make a difference." My pattern in the past has alternated between working feverishly on one thing and ignoring all other needs or giving up entirely and doing nothing. Neither of those approaches work very well for me and it's taken me five or so years to come to that conclusion. I'm ready to do something differently, even if it's only in the way I think. Especially if it's only in the way I think.
"Young lady," he asked, "Why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?"
"The sun is up, and the tide is going out, and if I do not throw them in they will die."
"But young lady, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and starfish all along it? You cannot possibly make a difference."
The young woman listened politely, paused and then bent down, picked up another starfish and threw it into the sea, past the breaking waves,
saying, "It made a difference for that one."
It's been quite difficult for me to dissociate my worth from how successfully I do or do not do things. This worked very well when I was employed doing something I enjoyed and was good at. This did not work so well when I became employed in service to my family as a home "maker." The repetitive household chores necessary for life to run smoothly just do not appeal to me. At all. Not even a little bit. I derive no satisfaction from cleaning up after other people (or even myself.) It has been a challenge and how I've viewed myself has suffered, accordingly. If I don't get to be happy with myself until ALL the laundry is washed and put away and ALL the dishes are clean... well then the times I get to be happy with myself are very few and far between!1/2
Before we had children I made tasks like washing dishes and folding laundry slightly more palatable by listening to podcasts or audio books as I worked1. I also wasn't nursing, sleep-deprived, responsible for keeping two little people safe, fed, clean (mostly) and healthy, or distracted by earnest questions from a 5-yr-old such as, "but what is gravity MADE out of?!" Additionally, Superman usually helped. We both had full-time jobs. I didn't like doing dishes or laundry but it was manageable. Then I grew a few kids, stopped working for a paycheck and suddenly it all became my responsibility2.
Keeping the starfish story in mind, I now tell myself that no matter how many times a dirty sock may climb back out of the waves to beach itself upon my couch, or behind the toilet, or under the kitchen table... I can choose to pick it up and each time it will have made a difference for that one. Even if it's the same one. Multiple times a day. Each time I wash a dish it will have made a difference for that one, that time. All my precious little starfish... the paper scraps... the dirty underwear... the books... the stuffed animal... the cat toy... the pile of crayons... let me throw you back where you belong. It makes a difference every time.
This intentional shift of perspective has helped my expectations be a tad more reasonable. It's also given me the freedom to do what I can and accept that I may never have all the socks clean and folded and put away3.
Surprisingly, I've found I've been able to do so much more as a result. I've been freed to do more. Now that the pressure is off to get ALL the starfish back where they belong TODAY (which is an impossible expectation), I'm able to slow down and enjoy the process. Yes, I sometimes enjoy folding laundry and doing dishes. Whether or not I get them all done that hour or even that day has no bearing on my worth.
I'm learning to consistently find my worth in someone far more substantial than any of my accomplishments - a loving higher power.
Along those lines and with a lovely additional point, I highly recommend reading this post, by Kathryn Thompson at Daring Young Mom. It's long but the ending is so worth it.
-----
1/2Unless anti-depressants are involved and even then I wasn't convinced happiness with myself was an option.
1Now I choose to remain unplugged and available during the hours my kids and husband are awake and home.
2Which I initially agreed it should be. We're still working out the kinks in the balance of responsibilities we both have, as well as our skills and personal preferences.
3Until I train my children to do it all!
Monday, December 3, 2012
Scalped
Today I ripped a good-sized chunk of hair (about the size of a nickel) right out of my scalp. I climbed partially up the shelving Superman built in the storage closet on our balcony in search of peanut butter and when I saw none, I let go and dropped back to the ground. Just that quickly a section of my hair hooked into the little chain and spring assembly that keeps the closet door from opening too far and my hair stayed hooked while the rest of me kept going. It hurt.
I'm afraid to look and see just how much is missing because I'm already sensitive about the handfuls I'm losing due to anemia. (Although I'm beginning to wonder if hair loss is a symptom of anything else because my iron level IS in the normal range now, but barely.)
---
Tonight I took my knitting to church and sat around and knit and talked with other knitters. I'm excited to have sources other than YouTube videos to teach and explain techniques to me. Our fearless leader (of something called a "prayer shawl ministry"; it's all new to me, too) is delightfully unconcerned about "mistakes" and appears to be very good at fixing just about any problem there is without ripping out the work. I am intrigued. She shared that the group of ladies who taught her were of the mindset that if you won't notice it from a galloping horse, then it's not that big a deal. I enjoyed the imagery and further imagine that I would be the kind of horse galloper that would come to a screeching halt and then get off my horse to measure and count stitches. Knitting is helping to lessen my perfectionism and I am grateful.
---
I went for my yearly eye exam and was told that I would probably benefit from reading glasses. When she asked me if anything had changed since last year or if I was experiencing any issues with my eyes I said no. But after the appointment I realized that very often each night I'll reach a point where my eyes are very tired and less willing to read and more willing to close, at which point they're achy and stingy for a while even after they're closed. I just figured I needed more sleep, which is probably also true. We have pretty good vision insurance that will get even better after the first of the year, and so I may get a pair of glasses now and another pair next month. I tried on some frames at Costco and decided that something must be done about my eyebrows. I like the darker rimmed frames, but to me it seems to clash horribly with my super dark (and thick, at times, sigh) eyebrows. Also adding glasses to my crooked face only seems to enhance the crookedness. Why yes, that ear IS a good bit lower than the other one! And that eyebrow IS higher! I know the frames can be bent to fit my face better but the glasses are still pretty symmetrical and my face is still pretty not.
It's tricky, picking a pair of glasses. I never realized what a big decision it is. Your FACE! What people SEE! (Granted, only when I'm reading, but still.) I think between my husband's and sister's input I should be pretty good but if any of you know of certain dos and don'ts of the glasses-wearing world, please let me know!
I'm afraid to look and see just how much is missing because I'm already sensitive about the handfuls I'm losing due to anemia. (Although I'm beginning to wonder if hair loss is a symptom of anything else because my iron level IS in the normal range now, but barely.)
---
Tonight I took my knitting to church and sat around and knit and talked with other knitters. I'm excited to have sources other than YouTube videos to teach and explain techniques to me. Our fearless leader (of something called a "prayer shawl ministry"; it's all new to me, too) is delightfully unconcerned about "mistakes" and appears to be very good at fixing just about any problem there is without ripping out the work. I am intrigued. She shared that the group of ladies who taught her were of the mindset that if you won't notice it from a galloping horse, then it's not that big a deal. I enjoyed the imagery and further imagine that I would be the kind of horse galloper that would come to a screeching halt and then get off my horse to measure and count stitches. Knitting is helping to lessen my perfectionism and I am grateful.
---
I went for my yearly eye exam and was told that I would probably benefit from reading glasses. When she asked me if anything had changed since last year or if I was experiencing any issues with my eyes I said no. But after the appointment I realized that very often each night I'll reach a point where my eyes are very tired and less willing to read and more willing to close, at which point they're achy and stingy for a while even after they're closed. I just figured I needed more sleep, which is probably also true. We have pretty good vision insurance that will get even better after the first of the year, and so I may get a pair of glasses now and another pair next month. I tried on some frames at Costco and decided that something must be done about my eyebrows. I like the darker rimmed frames, but to me it seems to clash horribly with my super dark (and thick, at times, sigh) eyebrows. Also adding glasses to my crooked face only seems to enhance the crookedness. Why yes, that ear IS a good bit lower than the other one! And that eyebrow IS higher! I know the frames can be bent to fit my face better but the glasses are still pretty symmetrical and my face is still pretty not.
It's tricky, picking a pair of glasses. I never realized what a big decision it is. Your FACE! What people SEE! (Granted, only when I'm reading, but still.) I think between my husband's and sister's input I should be pretty good but if any of you know of certain dos and don'ts of the glasses-wearing world, please let me know!
Friday, October 26, 2012
Just N case
The Myers-Briggs Type Inventory describes the difference between sensing (S) and intuitive (N) types here. Briefly, S types are prone to pay closer attention to what is physically happening around them. N types are much less prone to pay attention to what is literally happening around them and focus their energy on ideas, concepts and possibilities instead.
I'd be willing to bet five whole dollars that my great-grandfather was the intuitive type. Here is the evidence on which I base my assertion. My mother's mother tells a story in which her father (uncharacteristically) ran a red light. He was then promptly pulled over and issued a citation. The officer said something to the effect of, "what happened?" and my great-grandfather replied thoughtfully, "well... I was just thinking about Moses..." It became a great family joke.
I have not run a red light in such a manner. I have, however, waited for a stop sign to turn green, turned on the wrong street, taken the wrong off-ramp, driven miles past my turn or exit and most recently and horrifyingly blew right through a stop sign in. a. school. zone. It was a three-way stop and thank GOD there were no children present. There weren't any cars, either, and were it not for a lady walking within view of the intersection who expressively threw up her arms and gave me a look that said, "WTF are you thinking?" as I passed, I might never have realized. I noticed her, furrowed my brow in thought, considered possible reasons for her actions, looked around to see if she was communicating with anyone else, and OMG THAT WAS A STOP SIGN AND I DIDN'T EVEN SLOW DOWN.
I was absolutely appalled at myself and more than a little nauseous at what might have happened if circumstances were different. Completely horrifying.
It's one thing to drive while distracted by a phone or iPod or the food in your lap or while reaching for something behind the passenger seat. Those things are fairly easy to self-regulate. But to be distracted by your very own brain?! How can I escape that? It often takes quite a bit of conscious effort (or small children) for me to actively remain in the present moment. And when I am, I'm often immediately bored and my mind wanders off to find something more entertaining to ponder. I go on auto-pilot and though I may look "there" I might not be. I'm almost always thinking about completely unrelated things in addition to whatever thing or task currently has some of my attention and focus. My strongly S-type husband is frequently baffled by my honest replies to his, "what are you thinking about?" He can't understand how or why I'd be thinking about _____ or what would cause me to remember _____. I shrug. I don't know either. It's just what I do.
Except I've got to find a way that ensures I will NOT do it as much while driving. Suggestions?
I'd be willing to bet five whole dollars that my great-grandfather was the intuitive type. Here is the evidence on which I base my assertion. My mother's mother tells a story in which her father (uncharacteristically) ran a red light. He was then promptly pulled over and issued a citation. The officer said something to the effect of, "what happened?" and my great-grandfather replied thoughtfully, "well... I was just thinking about Moses..." It became a great family joke.
I have not run a red light in such a manner. I have, however, waited for a stop sign to turn green, turned on the wrong street, taken the wrong off-ramp, driven miles past my turn or exit and most recently and horrifyingly blew right through a stop sign in. a. school. zone. It was a three-way stop and thank GOD there were no children present. There weren't any cars, either, and were it not for a lady walking within view of the intersection who expressively threw up her arms and gave me a look that said, "WTF are you thinking?" as I passed, I might never have realized. I noticed her, furrowed my brow in thought, considered possible reasons for her actions, looked around to see if she was communicating with anyone else, and OMG THAT WAS A STOP SIGN AND I DIDN'T EVEN SLOW DOWN.
I was absolutely appalled at myself and more than a little nauseous at what might have happened if circumstances were different. Completely horrifying.
It's one thing to drive while distracted by a phone or iPod or the food in your lap or while reaching for something behind the passenger seat. Those things are fairly easy to self-regulate. But to be distracted by your very own brain?! How can I escape that? It often takes quite a bit of conscious effort (or small children) for me to actively remain in the present moment. And when I am, I'm often immediately bored and my mind wanders off to find something more entertaining to ponder. I go on auto-pilot and though I may look "there" I might not be. I'm almost always thinking about completely unrelated things in addition to whatever thing or task currently has some of my attention and focus. My strongly S-type husband is frequently baffled by my honest replies to his, "what are you thinking about?" He can't understand how or why I'd be thinking about _____ or what would cause me to remember _____. I shrug. I don't know either. It's just what I do.
Except I've got to find a way that ensures I will NOT do it as much while driving. Suggestions?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Promise
For the past, uh, I don't know, EVER, I have been wanting to go to bed at 10 pm and wake up at 6 am. I'm so used to setting goals (impossible and otherwise) and never reaching them that it doesn't seem to matter any more how achievable any of my goals are. If I reach it, good. If I don't, oh well, it's not like I've never disappointed myself before.
(I've been realizing that I sometimes leave out words when I write. It's odd, because I'll re-read the post and my brain will insert the missing word almost every time. Then weeks later I notice a word is missing. Gah.)
Today, I've felt the tension of legalism inching back into my head. And the anxiety that goes with it, knowing I fall short. Legalism, perfectionism, obsession, whatever. I'm getting better at noticing it now - barely perceptible as it nudges me and tells me I can't ever be good enough, perfect enough. I'll never get "it" right. "It" can be anything from clean kitchen counters to how I drive to relationships to dressing children to... anything. But I keep trying for it, working for it, ignoring more important things because something in me wants that drug of accomplishment and achievement and someone saying that I am the best. I want the praise and recognition. Just work harder! Just try harder! Just change this or that and you can do it! But I can't because it's impossible. I wish I realized that more often.
It's so disgusting to me, that a part of me is this concerned about collecting praises and accolades from others, but it's true.
It's really, really hard for me to let go of the idea that I am right. (Please send condolences to Superman.) I spend a lot of mental energy figuring out how to be right (surprising, isn't it, considering how WRONG I am a lot of the time???) I want to be right. I want to be the best. I know intellectually that way more often than not I am NEITHER and yet my brain still shoves my body around, trying to get there, trying to be perfect, trying to achieve all I set my mind to and to do it in a quarter of the time it would take any normal human to accomplish the tasks.
I spend a lot of time feeling disapointed in how many ways I fail to measure up to the impossible standards I've set for myself. I spend a lot of time thinking about the negative and how to improve it (i.e. BE PERFECT) instead of enjoying the positive and realizing that life is not perfect and I do fail, no matter how hard I try not to.
So today I've tried to step back and look at big picture priorities. Then I tried to live with those priorities in mind. I hope that as time goes on and I can adapt a more reasonable collection of expectations for myself.
---
Val saw her first real rainbow today. Bright colors against grey clouds. We were driving but I pulled over and took her out of the car and made sure she really saw it. She was enthralled.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Done. Done?
I'm so tired of having to pick templates that are ALMOST what I want but not quite.
I'm woefully ignorant when it comes to webpage design, but I have a fairly good idea of what I want.
My current set up is NOT what I want and hasn't been for a long time. But I'm familiar with Wordpress and how do get things done. To move to a new platform would require more brain cells then I might have available.
Is Squarespace for me? I'm doing the free trial to find out.
Wish me luck?
I'm woefully ignorant when it comes to webpage design, but I have a fairly good idea of what I want.
My current set up is NOT what I want and hasn't been for a long time. But I'm familiar with Wordpress and how do get things done. To move to a new platform would require more brain cells then I might have available.
Is Squarespace for me? I'm doing the free trial to find out.
Wish me luck?
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Stressed? I wonder why.
I'm reading (skimming while nursing) a book entitled, "The Now Habit: A strategic program for overcoming procrastination and enjoying guilt-free play" by Neil Fiore, Ph.D..
Today when I picked up the book my eyes fell on the stress prayer. You may be familiar with the serenity prayer? (Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. - Reinhold Niebuhr)
Stress Prayer: Grant me the stubborness to struggle against things I cannot change; the inertia to avoid work on my own behaviors and attitudes which I can change; and the foolishness to ignore the differences between external events beyond my control and my own controllable reactions. But most of all, grant me a contempt for my own human imperfection and the limits of human control.
Oh good heavens is that ever me. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. And I pray the serenity prayer while thinking the stress prayer. And again I say, GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Today when I picked up the book my eyes fell on the stress prayer. You may be familiar with the serenity prayer? (Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. - Reinhold Niebuhr)
Stress Prayer: Grant me the stubborness to struggle against things I cannot change; the inertia to avoid work on my own behaviors and attitudes which I can change; and the foolishness to ignore the differences between external events beyond my control and my own controllable reactions. But most of all, grant me a contempt for my own human imperfection and the limits of human control.
Oh good heavens is that ever me. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. And I pray the serenity prayer while thinking the stress prayer. And again I say, GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
GIVE ME DRUGS!!!
Boy oh boy how I wish I could have Twittered the events of two days ago.
I was transported via ambulance to the ER for severe (SEVERE. SEVERE! I cannot emphasize enough how SEVERE it was!) abdominal pain only on the left side. What the heck is up with me and ambulance rides? Superman is beginning to suspect I'm secretly in love with paramedics. Which might have been true if they had actually given me the morphine I was begging for.
It started out when I woke up that morning and was barely noticeable. Not even pain, really. I wondered if this is what it felt like to ovulate. Some women can feel that although I've never been able to in the past. Even though I'm just 2 months postpartum, ovulating isn't completely out of the question. Then it got a little worse over the course of the day. I still carried on as usual. Did my normal thing. Then it began to feel a bit worse. And then worse. I tried walking around and changing positions. Nothing helped. By the time I called the advice nurse around 2 pm I was in so much pain they put me through directly to talk with the nurse right away. She said to come to ER as soon as I could get someone to watch my children. My parents were 45 minutes away. I picked myself up off the floor, hobbled to the front door and unlocked it. Then I collapsed onto the recliner and commenced practicing every single pain management trick I could think of.
Now, I'm fairly certain I have a high pain tolerance. I said my pain on a scale of 1 to 10 was a five when I was in labor and 8 cm dilated. This pain was worse than that. WAY WORSE. REALLY REALLY WORSE. A 10 on the scale. Heck, a 15 on the scale. I thought I was going to throw up the pain was so bad. My body was shaking. I had to fight my body's instinct to hold my breath. Talking took effort and concentration.
I called my mom. They were still 15 tortuous minutes away. Then I called 911 because I knew that at any minute I wouldn't be able to answer all the questions I knew they would throw at me. I was so sure I was going to pass out or start throwing up or both and I was alone with the girls who took turns crying throughout this whole ordeal (at least they were kind enough to alternate.)
The paramedics got there and I pleaded with them to give me something for the pain. When I'm in pain I'm not all that dramatic. I don't scream and writhe or moan. I don't flail about in misery. So I suspect it got their attention when I told them that I had given birth to two children naturally and this pain was worse than that. And STILL they gave me no drugs. Sheesh, men. My parents get there and swooped up the girls while the paramedics swooped me into the back of the ambulance.
That was my cue to slowly start feeling better. *Kicks self in shins* Why do I always feel better almost the minute they put me in the ambulance?!? Sure enough, my pain slowly subsided until by the time we reached the hospital 3.1 miles away (there was traffic, so it did take a little time) I had essentially no pain to speak of. All they had given me was fluid. Harumph.
Blood and urine samples were taken. I twiddled my thumbs and wished for a laptop so I could enter our monthly receipts into the budget or something. The doctor asked a bunch of questions but came up with no clear reason for my pain. I felt silly. Blood and urine came back as completely normal.
Having since talked with my mom, one of my aunts and a good friend, I suspect I had a ruptured ovarian cyst. (The aunt and good friend have personal experience with ruptured ovarian cysts.) Everything seems to fit that bill but since it appears to have ruptured before I made it to the ER they couldn't confirm it with an ultrasound. And maybe the ER staff didn't think about a cyst since I had given birth so recently. They did question me about kidney stones though.
I have an appointment tomorrow morning with my OBGYN and I have no idea what she will do or say but I'd like further input into this whole ordeal. Because I sure as heck don't want to have to endure anything like that ever again. Though now I know to get to the ER sooner if I start to feel as though it's happening again.
At least there's only a $50 co-pay per ambulance ride. Good to know for future reference.
I was transported via ambulance to the ER for severe (SEVERE. SEVERE! I cannot emphasize enough how SEVERE it was!) abdominal pain only on the left side. What the heck is up with me and ambulance rides? Superman is beginning to suspect I'm secretly in love with paramedics. Which might have been true if they had actually given me the morphine I was begging for.
It started out when I woke up that morning and was barely noticeable. Not even pain, really. I wondered if this is what it felt like to ovulate. Some women can feel that although I've never been able to in the past. Even though I'm just 2 months postpartum, ovulating isn't completely out of the question. Then it got a little worse over the course of the day. I still carried on as usual. Did my normal thing. Then it began to feel a bit worse. And then worse. I tried walking around and changing positions. Nothing helped. By the time I called the advice nurse around 2 pm I was in so much pain they put me through directly to talk with the nurse right away. She said to come to ER as soon as I could get someone to watch my children. My parents were 45 minutes away. I picked myself up off the floor, hobbled to the front door and unlocked it. Then I collapsed onto the recliner and commenced practicing every single pain management trick I could think of.
Now, I'm fairly certain I have a high pain tolerance. I said my pain on a scale of 1 to 10 was a five when I was in labor and 8 cm dilated. This pain was worse than that. WAY WORSE. REALLY REALLY WORSE. A 10 on the scale. Heck, a 15 on the scale. I thought I was going to throw up the pain was so bad. My body was shaking. I had to fight my body's instinct to hold my breath. Talking took effort and concentration.
I called my mom. They were still 15 tortuous minutes away. Then I called 911 because I knew that at any minute I wouldn't be able to answer all the questions I knew they would throw at me. I was so sure I was going to pass out or start throwing up or both and I was alone with the girls who took turns crying throughout this whole ordeal (at least they were kind enough to alternate.)
The paramedics got there and I pleaded with them to give me something for the pain. When I'm in pain I'm not all that dramatic. I don't scream and writhe or moan. I don't flail about in misery. So I suspect it got their attention when I told them that I had given birth to two children naturally and this pain was worse than that. And STILL they gave me no drugs. Sheesh, men. My parents get there and swooped up the girls while the paramedics swooped me into the back of the ambulance.
That was my cue to slowly start feeling better. *Kicks self in shins* Why do I always feel better almost the minute they put me in the ambulance?!? Sure enough, my pain slowly subsided until by the time we reached the hospital 3.1 miles away (there was traffic, so it did take a little time) I had essentially no pain to speak of. All they had given me was fluid. Harumph.
Blood and urine samples were taken. I twiddled my thumbs and wished for a laptop so I could enter our monthly receipts into the budget or something. The doctor asked a bunch of questions but came up with no clear reason for my pain. I felt silly. Blood and urine came back as completely normal.
Having since talked with my mom, one of my aunts and a good friend, I suspect I had a ruptured ovarian cyst. (The aunt and good friend have personal experience with ruptured ovarian cysts.) Everything seems to fit that bill but since it appears to have ruptured before I made it to the ER they couldn't confirm it with an ultrasound. And maybe the ER staff didn't think about a cyst since I had given birth so recently. They did question me about kidney stones though.
I have an appointment tomorrow morning with my OBGYN and I have no idea what she will do or say but I'd like further input into this whole ordeal. Because I sure as heck don't want to have to endure anything like that ever again. Though now I know to get to the ER sooner if I start to feel as though it's happening again.
At least there's only a $50 co-pay per ambulance ride. Good to know for future reference.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Without fail
K is playing quietly by herself.
I pick up the phone to make a call.
K begins to play with her loudest, most obnoxious toy usually right at my feet, usually while chanting, "mommy mommy mommy mommy!"
I tear out my hair.
I pick up the phone to make a call.
K begins to play with her loudest, most obnoxious toy usually right at my feet, usually while chanting, "mommy mommy mommy mommy!"
I tear out my hair.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Change I can believe in
What do you do when you're trying to change something about yourself?
I'm trying to cut back on the amount of time I spent in front of the computer. I asked Superman what he thought and if he had any suggestions for me and he said he'd think about it. He hasn't gotten back to me. He is generally in the "well if you know what's wrong then just CHANGE it" camp when it comes to things like this. Problem = A. Solution = B. Do B. Yes, that is logical. I tend to think that way too and then berate myself when I lack the strength or will-power or awareness to always always ALWAYS do B.
I tried that with computer time. I find it's more complicated. Computer time is my "me time" too - it's part of how I relax and refuel. This website is a good example of that. However, there needs to be a better balance because what I'm doing now sure isn't working to my advantage. There are days when I don't really need the computer at all and there are days when I'm using it literally every hour - but for legitimate non-time-wasting things. It's the time-wasting I'm wanting to cut back on. It's a deeply ingrained habit that I'm not always conscious I'm doing. I'll sit down at the computer to pay a bill or to Google something (what ever DID our parents do without all-knowing Google?! Talk to people?!? Like in real life?!?) and before I know it I've also checked Twitter, replied to someone on Twitter, read my email, sent a long reply to one or more people, see if anyone's left me notes, scanned my Facebook home page to see if there are any new pictures or statuses to comment on, read through my RSS feed and then - boom - nap time is completely used up. There went all my time to be ultra-productive without a little person needing me or following me around 'helping.' There also usually goes my good attitude. I spend the rest of the day being grouchy and mad at myself. I'm rushing, trying to catch up and not spending as much time with my daughter as I would have liked and certainly not with the attitude I want to exemplify for her.
I understand everyone has days that don't go well but this should not be the norm. Many days of having an irritated, impatient mother will add up to a memory of a mother who was always irritated and impatient. I do not want K to have that memory. I've nailed superfluous computer time as the culprit. I've recently caught myself looking for even MORE ways to waste time after all the usual avenues have been exhausted. I think this might have something to do with the fact that I'm going to have a baby next month and moving around is becoming more and more physically uncomfortable and exhausting. Sit for a few hours with my feet up? Yes please! Still, I know there are better ways to spend my time and I'm working towards that end.
The only way I know how to change a habit of mine is to make rules for myself that I know will work and then follow them. Easy. This is only marginally successful because I have to REALLY want to change before I make myself follow the rules. If I'm not whole-hearted in my effort I'm the first (and in this case only!) one to break the rule. I made the rule so I should get to break it, right? Told you my self-control is pathetic. Accountability seems to be a big key to changing things, too. That's when someone ELSE holds you to following through with the rule and you're not free to just shrug and break it, unless you're also cool with shrugging to your accountability partner in which case they would probably shrug right back at you and tell you to call them when you're ready to be serious. Regardless of who I'm shrugging to, shrugging seems to indicate a person that's unwilling to change, doesn't it?
Imagining K with a memory of a mother who spent too much time staring at a computer screen while she grew up is enough motivation for me to just close the laptop already. I've been doing a lot better over the past few weeks and it shows in all the other things I've been able to accomplish. I'm bad at balance and moderation. I think having kids has helped me learn to be better about those things. I am by nature an extremist. A perfectionist. Either I do it perfectly or it doesn't get done or I do it imperfectly and therefore FAIL. Wouldn't you know that you can't "do" kids perfectly?!?! Nor do children care one iota about your perfect plan, whether or not it even includes them. Parenting has been eyeopening to say the least. I do know that no amount of computer time can make up for being there for this:
What ways have you found to effectively bring about permanent (emphasis on permanent, or at least mostly so) change in your life? Have you broken any bad habits? How did you do it? Were there steps? A process? What was the most difficult part for you?
I'm all ears.
I'm trying to cut back on the amount of time I spent in front of the computer. I asked Superman what he thought and if he had any suggestions for me and he said he'd think about it. He hasn't gotten back to me. He is generally in the "well if you know what's wrong then just CHANGE it" camp when it comes to things like this. Problem = A. Solution = B. Do B. Yes, that is logical. I tend to think that way too and then berate myself when I lack the strength or will-power or awareness to always always ALWAYS do B.
I tried that with computer time. I find it's more complicated. Computer time is my "me time" too - it's part of how I relax and refuel. This website is a good example of that. However, there needs to be a better balance because what I'm doing now sure isn't working to my advantage. There are days when I don't really need the computer at all and there are days when I'm using it literally every hour - but for legitimate non-time-wasting things. It's the time-wasting I'm wanting to cut back on. It's a deeply ingrained habit that I'm not always conscious I'm doing. I'll sit down at the computer to pay a bill or to Google something (what ever DID our parents do without all-knowing Google?! Talk to people?!? Like in real life?!?) and before I know it I've also checked Twitter, replied to someone on Twitter, read my email, sent a long reply to one or more people, see if anyone's left me notes, scanned my Facebook home page to see if there are any new pictures or statuses to comment on, read through my RSS feed and then - boom - nap time is completely used up. There went all my time to be ultra-productive without a little person needing me or following me around 'helping.' There also usually goes my good attitude. I spend the rest of the day being grouchy and mad at myself. I'm rushing, trying to catch up and not spending as much time with my daughter as I would have liked and certainly not with the attitude I want to exemplify for her.
I understand everyone has days that don't go well but this should not be the norm. Many days of having an irritated, impatient mother will add up to a memory of a mother who was always irritated and impatient. I do not want K to have that memory. I've nailed superfluous computer time as the culprit. I've recently caught myself looking for even MORE ways to waste time after all the usual avenues have been exhausted. I think this might have something to do with the fact that I'm going to have a baby next month and moving around is becoming more and more physically uncomfortable and exhausting. Sit for a few hours with my feet up? Yes please! Still, I know there are better ways to spend my time and I'm working towards that end.
The only way I know how to change a habit of mine is to make rules for myself that I know will work and then follow them. Easy. This is only marginally successful because I have to REALLY want to change before I make myself follow the rules. If I'm not whole-hearted in my effort I'm the first (and in this case only!) one to break the rule. I made the rule so I should get to break it, right? Told you my self-control is pathetic. Accountability seems to be a big key to changing things, too. That's when someone ELSE holds you to following through with the rule and you're not free to just shrug and break it, unless you're also cool with shrugging to your accountability partner in which case they would probably shrug right back at you and tell you to call them when you're ready to be serious. Regardless of who I'm shrugging to, shrugging seems to indicate a person that's unwilling to change, doesn't it?
Imagining K with a memory of a mother who spent too much time staring at a computer screen while she grew up is enough motivation for me to just close the laptop already. I've been doing a lot better over the past few weeks and it shows in all the other things I've been able to accomplish. I'm bad at balance and moderation. I think having kids has helped me learn to be better about those things. I am by nature an extremist. A perfectionist. Either I do it perfectly or it doesn't get done or I do it imperfectly and therefore FAIL. Wouldn't you know that you can't "do" kids perfectly?!?! Nor do children care one iota about your perfect plan, whether or not it even includes them. Parenting has been eyeopening to say the least. I do know that no amount of computer time can make up for being there for this:
What ways have you found to effectively bring about permanent (emphasis on permanent, or at least mostly so) change in your life? Have you broken any bad habits? How did you do it? Were there steps? A process? What was the most difficult part for you?
I'm all ears.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
How times change... and yet, don't.
Our parents walked into a room and couldn't remember what they intended to do there. They hate it when that happens.
We open a new browser tab and can't remember what we intended to do with it. I hate it when that happens.
We open a new browser tab and can't remember what we intended to do with it. I hate it when that happens.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Gripe
The day has not gone well thus far. After sending an email to a dear friend, complimenting her on her wonderful ability to roll with whatever unexpected changes to her plans arise... I am having to deal with unexpected changes.
Today was the day I was supposed to do everything in preparation for Thanksgiving, starting with an oil change. The oil change took a good two hours, during which time I walked around with K and kept her entertained. Luckily (for my sanity and peace of mind) she's fairly easy to entertain. Unluckily (for my back and hips) she's fairly active. Our car was finally ready and we started home for a little-bit-later-than-usual lunch. She fell asleep in the car right about the time I noticed that the check engine light (as well as two other scary-looking lights) were lit up on the dash. ARGH.
Back at the dealership (we have lifetime free oil changes otherwise there's no way I'd get it done there) I explained the light problem with a heavy (still asleep!) toddler on my shoulder and expected it to take only a few minutes because they just forgot to reset them, right? Wrong. It took at least half an hour. Apparently the lights coming on were in no way related to the oil change and the car needs work done. Something about a new catalytic converter. We're covered under warranty until 80,000 miles which is fortunate because we're currently at 72K. We've only had the car three years! Fortunately it's not a problem that will prevent us from driving 500 miles tomorrow which is good because our only other vehicle likes to burn and/or leak large quantities of oil.
So. Now K is down for a late nap and I sat down to gripe about something else entirely.
Last week at Panera a lady asked me how far along I was. 30 weeks. "Wow, you're so tiny!" was her kind reply. Would people still say that if they knew how much weight I've gained? And that I still have two more months to go?!? Over the past couple of weeks I've been feeling very similarly to how I felt at full term with K. I brushed it off as ridiculous because I obviously couldn't be that big yet - I still have two more months! Then I weighed myself. I'm five pounds shy of what I gained with K. My body is not lying to me. I really am this big. It's not that I mind the actual pounds gained - I know it'll all come right off again, leaving saggy skin and stretch marks behind - I just mind having to CARRY said extra weight. My legs and back are in a constant state of complaint and it's all I can do to keep from being in a constant state of complaint myself.
I'm at the point with K where I'm working on first time obedience. (We still have a long way to go. Her attention span leaves much to be desired.) I want her to understand that when I say something (and she hears it) I expect her to respond. I am not going to play the counting game, or teach her that I'm only *really* serious after raising my voice or threatening. This means that if I tell her not to touch something from across the room and she does not obey, I need to get up right away and go over to her to enforce what I just said. This scenario happens frequently and it would be SOOOO much easier to holler at her from the couch and wait to intervene until she's *really* in trouble... but I've already seen the results of being consistent and it gives me hope. She is learning that I mean business and that if she chooses not to listen to me then I will make her comply right then. She's choosing to listen much more often! But this takes its toll on my back and legs.
Usually by the end of the day I'm physically exhausted yet my mind is still urging me to get things done as if I didn't weigh 23% more than I did before I was pregnant. By now it's probably 25%. One day I found myself wishing for one of those empathy bellies that men can wear to supposedly discover (in a very very very very very small way) what it's like to be pregnant. If only Superman could live a day (okay, week) in my shoes! I decided to do the next best thing - calculate how much additional weight he'd have to carry around if his body gained like mine while pregnant. This pregnancy has added 23% more weight (so far) to my pre-pregnant body. If Superman were to gain weight in the same way he'd have to put 50 pounds of bowling ball in front (since that's pretty much were I'm carrying it all.)
I find all this hugely validating. It's no WONDER I'm slow and uncomfortable. 25% extra weight! That's a lot! Being pregnant is hard! I'm gaining more than most women because I started out underweight (which is normal for me) and I want my baby to be a healthy weight, but still! I've gained almost forty pounds, still have two more months (during which the baby starts to pack on pounds) AND there are two food-laden holidays between now and my due date. THAT is what I wanted to gripe about. Gripe! Gripe gripe gripe!
And yet despite all this I'm so glad that by all accounts we're expected to have a healthy little girl. It's worth it. It's worth all this miserableness and so much more. I so look forward to seeing her face and hearing her voice. To nursing and rocking and finding out what kind of person she is. To seeing her big sister and daddy fall even more deeply in love with her and to calling her my very own. But I would appreciate it if she'd arrive earlier than later... are you listening, little baby????
Today was the day I was supposed to do everything in preparation for Thanksgiving, starting with an oil change. The oil change took a good two hours, during which time I walked around with K and kept her entertained. Luckily (for my sanity and peace of mind) she's fairly easy to entertain. Unluckily (for my back and hips) she's fairly active. Our car was finally ready and we started home for a little-bit-later-than-usual lunch. She fell asleep in the car right about the time I noticed that the check engine light (as well as two other scary-looking lights) were lit up on the dash. ARGH.
Back at the dealership (we have lifetime free oil changes otherwise there's no way I'd get it done there) I explained the light problem with a heavy (still asleep!) toddler on my shoulder and expected it to take only a few minutes because they just forgot to reset them, right? Wrong. It took at least half an hour. Apparently the lights coming on were in no way related to the oil change and the car needs work done. Something about a new catalytic converter. We're covered under warranty until 80,000 miles which is fortunate because we're currently at 72K. We've only had the car three years! Fortunately it's not a problem that will prevent us from driving 500 miles tomorrow which is good because our only other vehicle likes to burn and/or leak large quantities of oil.
So. Now K is down for a late nap and I sat down to gripe about something else entirely.
Last week at Panera a lady asked me how far along I was. 30 weeks. "Wow, you're so tiny!" was her kind reply. Would people still say that if they knew how much weight I've gained? And that I still have two more months to go?!? Over the past couple of weeks I've been feeling very similarly to how I felt at full term with K. I brushed it off as ridiculous because I obviously couldn't be that big yet - I still have two more months! Then I weighed myself. I'm five pounds shy of what I gained with K. My body is not lying to me. I really am this big. It's not that I mind the actual pounds gained - I know it'll all come right off again, leaving saggy skin and stretch marks behind - I just mind having to CARRY said extra weight. My legs and back are in a constant state of complaint and it's all I can do to keep from being in a constant state of complaint myself.
I'm at the point with K where I'm working on first time obedience. (We still have a long way to go. Her attention span leaves much to be desired.) I want her to understand that when I say something (and she hears it) I expect her to respond. I am not going to play the counting game, or teach her that I'm only *really* serious after raising my voice or threatening. This means that if I tell her not to touch something from across the room and she does not obey, I need to get up right away and go over to her to enforce what I just said. This scenario happens frequently and it would be SOOOO much easier to holler at her from the couch and wait to intervene until she's *really* in trouble... but I've already seen the results of being consistent and it gives me hope. She is learning that I mean business and that if she chooses not to listen to me then I will make her comply right then. She's choosing to listen much more often! But this takes its toll on my back and legs.
Usually by the end of the day I'm physically exhausted yet my mind is still urging me to get things done as if I didn't weigh 23% more than I did before I was pregnant. By now it's probably 25%. One day I found myself wishing for one of those empathy bellies that men can wear to supposedly discover (in a very very very very very small way) what it's like to be pregnant. If only Superman could live a day (okay, week) in my shoes! I decided to do the next best thing - calculate how much additional weight he'd have to carry around if his body gained like mine while pregnant. This pregnancy has added 23% more weight (so far) to my pre-pregnant body. If Superman were to gain weight in the same way he'd have to put 50 pounds of bowling ball in front (since that's pretty much were I'm carrying it all.)
I find all this hugely validating. It's no WONDER I'm slow and uncomfortable. 25% extra weight! That's a lot! Being pregnant is hard! I'm gaining more than most women because I started out underweight (which is normal for me) and I want my baby to be a healthy weight, but still! I've gained almost forty pounds, still have two more months (during which the baby starts to pack on pounds) AND there are two food-laden holidays between now and my due date. THAT is what I wanted to gripe about. Gripe! Gripe gripe gripe!
And yet despite all this I'm so glad that by all accounts we're expected to have a healthy little girl. It's worth it. It's worth all this miserableness and so much more. I so look forward to seeing her face and hearing her voice. To nursing and rocking and finding out what kind of person she is. To seeing her big sister and daddy fall even more deeply in love with her and to calling her my very own. But I would appreciate it if she'd arrive earlier than later... are you listening, little baby????
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Perils of married life
Allow me to give you a little glimpse into our marriage. Perhaps you will be able to relate, and if not, at least you'll be able to point and laugh and congratulate yourself on having the sense to remain single.
Any couple will tell you that there are little things that just ARE about the other person. If you think for a moment you can change them, you're wrong. So wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Did I mention wrong? Because if you can think you can change them, you're wrong. Really. Wrong.
Now, back in the early days I would have nodded politely at you and agreed. Sure! Of course no one can change anyone else! Internally, however, I'd be composing a list of reasons why in my particular case this would not be true. I could change people. I am clever. I have plans. They'll hardly even notice they're changing! And then, then, it'll be a happier world for everyone! My (yes MY!) genius and somewhat devious plan will have rid them of whatever annoying habit or idiosyncrasy they possesed. Naturally, it follows that I would be happier and then they would be happier as a result. See? Win win win!
Wrong wrong wrong. Are you listening yet?
You'll be happy to learn I no longer think I can change Superman (though believe you me there are times I really really really really really want to.) However, he sometimes insists, all on his own, that he will change, he won't do x, y or z anymore, really! It's OK, he's sorry, I really don't have to worry about it ever again. Oftentimes this does not prove to be the case, much to my dismay. My hopes are dashed as he unconsciously returns to doing whatever it was. I should know better by now but in this case I really wanted to have the upper towel rod. And for that reason I really wanted to believe him when he said he wouldn't use it.
Now, this towel thing is not new. When he installed the towel rods and asked me (he is a gentleman) which one I wanted I told him my preference for the higher one. I wash my face twice a day and the height is convenient for me to turn and dry off my face. As far as I knew he only uses his towel to dry off after a shower and so therefore the location wouldn't matter as much. When we have people over I lay out a hand towel but that gets in the way since we don't have a hand towel holder installed. When it's just us I expected us to use our respective towels to dry our hands after using the bathroom. Seems agreeable, yes? And he agreed.
So. On we went. Then a few times I caught him drying his hands on MY towel. Then I saw him drying his toothbrush on my towel (drying a toothbrush? Does anyone else engage in such craziness?!?!) And he still would use my towel to dry his hands. Ew! Even though he's not a builder any more (except for what's necessary to finish our house!) his hands are always dirtier than mine. Ew! Ew! Smelly dirt on my nice clean girly towel! Each time I noticed him using my towel I said something about it and each time he replied, "Oops, I normally don't do this; I guess I just forgot this time. Sorry. I'll stop." And since I really preferred the higher towel rack, I wanted to believe him.
I stopped believing him this morning, when, as I buried my fresh and clean face in my towel after washing my face - I inhaled the distinct, unmistakable smell of HIS body. Like, deodorant and everything. And it wasn't the "oh I miss him so I'll wear his sweatshirt to smell like him" kind of scent. It was more like a gag-inducing, "oh my GOSH this towel reeks, do I need to start washing them more often? And who does he think he is, anyhow, using MY TOWEL!?!?!" kind of scent.
Later on in the day I remembered to tell him about it.
Superman: OK I'm going to take my shower now.
Me: Oh hey, that reminds me, from now on your towel will be on top and mine will be on the lower rod.
Superman: Oh, ok. Why? I thought you liked the upper rod.
Me: Well, I do. It's just that this morning after I washed my face my towel definitely smelled like you'd been using it. It's no big deal. I can do the bottom. I just want to be the only one who uses my towel.
Superman: *matter of fact* Oh. I think that's because I used it to dry off my sweaty armpits the other day.
Me: *stares in utter shock and horror* You WHAT?!?!?!?!?!
Superman: *laughing his head off between words as he explains* Yeah. The other day I got out of the shower and put on my deodorant and then as I was getting ready it got really hot in the bathroom and I was sweating so I just dabbed my armpits with your towel.
Me: *spluttering* You... you...
Superman: *continues laughing at my reaction and tries to give me a hug and kiss despite my utter disgust* I love you!
Me: *unable to reconcile my realities* So. You're saying that this morning I plunged my FRESHLY CLEANED FACE into YOUR SWEATY ARMPIT?!?!?! AND THEN DRIED OFF MY FACE WITH IT?!?!?! I need to go wash my face.
We were both laughing pretty hard at that point and instead of marching off in an indignant huff to wash my face again, I sat down to write this post and he went off to take his shower (I don't care WHICH towel he uses at this point - they ALL go in the washer the second he's done.)
I now know and fully agree with the statement: the only person I have the power to change is me (and the location of my towel). Which is why my towel will be located on the lower rod from this day forward. It'll probably get half as much use.
Any couple will tell you that there are little things that just ARE about the other person. If you think for a moment you can change them, you're wrong. So wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Did I mention wrong? Because if you can think you can change them, you're wrong. Really. Wrong.
Now, back in the early days I would have nodded politely at you and agreed. Sure! Of course no one can change anyone else! Internally, however, I'd be composing a list of reasons why in my particular case this would not be true. I could change people. I am clever. I have plans. They'll hardly even notice they're changing! And then, then, it'll be a happier world for everyone! My (yes MY!) genius and somewhat devious plan will have rid them of whatever annoying habit or idiosyncrasy they possesed. Naturally, it follows that I would be happier and then they would be happier as a result. See? Win win win!
Wrong wrong wrong. Are you listening yet?
You'll be happy to learn I no longer think I can change Superman (though believe you me there are times I really really really really really want to.) However, he sometimes insists, all on his own, that he will change, he won't do x, y or z anymore, really! It's OK, he's sorry, I really don't have to worry about it ever again. Oftentimes this does not prove to be the case, much to my dismay. My hopes are dashed as he unconsciously returns to doing whatever it was. I should know better by now but in this case I really wanted to have the upper towel rod. And for that reason I really wanted to believe him when he said he wouldn't use it.
Now, this towel thing is not new. When he installed the towel rods and asked me (he is a gentleman) which one I wanted I told him my preference for the higher one. I wash my face twice a day and the height is convenient for me to turn and dry off my face. As far as I knew he only uses his towel to dry off after a shower and so therefore the location wouldn't matter as much. When we have people over I lay out a hand towel but that gets in the way since we don't have a hand towel holder installed. When it's just us I expected us to use our respective towels to dry our hands after using the bathroom. Seems agreeable, yes? And he agreed.
So. On we went. Then a few times I caught him drying his hands on MY towel. Then I saw him drying his toothbrush on my towel (drying a toothbrush? Does anyone else engage in such craziness?!?!) And he still would use my towel to dry his hands. Ew! Even though he's not a builder any more (except for what's necessary to finish our house!) his hands are always dirtier than mine. Ew! Ew! Smelly dirt on my nice clean girly towel! Each time I noticed him using my towel I said something about it and each time he replied, "Oops, I normally don't do this; I guess I just forgot this time. Sorry. I'll stop." And since I really preferred the higher towel rack, I wanted to believe him.
I stopped believing him this morning, when, as I buried my fresh and clean face in my towel after washing my face - I inhaled the distinct, unmistakable smell of HIS body. Like, deodorant and everything. And it wasn't the "oh I miss him so I'll wear his sweatshirt to smell like him" kind of scent. It was more like a gag-inducing, "oh my GOSH this towel reeks, do I need to start washing them more often? And who does he think he is, anyhow, using MY TOWEL!?!?!" kind of scent.
Later on in the day I remembered to tell him about it.
Superman: OK I'm going to take my shower now.
Me: Oh hey, that reminds me, from now on your towel will be on top and mine will be on the lower rod.
Superman: Oh, ok. Why? I thought you liked the upper rod.
Me: Well, I do. It's just that this morning after I washed my face my towel definitely smelled like you'd been using it. It's no big deal. I can do the bottom. I just want to be the only one who uses my towel.
Superman: *matter of fact* Oh. I think that's because I used it to dry off my sweaty armpits the other day.
Me: *stares in utter shock and horror* You WHAT?!?!?!?!?!
Superman: *laughing his head off between words as he explains* Yeah. The other day I got out of the shower and put on my deodorant and then as I was getting ready it got really hot in the bathroom and I was sweating so I just dabbed my armpits with your towel.
Me: *spluttering* You... you...
Superman: *continues laughing at my reaction and tries to give me a hug and kiss despite my utter disgust* I love you!
Me: *unable to reconcile my realities* So. You're saying that this morning I plunged my FRESHLY CLEANED FACE into YOUR SWEATY ARMPIT?!?!?! AND THEN DRIED OFF MY FACE WITH IT?!?!?! I need to go wash my face.
We were both laughing pretty hard at that point and instead of marching off in an indignant huff to wash my face again, I sat down to write this post and he went off to take his shower (I don't care WHICH towel he uses at this point - they ALL go in the washer the second he's done.)
I now know and fully agree with the statement: the only person I have the power to change is me (and the location of my towel). Which is why my towel will be located on the lower rod from this day forward. It'll probably get half as much use.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Happy hour!
There's nothing like nearly burning down your kitchen to get your adrenaline pumping. I went from preparing dinner while feeling very slow and hugely pregnant to dashing around with scalding pots and pans while keeping a toddler away from the open hot oven door! Yikes.
It all started a few days ago when I was getting ready to host a backyard play date at our house. Given that the playing would all be happening in the backyard I suppose I could have relaxed a little on cleaning the house but whatever. You know how that goes. As it was dirty dishes were STILL stacked on the counter despite my attempts at a short-cut. There were just that many. I don't think a single one of the other moms cared. It's almost as if they came over to see ME and NOT my kitchen! Huh! Interesting thought. I'll make sure to ponder that as soon as my dishes are done.
Here's how I attempted to look more put together than I was: I stashed several dirty pots and pans in the oven. And by "several" I mean "as many as would fit." I had never done that before, but desperate times call for desperate measures. As I was doing it I had the sense to opt for the oven-safe pans as a precautionary measure. Even though I fully intended to address the dirty dishes problem before I next used the oven, you never know what could happen.
And happen it did. Out of sight, out of mind! Tonight as I prepared macaroni and cheese from scratch (with "help" from a 1.5 year old who wanted to "Watsh? Mommy? Watsch?" and by "watsh" she means "wave measuring spoons around and plunge them into or at any available ingredient at the least helpful time") I wondered what was taking the oven so long to preheat. I didn't realize it until I opened the door to insert my macaroni and cheese. Cue dashing around with piping hot pans while bellowing "sit down on your bottom and STAY THERE" to the helpful toddler wanting to join in on the excitement.
I'm happy to say that I only lost one lid (and fortunately it was the kind of plastic that did NOT melt into an impossible-to-clean-up puddle) and we are just about ready to sit down and enjoy the macaroni and cheese. Which turned out fantastically even with my additions of sliced tomatoes and bread crumbs on top and bacon bits through out.
It all started a few days ago when I was getting ready to host a backyard play date at our house. Given that the playing would all be happening in the backyard I suppose I could have relaxed a little on cleaning the house but whatever. You know how that goes. As it was dirty dishes were STILL stacked on the counter despite my attempts at a short-cut. There were just that many. I don't think a single one of the other moms cared. It's almost as if they came over to see ME and NOT my kitchen! Huh! Interesting thought. I'll make sure to ponder that as soon as my dishes are done.
Here's how I attempted to look more put together than I was: I stashed several dirty pots and pans in the oven. And by "several" I mean "as many as would fit." I had never done that before, but desperate times call for desperate measures. As I was doing it I had the sense to opt for the oven-safe pans as a precautionary measure. Even though I fully intended to address the dirty dishes problem before I next used the oven, you never know what could happen.
And happen it did. Out of sight, out of mind! Tonight as I prepared macaroni and cheese from scratch (with "help" from a 1.5 year old who wanted to "Watsh? Mommy? Watsch?" and by "watsh" she means "wave measuring spoons around and plunge them into or at any available ingredient at the least helpful time") I wondered what was taking the oven so long to preheat. I didn't realize it until I opened the door to insert my macaroni and cheese. Cue dashing around with piping hot pans while bellowing "sit down on your bottom and STAY THERE" to the helpful toddler wanting to join in on the excitement.
I'm happy to say that I only lost one lid (and fortunately it was the kind of plastic that did NOT melt into an impossible-to-clean-up puddle) and we are just about ready to sit down and enjoy the macaroni and cheese. Which turned out fantastically even with my additions of sliced tomatoes and bread crumbs on top and bacon bits through out.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
lmno PEE
I'm somewhat irritated at my inability to find a successful nighttime cloth diapering solution for Kem. Each time I try I end up putting her back in a disposable because nothing and I do mean NOTHING can contain that girl's pee. I think if her whole mattress was one big cloth diaper she still might be able to out-pee it's absorbency. She is, without doubt, a 'heavy wetter' as they say in the CD world.
My latest attempt included the famed Aristocrat wool soaker. I've heard nothing but fantastic things about it and so I snatched one up when I had the opportunity to buy it at a 30% discount. It came in the mail the other day (along with my new Kissaluvs and doublers) and so I was excited to give it a try. Here's what she wore to bed last night: Kissaluv fitted with TWO doublers and the Aristocrat soaker over everything. Here's what I woke up to this morning: a tummy-side-down baby completely drenched with pee, through the diaper, the cover, her pajamas, and even the crib sheet and mattress pad. UUUUUGH.
I wouldn't have spent so much on the wool cover if I didn't believe it would be my nighttime savior! Now it'll have to be just another cover in my stash, but during the day it isn't as critical for the cover to have to last as long. Should I just resign myself to the fate of changing a diaper once a night? Stick with disposables? I think our situation is made slightly worse by the fact that she likes to sleep on her tummy, regardless of her position when I put her down. If she were on her back I think the pee would be more efficiently absorbed by more of the bulk of the doublers and diaper.
I think tonight I'll try double or triple prefolds, if such a thing is possible. Hey, on the bright side, if her diaper is so big she can't walk or climb easily then it'll take her longer to climb out of the crib! (I've already caught her trying to sling a leg over the crib rail, the sneak.)
My latest attempt included the famed Aristocrat wool soaker. I've heard nothing but fantastic things about it and so I snatched one up when I had the opportunity to buy it at a 30% discount. It came in the mail the other day (along with my new Kissaluvs and doublers) and so I was excited to give it a try. Here's what she wore to bed last night: Kissaluv fitted with TWO doublers and the Aristocrat soaker over everything. Here's what I woke up to this morning: a tummy-side-down baby completely drenched with pee, through the diaper, the cover, her pajamas, and even the crib sheet and mattress pad. UUUUUGH.
I wouldn't have spent so much on the wool cover if I didn't believe it would be my nighttime savior! Now it'll have to be just another cover in my stash, but during the day it isn't as critical for the cover to have to last as long. Should I just resign myself to the fate of changing a diaper once a night? Stick with disposables? I think our situation is made slightly worse by the fact that she likes to sleep on her tummy, regardless of her position when I put her down. If she were on her back I think the pee would be more efficiently absorbed by more of the bulk of the doublers and diaper.
I think tonight I'll try double or triple prefolds, if such a thing is possible. Hey, on the bright side, if her diaper is so big she can't walk or climb easily then it'll take her longer to climb out of the crib! (I've already caught her trying to sling a leg over the crib rail, the sneak.)
Monday, April 28, 2008
I'm allergic
I've never had allergies in all my life until a month ago and I am not happy with my new allergen-sensitive state.
Thus far: one eye became swollen, itchy and irritated (why not the other eye too I have no idea), I wake up with a sore throat, I have cold-like symptoms that intensify and diminish throughout the day with no warning, I sneeze randomly and my eyes drip tears for no reason. All you who have suffered from allergies your whole lives - I'm so sorry. I have a feeling I'll be in the same boat as you from here on out.
Thus far: one eye became swollen, itchy and irritated (why not the other eye too I have no idea), I wake up with a sore throat, I have cold-like symptoms that intensify and diminish throughout the day with no warning, I sneeze randomly and my eyes drip tears for no reason. All you who have suffered from allergies your whole lives - I'm so sorry. I have a feeling I'll be in the same boat as you from here on out.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Fixing
Leaving my site half 'done' is irritating but it'll have to wait until I have time. Wordpress went and changed the look of the user interface and so I have to learn that at some point. How easy is CSS anyhow? I think if I just learned it 90% of my blog woes would be solved.
I am totally LOVING the 8-hour work days. I've recently switched from two 10-hour days to three 8-hour days and it is pretty fantastic. Makes me appreciate the hours I work so much more - I'm done at 2:30! That's like, half the day left to play with Kem or do whatever!
Today I came home from work to discover that police had visited while I had been away. Apparently the house alarm tripped (via the motion detector?!?) and so they came to investigate. I have since concluded that Methylene was having one of her usual spaz attacks and collided with the enormous stuffed duck Kem got for her birthday. The motion detector has never cared about Methyl before, but I think that Methyl plus the stuffed duck equaled house alarm. How boring.
After a brief period of me treating Twitter like Facebook (I don't know you? I block you!) it occurred to me that Twitter is more of a public blog than a private Facebook wall-to-wall. Duh. Sorry to the two (or three) people who tried to follow me and I promptly blocked you. Please come back! If I could remember your user names I would unblock you. Jason Calacanis is collecting followers towards a goal of 20,000 followers and then he will give a MacBook Air to one of them, or so the story goes as heard on TWiT. Calacanis used to rub me the wrong way but I've since come to respect him and his opinions. He's good at what he does, you have to give him that much. So I'm following him now and he followed me back almost right away. Given that he currently follows 16,000 of the 18,000 who follow him it's not special at all, but still. There's a chance that one of my tweets might be read by him.
I'm still hungry and I don't know what there is to eat. I wish I could just insert a feeding tube into my stomach and fill it with a balanced meal in less than 30 seconds. That would be marvelous.
Also, tags? Who uses tags on their entries? How is it different than categories and why is it necessary? Please enlighten me.
I am totally LOVING the 8-hour work days. I've recently switched from two 10-hour days to three 8-hour days and it is pretty fantastic. Makes me appreciate the hours I work so much more - I'm done at 2:30! That's like, half the day left to play with Kem or do whatever!
Today I came home from work to discover that police had visited while I had been away. Apparently the house alarm tripped (via the motion detector?!?) and so they came to investigate. I have since concluded that Methylene was having one of her usual spaz attacks and collided with the enormous stuffed duck Kem got for her birthday. The motion detector has never cared about Methyl before, but I think that Methyl plus the stuffed duck equaled house alarm. How boring.
After a brief period of me treating Twitter like Facebook (I don't know you? I block you!) it occurred to me that Twitter is more of a public blog than a private Facebook wall-to-wall. Duh. Sorry to the two (or three) people who tried to follow me and I promptly blocked you. Please come back! If I could remember your user names I would unblock you. Jason Calacanis is collecting followers towards a goal of 20,000 followers and then he will give a MacBook Air to one of them, or so the story goes as heard on TWiT. Calacanis used to rub me the wrong way but I've since come to respect him and his opinions. He's good at what he does, you have to give him that much. So I'm following him now and he followed me back almost right away. Given that he currently follows 16,000 of the 18,000 who follow him it's not special at all, but still. There's a chance that one of my tweets might be read by him.
I'm still hungry and I don't know what there is to eat. I wish I could just insert a feeding tube into my stomach and fill it with a balanced meal in less than 30 seconds. That would be marvelous.
Also, tags? Who uses tags on their entries? How is it different than categories and why is it necessary? Please enlighten me.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Smoke signals a desperate housewife
*deep breath*
I made meat loaf last night in a slightly-too-small pan and some of the topping oozed over and fell to the oven floor. That is where tonight's story begins and I'll agree that it starts with me. Of course by tonight I have forgotten about the spilled-upon oven floor and wish to bake some frozen french fries to accompany my microwaved leftover meat loaf (no vegetable; sorry Mom. Oh wait, technically potatoes might count.) In my haste to eat I forgot to execute the usual necessary precautions when the oven is in use: open the kitchen window and turn on the room fan. At the very least. Why is this necessary every single time you use the oven you ask? Well, I'll tell you. We don't have a vent over our stove/oven. Not only that, we have hyper-vigilant smoke alarms that are all HARDWIRED (means no battery except for back-up) and CONNECTED to each other. I used all CAPS so you could see which words were the important ones.
I'm sure you can guess where this is headed. But since this is the Super household, we do things in a super big way.
Let me be clear: I NEVER EVEN OPENED THE OVEN DOOR. The oven heated to 450 degrees, at which point I realized my foolish mistake (#2, if you're counting) and tried too late to turn on fans and fling open windows. It was nearly exactly at the point I realized my old meat loaf sauce was burning that the smoke alarmS screamed FIRE FIRE THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE to anyone in our neighborhood who cared to listen (as if they had a choice.) And when I say our smoke alarms 'screamed' that isn't too far from the truth. A calm, female voice urgently declares, "fire. fire." between deafening shrill bursts of sound.
Our house is under 1000 square feet. There are six rooms. There are five smoke alarms. Each alarm emits 85 decibels. One of the completely brilliant things about these smoke alarms is that they are all connected to each other! If one alarm goes off, they ALLLLL go off. That way if there's a fire in one room, then the alarm in a different room can let us know about it! (Keep in mind the size of the house.) These alarms also have a nifty thing called hush mode. This was designed so that when you DO have a kitchen mishap and are well aware of the smoke particles wafting throughout the house you can tell the alarm to just knock it off already, you know very well what's going on and you are much more capable of accessing this particular situation than it is. These are all good characteristics to have in smoke alarms - really! However, I question the necessity of FIVE smoke alarms in a house that is very nearly one big room itself.
So. It is nearly nine in the evening. Kem has been asleep for over an hour. Cue smoke. Beck dashes about in horror, attempting to turn the situation around before all hel-too late. Kitchen alarm sounds. Within seconds, every other alarm in the house sounds. Beck turns off the oven. Beck leaps atop a rolly and spinny computer chair to jab the kitchen alarm into hush mode. The kitchen alarm hushes for .7 seconds and then is re-started because one of the other alarms (front room or mud room) has now detected the smoke on their own. Beck calmly grabs a broom and drags a kitchen chair into the front room to stand on while stabbing at the front room smoke alarm with the end of the handle. Of course this alarm has been placed at the highest point in the whole house. The front room alarms stops for .3 seconds before being reminded by the kitchen alarm that smoke is still permeating the atmosphere. And so I begin a ridiculous dance that lasts OVER TEN MINUTES, rushing from room to room, jabbing alarms over and over again, trying to get them all on hush mode before one of the other ones realizes that, OMG the house is totally on fire! Sound the alarm! thus disrupting any progress towards hush mode I've made with any other alarm because they're all hardwired together.
As much as it makes me cringe I had no choice but to fling open the front window and door and back door as well as the kitchen window. Hello, neighbors! Happy Thursday evening to you all! Please don't call the fire department, really. No fire here! Just some burned meat loaf sauce. Don't you think I'd make it stop if I knew how? Of course I would! I'm sure it's quite the entertaining spectacle for them as I continue in my futile efforts to please just make it stoooooop.
It seems like an eternity has passed. I can't even hear myself think. I realize it's not quite nine o'clock yet and so therefore I'm still able to contact Superman. Perhaps he will have an idea. His phone is off. He told me he wanted to get to bed early. I leave him a message, wondering if he will be able to even pick out my words from amidst the noise of five smoke alarms sounding simultaneously. Sweet dreams, dear husband!
My next call goes to Rufulo. He's the one that installed the smoke alarms to begin with - HE should know what to do. I get his voicemail too, but just as I'm about to leave my desperate message the alarms taper off, one by one. Apparently the smoke has diminished to an acceptable level. I leave my message anyhow, in the blaring silence, begging him to please tell me what circuit he has them on so in the future I can just flip the switch in the breaker box and be done with it.
Amazingly, Kem did not wake up a single time despite all five alarms sounding at once. This is completely true. I know I'll be campaigning for the personalized voice alarms in Kem's room ASAP. They're only $30 here and I say that's well-worth the potentially life-saving difference it could make.
My ears are still ringing.
I made meat loaf last night in a slightly-too-small pan and some of the topping oozed over and fell to the oven floor. That is where tonight's story begins and I'll agree that it starts with me. Of course by tonight I have forgotten about the spilled-upon oven floor and wish to bake some frozen french fries to accompany my microwaved leftover meat loaf (no vegetable; sorry Mom. Oh wait, technically potatoes might count.) In my haste to eat I forgot to execute the usual necessary precautions when the oven is in use: open the kitchen window and turn on the room fan. At the very least. Why is this necessary every single time you use the oven you ask? Well, I'll tell you. We don't have a vent over our stove/oven. Not only that, we have hyper-vigilant smoke alarms that are all HARDWIRED (means no battery except for back-up) and CONNECTED to each other. I used all CAPS so you could see which words were the important ones.
I'm sure you can guess where this is headed. But since this is the Super household, we do things in a super big way.
Let me be clear: I NEVER EVEN OPENED THE OVEN DOOR. The oven heated to 450 degrees, at which point I realized my foolish mistake (#2, if you're counting) and tried too late to turn on fans and fling open windows. It was nearly exactly at the point I realized my old meat loaf sauce was burning that the smoke alarmS screamed FIRE FIRE THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE to anyone in our neighborhood who cared to listen (as if they had a choice.) And when I say our smoke alarms 'screamed' that isn't too far from the truth. A calm, female voice urgently declares, "fire. fire." between deafening shrill bursts of sound.
Our house is under 1000 square feet. There are six rooms. There are five smoke alarms. Each alarm emits 85 decibels. One of the completely brilliant things about these smoke alarms is that they are all connected to each other! If one alarm goes off, they ALLLLL go off. That way if there's a fire in one room, then the alarm in a different room can let us know about it! (Keep in mind the size of the house.) These alarms also have a nifty thing called hush mode. This was designed so that when you DO have a kitchen mishap and are well aware of the smoke particles wafting throughout the house you can tell the alarm to just knock it off already, you know very well what's going on and you are much more capable of accessing this particular situation than it is. These are all good characteristics to have in smoke alarms - really! However, I question the necessity of FIVE smoke alarms in a house that is very nearly one big room itself.
So. It is nearly nine in the evening. Kem has been asleep for over an hour. Cue smoke. Beck dashes about in horror, attempting to turn the situation around before all hel-too late. Kitchen alarm sounds. Within seconds, every other alarm in the house sounds. Beck turns off the oven. Beck leaps atop a rolly and spinny computer chair to jab the kitchen alarm into hush mode. The kitchen alarm hushes for .7 seconds and then is re-started because one of the other alarms (front room or mud room) has now detected the smoke on their own. Beck calmly grabs a broom and drags a kitchen chair into the front room to stand on while stabbing at the front room smoke alarm with the end of the handle. Of course this alarm has been placed at the highest point in the whole house. The front room alarms stops for .3 seconds before being reminded by the kitchen alarm that smoke is still permeating the atmosphere. And so I begin a ridiculous dance that lasts OVER TEN MINUTES, rushing from room to room, jabbing alarms over and over again, trying to get them all on hush mode before one of the other ones realizes that, OMG the house is totally on fire! Sound the alarm! thus disrupting any progress towards hush mode I've made with any other alarm because they're all hardwired together.
As much as it makes me cringe I had no choice but to fling open the front window and door and back door as well as the kitchen window. Hello, neighbors! Happy Thursday evening to you all! Please don't call the fire department, really. No fire here! Just some burned meat loaf sauce. Don't you think I'd make it stop if I knew how? Of course I would! I'm sure it's quite the entertaining spectacle for them as I continue in my futile efforts to please just make it stoooooop.
It seems like an eternity has passed. I can't even hear myself think. I realize it's not quite nine o'clock yet and so therefore I'm still able to contact Superman. Perhaps he will have an idea. His phone is off. He told me he wanted to get to bed early. I leave him a message, wondering if he will be able to even pick out my words from amidst the noise of five smoke alarms sounding simultaneously. Sweet dreams, dear husband!
My next call goes to Rufulo. He's the one that installed the smoke alarms to begin with - HE should know what to do. I get his voicemail too, but just as I'm about to leave my desperate message the alarms taper off, one by one. Apparently the smoke has diminished to an acceptable level. I leave my message anyhow, in the blaring silence, begging him to please tell me what circuit he has them on so in the future I can just flip the switch in the breaker box and be done with it.
Amazingly, Kem did not wake up a single time despite all five alarms sounding at once. This is completely true. I know I'll be campaigning for the personalized voice alarms in Kem's room ASAP. They're only $30 here and I say that's well-worth the potentially life-saving difference it could make.
My ears are still ringing.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Momotony
Know what I hate most about being a stay-at-home-mom? The monotony. I don't mean that staying at home is monotonous, because we go on fun little outings and have plenty of adventures. What I mean is the day-in and day-out work it requires to keep the house running smoothly and functioning well. Not that it has been or anything.
Recently I've been balking when it comes to house cleaning and tidying because how depressing is it that it all just needs to be done again in a week or even a few days later? Ugh. I wash the same sheets. I vacuum the same floors. I scrub the same toilet over and over and over. It doesn't feel like I'm working FOR anything. A job well done is its own reward is it? Well I'm not feeling rewarded. I'm feeling rather pouty and like it's not faaaaair that I should have to slave away. More kids will just make it all worse. Bah humbug. Woe is me. Somebody call the waaaaambulance.
I'm feeling especially hopeless because Kem is a little destruction machine. She's not toddling cutely around any more. She's sprinting at top speed. Walking is no longer something to do in and of itself. Walking is for getting places as fast as possible. You have things neatly stacked and organized? Kem will unstack and un-organize them for you in .3 seconds flat. And she does not hang around to admire or play with her handiwork. No. She's already on the other side of the room destroying stuff over THERE. You thought your trash was safely in the can? Not anymore it isn't. You left a stack of papers too close to the table's edge? Ta-da! Now they're scattered all over your dirty kitchen floor! You forgot to put the folded laundry away? Well now you get to fold it all over again! She's a perfect whirlwind of destruction. Pushing, pulling, poking, dragging, grabbing, moving, tearing, banging, sliding, opening, closing, nudging, slamming, dropping, carrying.
She's learning so much about her surroundings and I'm learning so much about patience and priorities.
Recently I've been balking when it comes to house cleaning and tidying because how depressing is it that it all just needs to be done again in a week or even a few days later? Ugh. I wash the same sheets. I vacuum the same floors. I scrub the same toilet over and over and over. It doesn't feel like I'm working FOR anything. A job well done is its own reward is it? Well I'm not feeling rewarded. I'm feeling rather pouty and like it's not faaaaair that I should have to slave away. More kids will just make it all worse. Bah humbug. Woe is me. Somebody call the waaaaambulance.
I'm feeling especially hopeless because Kem is a little destruction machine. She's not toddling cutely around any more. She's sprinting at top speed. Walking is no longer something to do in and of itself. Walking is for getting places as fast as possible. You have things neatly stacked and organized? Kem will unstack and un-organize them for you in .3 seconds flat. And she does not hang around to admire or play with her handiwork. No. She's already on the other side of the room destroying stuff over THERE. You thought your trash was safely in the can? Not anymore it isn't. You left a stack of papers too close to the table's edge? Ta-da! Now they're scattered all over your dirty kitchen floor! You forgot to put the folded laundry away? Well now you get to fold it all over again! She's a perfect whirlwind of destruction. Pushing, pulling, poking, dragging, grabbing, moving, tearing, banging, sliding, opening, closing, nudging, slamming, dropping, carrying.
She's learning so much about her surroundings and I'm learning so much about patience and priorities.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Food for tho-wait I have something more important to do.
Last week I heard someone say on the radio, "it takes a special kind of stupid to forget to eat." Well, perhaps. And if so then I am that stupid because OMG eating is such a pain in the butt when it's cold. Eating means I have to wash my hands which means I have to get water on them which makes them cold and wet and causes me to shiver. And then I might have to use a knife or other utensils and because exactly two drops of blood are being circulated to my fingers at any given time I fumble and drop the silverware or smash my fingers in something. Smashing your fingers hurts but smashing COLD fingers hurts worse. Then, THEN, heaven forbid I consume something with a temperature colder than the air I'm breathing. Cereal and milk for breakfast? Yogurt? You have got to be kidding me. I can't park over a heater vent in this house. So it's easier to just not eat.
Also, I really do forget to eat (more like just put it off longer than is wise) when I'm busy. I feel like I have more important things to do than waste time eating. Eating messes up my plans and throws off the schedule. This would be well and good if I was consuming as many calories per day as I ought. However I fear that I am not.
I took a movie of me teaching Kem to throw things out of her play pen (I know I know but it's SO. CUTE.) and as I played it back I not only cringed at the sound of my recorded voice but also cringed at the sight of my recorded stick figure. I was so shocked by what I saw I marched right down to the store and bought terribly unhealthy frozen foods to provide me with quick and easy to prepare snacks. No more will I lie in bed in the middle of the night (usually after nursing - I know I KNOW... you don't need to tell me...) with a stomach gnawing at itself with hunger and me thinking to myself "it's too cold to get up, and besides there's nothing to eat that's quick and you're so so tired. Go back to sleep."
It would be nice to have my own personal chef who is always pushing delicious healthy concoctions on me but as luck would unfortunately have it I'm my own personal chef and I hate to cook. It would mean making enormous vats of things once a month and throwing the lot in the freezer in nice individual servings. But seriously, who has time to go to all that trouble? I have more important things to do. (Sarcasm, people.)
While cooking may be a waste of (my) time baking is certainly not. Baking heats the house and that, my friends, is useful. Anything to ease the load of the poor radiator. So, do any of you have idiot-proof recipes that freeze well? Please send them my way; I'd love to try them out.
Ironically, while I'm on a mission to gain Superman is on a mission to lose and boy is he ever a loser. For the first time in a long time (not counting the time I was pregnant and weighed more than I have ever weighed in my LIFE! exciting!) he weighs less than 100 pounds more than me. The fat-free milk sits right next to the 2% milk in the fridge along with my disgustingly anti-diet mayonnaise and his fat-free version. I enjoy the REAL sour cream (mmmm.... nothing compares) and he suffers by on the horrible-tasting fat-free garbage, poor guy.
Also, I really do forget to eat (more like just put it off longer than is wise) when I'm busy. I feel like I have more important things to do than waste time eating. Eating messes up my plans and throws off the schedule. This would be well and good if I was consuming as many calories per day as I ought. However I fear that I am not.
I took a movie of me teaching Kem to throw things out of her play pen (I know I know but it's SO. CUTE.) and as I played it back I not only cringed at the sound of my recorded voice but also cringed at the sight of my recorded stick figure. I was so shocked by what I saw I marched right down to the store and bought terribly unhealthy frozen foods to provide me with quick and easy to prepare snacks. No more will I lie in bed in the middle of the night (usually after nursing - I know I KNOW... you don't need to tell me...) with a stomach gnawing at itself with hunger and me thinking to myself "it's too cold to get up, and besides there's nothing to eat that's quick and you're so so tired. Go back to sleep."
It would be nice to have my own personal chef who is always pushing delicious healthy concoctions on me but as luck would unfortunately have it I'm my own personal chef and I hate to cook. It would mean making enormous vats of things once a month and throwing the lot in the freezer in nice individual servings. But seriously, who has time to go to all that trouble? I have more important things to do. (Sarcasm, people.)
While cooking may be a waste of (my) time baking is certainly not. Baking heats the house and that, my friends, is useful. Anything to ease the load of the poor radiator. So, do any of you have idiot-proof recipes that freeze well? Please send them my way; I'd love to try them out.
Ironically, while I'm on a mission to gain Superman is on a mission to lose and boy is he ever a loser. For the first time in a long time (not counting the time I was pregnant and weighed more than I have ever weighed in my LIFE! exciting!) he weighs less than 100 pounds more than me. The fat-free milk sits right next to the 2% milk in the fridge along with my disgustingly anti-diet mayonnaise and his fat-free version. I enjoy the REAL sour cream (mmmm.... nothing compares) and he suffers by on the horrible-tasting fat-free garbage, poor guy.
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