Back at work today, counting the hours 'til I hopefully get a nice message from my boss's boss's boss about how we work so hard, we should just go home early.
Felt better yesterday afternoon, and took advantage of some time to go to my favorite store by myself - Target. Ahhhhhhh.... I did stock up on some cold supplies for the kids, and got CARDED for buying kids' cough syrup. The cute checker boy apologized profusely for asking my age. I felt rather cougar-ish telling him, while he's blushing and I'm thinking, "you're cute." Yeah, obvious I felt better, hm?
Speaking of my children, here are some things I never want to hear my 3 year old say again:
"Ew, Daddy, don't LICK mommy."
"Maggie, look at my balancing trick." (after I just walked out of the room and knew she was on a rocking horse. Like any good mother, I just ignored her.)
We're looking forward to a long weekend. J is going mountain biking in the morning, and I told the girls I'd take them to the Y if they had a good day today (mama just needs to workout).
Here's a random poll for the day: Recommend a book for me and/or Jeff. I just finished John Adams, and my coworker is trying to get me to read Truman. Can't do that, yet. I like non-fiction, but would not mind venturing out. Plus, we're going to Mexico in 30 days, so I need to get books for that.
Showing posts with label E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label E. Show all posts
Friday, August 29, 2008
Monday, August 06, 2007
Stupid Mondays
Monday: Taco Salad for grown ups / Taco "Bowls" for Kiddos (In scoop doritos)
Tuesday: Red Beans & Rice & Sausage
Wednesday: Crock Pot Chicken & Green Beans
Thursday: Mac & Cheese & fruit for kiddos w/ babysitter (Mom and Dad OUT for anniversary)
Friday: pizza
Non-menu related rant. Mondays are tough enough already without a 2.75 year old screaming and crying, "I want daddy" and "I don't want to go to school, I want you to stay home." I was thisclose to coming in to resign today, except that I'd have to deal with said 2.75 year old drama queen all day, EVERY DAY. To moms with babies - if you think leaving an infant is hard, just wait until they can talk and tell you exactly what they're thinking.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Learning mommy
The days have been slipping by. E had an ear infection, them M. E is 95% potty trained, M is 95% walking. Some days they look so big. I've been telling E stories about when she was a baby, she did this, or that. She thinks its funny that she used to kick mommy from inside the tummy.
I haven't journaled or blogged about M the same way I did about E's babyhood. Lack of time, fear of showing "favoritism", I'm sure a thousand other reasons. I need to start. I need to write things down to remember how she crams food in her mouth, how she clutches her blanket at nighttime, and lays her head on my shoulder when I sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to her. I need to remember her sweet disposition and how she's already chasing and playing with her sister. I'll try to do better, baby.
And now some words from another mommy that I found in my inbox. I love this piece. I need to find out if Anna Quindlen really wrote it. ;-)
An Essay by Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author
All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago pouring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the, "Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame." The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.
I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, and matter-of-fact - I was sometimes over the top.
And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
I haven't journaled or blogged about M the same way I did about E's babyhood. Lack of time, fear of showing "favoritism", I'm sure a thousand other reasons. I need to start. I need to write things down to remember how she crams food in her mouth, how she clutches her blanket at nighttime, and lays her head on my shoulder when I sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to her. I need to remember her sweet disposition and how she's already chasing and playing with her sister. I'll try to do better, baby.
And now some words from another mommy that I found in my inbox. I love this piece. I need to find out if Anna Quindlen really wrote it. ;-)
An Essay by Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author
All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago pouring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the, "Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame." The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.
I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, and matter-of-fact - I was sometimes over the top.
And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Momentous Occasions
Yesterday was such a huge day. E started the 3 year old class on Monday, and yesterday wore big girl panties -WITH-NO-ACCIDENTS-...!!!!! She also went poopy on the potty ("but just a little bit, mommy.") If she does it again today, I'm taking her out for ice cream, or something.
Also, M walked. Repeatedly. Granted, it was like 3 steps, fall down, Mommy pick up, 3 steps, fall down, Mommy pick up, but still. She knew what she was doing too, I could tell. For the past few months, I've been trying to get her to "walk to mommy" since she is the biggest mama's girl ever and who does she finally walk to, last night? E, the big sister, who was brushing her teeth and running around having a grand time. J doesn't believe me, as he worked late last night and didn't see it, and she wouldn't repeat the feat this morning. But I think we're off and running.
What else is happening? I get to close out a case that was reassigned to me when I returned from maternity leave... from my first baby. This was not a complicated case, but still rather huge and one of first impression. We got a signed commitment from the recipient last night, and I get to tell the person who filed that it's finally over. Yay me.
Also, M walked. Repeatedly. Granted, it was like 3 steps, fall down, Mommy pick up, 3 steps, fall down, Mommy pick up, but still. She knew what she was doing too, I could tell. For the past few months, I've been trying to get her to "walk to mommy" since she is the biggest mama's girl ever and who does she finally walk to, last night? E, the big sister, who was brushing her teeth and running around having a grand time. J doesn't believe me, as he worked late last night and didn't see it, and she wouldn't repeat the feat this morning. But I think we're off and running.
What else is happening? I get to close out a case that was reassigned to me when I returned from maternity leave... from my first baby. This was not a complicated case, but still rather huge and one of first impression. We got a signed commitment from the recipient last night, and I get to tell the person who filed that it's finally over. Yay me.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Good times
Every day when we leave day care, I let E pick up two or three packs of crackers for the ride home. Yesterday, she gave me one and as I was holding it, M grabbed it from me and started gnawing on it. I tried taking it away from her, but she pouted, and I caved, since I had made her cry when I first walked in yesterday. (I was at the front desk signing the kids out, and she happened to see me from her room. Literally, there’s one spot where she could sit and see me, and she was there. I heard a kid crying quite loudly, and I thought, “my, that’s one pissed off baby…. That kinda sounds like mine.” I turned around and there she was, crying that she could see her mama and her mama wasn’t coming to get her. It broke my heart. Therefore… crackers.) So E got to get two more crackers.
We’re in the car, and E has finished her crackers and gets all pouty about something, and starts kicking my seat. I say, “look at that temper tantrum right there!” And she says, “I wanna see!”
“What?” I ask.
“I wanna see temper tan!”
“You want to see a temper tantrum?”
“Yes!”
“Right there! You’re the temper tantrum!”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO. I WANNA SEE TEMPER TAN!”
It was pretty funny, and nothing I could do could convince her that a temper tantrum wasn’t something really cool outside of the car that she was missing.
She calmed down a little, and saw M still gnawing on the pack of Club crackers (yes I’m a horrible mother for letting her do that, I know). “I want Aggie crackers.” (E calls M “aggie”)
“You want Maggie’s crackers?” I ask.
“Yes.”
”No, baby, you had your crackers, those are Maggie’s crackers.”
“I want to share.” She pouted.
So freakin’ cute. She gets sharing! Kinda.
We’re in the car, and E has finished her crackers and gets all pouty about something, and starts kicking my seat. I say, “look at that temper tantrum right there!” And she says, “I wanna see!”
“What?” I ask.
“I wanna see temper tan!”
“You want to see a temper tantrum?”
“Yes!”
“Right there! You’re the temper tantrum!”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO. I WANNA SEE TEMPER TAN!”
It was pretty funny, and nothing I could do could convince her that a temper tantrum wasn’t something really cool outside of the car that she was missing.
She calmed down a little, and saw M still gnawing on the pack of Club crackers (yes I’m a horrible mother for letting her do that, I know). “I want Aggie crackers.” (E calls M “aggie”)
“You want Maggie’s crackers?” I ask.
“Yes.”
”No, baby, you had your crackers, those are Maggie’s crackers.”
“I want to share.” She pouted.
So freakin’ cute. She gets sharing! Kinda.
Monday, February 26, 2007
One good story and one bad
My parents gave E some knock-off crocs for Christmas. She’d been asking to wear them, but (1) they were a little big for her and (2) they had holes in them, and it was very cold outside. Then I noticed some little girls in her class wearing them, and I figured they probably were very practical for day care life, and it got a little warmer, and her feet are bigger, so I broke them out last week. My mom also sent me a pair of mary jane crocs for Valentines Day, which are green like E’s. I HAD to point that out to her, and now every time she’s wearing hers, she wants mommy to wear her green shoes, like E.
So we were fighting that battle yesterday, when she got out one of my Coach purses that I had left out. “Bye bye mommy, see you later,” And she walked around the house with it, pretending like she was going on a trip. She even put in her tube of Burt's Bees lip balm (hers because she used it while sick with the plague.)
Then the real stylist moment came when Jeff came out without his pants on. Back up… he had showered, and dressed. He had a shirt on, and boxers, and had come into the living room to get his jeans out of his suitcase. “Pants on, Daddy, pants on!”
Our little stylist – green crocs for mommy, coach purse for her and pants for daddy. She’ll be dressing Jessica Biel before you know it.
So that’s my fun bit for today and now for the heartwrenching part. And I’m having difficulty writing about it, but I want you, my readers, to learn something from my pain.
Falling at Costco? Not my most embarrassing moment anymore.
Yesterday I served as assisting minister at church. It was my first time. I was terribly nervous. I read the gospel, lead the prayers of the people. All was well. I assisted at communion and spilled the chalice of red wine all over the organist.
Go me.
I wiped up what I could and had to go on. I started getting a little hysterical during communion. I’m sure most of the people who accepted wine from me (this time in the little cups in the tray) hadn’t seen the chalice debacle, but I still imagined them cowering in fear, “Don’t spill it on me!”
I put on a good face and walked with the pastors to the back of the church at the end of the service. The pastor put his arm around me and said some things to make me feel better, then made me go shake hands with the congregation.
After I was done, I ran back to the sacristy to grab my purse and a $10 bill. I found the organist, a nice woman who has, however, always intimidated me. I pressured her to take the money for cleaning her SUEDE JACKET. (Oh, I didn’t mention that detail?) She was extremely gracious, and declined, and forgave me. I started crying, and cried all the way home.
The rest of the day distracted me, and the pastor called me again last night to tell me it was fine, that he could tell me horrible stories about things he had done and seen during worship. I told him that it was more than just me being embarrassed about a mistake. My experience at the communion table was a big reason why I joined our church, why I even became Lutheran. It means a lot to me, and the fact that I could have detracted from someone else’s experience distressed me.
What could he say? “Well, that’s a good reason to feel responsible, but just brush it off, and next time you'll be fine.”
“I’m invited back another time?”
He laughed, “Of course.”
I’m still not over the mortification, or the guilt, but his and the victim’s graciousness says a lot about them, and about our church family.
I’m still taking a few months off from the job, though.
So we were fighting that battle yesterday, when she got out one of my Coach purses that I had left out. “Bye bye mommy, see you later,” And she walked around the house with it, pretending like she was going on a trip. She even put in her tube of Burt's Bees lip balm (hers because she used it while sick with the plague.)
Then the real stylist moment came when Jeff came out without his pants on. Back up… he had showered, and dressed. He had a shirt on, and boxers, and had come into the living room to get his jeans out of his suitcase. “Pants on, Daddy, pants on!”
Our little stylist – green crocs for mommy, coach purse for her and pants for daddy. She’ll be dressing Jessica Biel before you know it.
So that’s my fun bit for today and now for the heartwrenching part. And I’m having difficulty writing about it, but I want you, my readers, to learn something from my pain.
Falling at Costco? Not my most embarrassing moment anymore.
Yesterday I served as assisting minister at church. It was my first time. I was terribly nervous. I read the gospel, lead the prayers of the people. All was well. I assisted at communion and spilled the chalice of red wine all over the organist.
Go me.
I wiped up what I could and had to go on. I started getting a little hysterical during communion. I’m sure most of the people who accepted wine from me (this time in the little cups in the tray) hadn’t seen the chalice debacle, but I still imagined them cowering in fear, “Don’t spill it on me!”
I put on a good face and walked with the pastors to the back of the church at the end of the service. The pastor put his arm around me and said some things to make me feel better, then made me go shake hands with the congregation.
After I was done, I ran back to the sacristy to grab my purse and a $10 bill. I found the organist, a nice woman who has, however, always intimidated me. I pressured her to take the money for cleaning her SUEDE JACKET. (Oh, I didn’t mention that detail?) She was extremely gracious, and declined, and forgave me. I started crying, and cried all the way home.
The rest of the day distracted me, and the pastor called me again last night to tell me it was fine, that he could tell me horrible stories about things he had done and seen during worship. I told him that it was more than just me being embarrassed about a mistake. My experience at the communion table was a big reason why I joined our church, why I even became Lutheran. It means a lot to me, and the fact that I could have detracted from someone else’s experience distressed me.
What could he say? “Well, that’s a good reason to feel responsible, but just brush it off, and next time you'll be fine.”
“I’m invited back another time?”
He laughed, “Of course.”
I’m still not over the mortification, or the guilt, but his and the victim’s graciousness says a lot about them, and about our church family.
I’m still taking a few months off from the job, though.
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