When you find out you're pregnant for the first time - and you're actually going to keep the child - you read every book that was ever written by anyone who has any kind of experience with children. You're nervous. You fret about everything you ingest. You absorb all the horror stories. You try all the advice. You know... typical new parent stuff. Then you realize that babies are, for all intents and purposes, pretty unbreakable. They're these beautiful clean slates; moldable and malleable. Sure, you have to contend with genetics and all that, but nurture has to have some effect, right?
As I may have mentioned, Liam (The Nugget) was recently diagnosed with ADHD. In my quest to understand everything I can about what's going on in his head, so I can help him navigate the waters of life, I'm reading everything I can get my hands on. The more I read, though, the more guilty I feel. It turns out, despite my best intentions, my boy had the chips stacked against him from the outset.
First, let's talk genetics. The Ex is ADHD, too. He never really outgrew it, as a goodly percentage of children with the disorder won't, but he seemed to have learned how to cope in life. Aside from a severe Peter Pan complex he seemed fairly normal. Or maybe I was just young and stupid, and didn't know any better.
Now let's discuss womb environment. So, Liam already had a potent cocktail of genetics working against him. I'm not proud of this, but I smoked during all three of my pregnancies. I cut way back, but I still smoked. While pregnant with Liam, I was down to no more than four cigarettes a day... until The Ex decided to leave me while I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with Liam. I immediately went back up to a pack a day.
Did I mention that, early in the pregnancy, I contracted bacterial meningitis? Theoretically, the placenta filtered the bad stuff out, but nobody really knows for sure that he wasn't affected.
Now let's get back to the stress and depression I felt during the latter part of my pregnancy. I couldn't eat. I could barely consume liquids (depression does that to you). I ended up losing weight. Combine that with a nasty smoking habit and Liam's womb environment was less than ideal.
When he was born, his APGAR scores were damn near perfect. There was no oxygen deprivation (he was as pink as the shrimp I was so fond of while pregnant with him). The delivery, via c-section, went without a hitch. He was smack dab in the middle of the weight and height ranges. Nothing indicated that he wouldn't be perfectly normal.
So what was different? My pregnancy. The Monkey had the same genetic cocktail to work with and yet he is, at least as far as I can tell, unaffected by ADHD. Hell, I didn't even cut back as much on the smoking while pregnant with The Monkey (which accounts for his birth weight being on the lower end of normal), and I definitely drank a ton of coffee with him. But I hadn't contracted meningitis and I wasn't suffering from a broken heart.
There's nothing I can do about any of this now, short of building a time machine. And I'm all out of plutonium at the moment. What I can do is try to help my boy navigate the waters of life in the context of our new definition of normal.
But the spectrum of normal has shifted a great deal for me. I freeze when I need to address a discipline issue because I don't know what the right move is. I am wracked with guilt and this guilt tinges almost all of my interactions with Liam. My thought processes are frozen in a constant loop of "you did this to him. you did this to him. you did this to him." I want to help him, but I don't know what helping him means anymore.
Intellectually, I know this is bordering on insanity on my part, and probably the result of internalizing far too much of what I'm reading right now. But emotionally, I can't help but feel like I'm treading water.
When you get a diagnosis like this for your child, it doesn't come along with a bunch of handouts about what to expect with your ADHD kid. No. Instead they send you off with the test results and a 504 plan with calm reassurances about reevaluating him again in a year. They don't explain how to intercede when outbursts at the supper table just won't stop happening. They don't explain how you're supposed to be able to tell how much of the behavior is "...an imperfection in the brain that causes the... poor impulse control..." or how much of it is your kid, who is abnormally perceptive anyway, trying to use his ADHD as an excuse to be an asshole. They don't explain to you how to explain to your kid that it's not OK to hug strangers, no matter how much you want to, because other kids will make fun of you. Because, guess what? ADHD kids have a really fucking hard time processing future consequences. In fact, future consequences don't exist in the ADHD world. They don't tell you that part, either.
No map. No directions. You're a foreigner in a new land and you don't speak the language.
So how do you parent that? How do you guide your child through the rapids when your child sees the rapids as just any other body of water. Oh and your kid can't swim, either.
Where's the fucking manual for that?
Showing posts with label The Trolls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Trolls. Show all posts
Monday, March 3, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
What Resolutions? (A blog about finding out your kid is different)
I feel compelled to blog, though I don't know where to begin. Should I be witty? Should I be candid? Should I just stream of consciousness this post? There's so much and nothing at all in my head right now. But where to start?
The quest to actually follow through on my New Years resolutions has fallen way, way short. Mostly this is because life has demanded my attention be focused elsewhere, and all at once. The people in white lab coats say that the human brain is not capable of actually, literally multitasking. I don't think they did those scans on full time moms with full time jobs. Or maybe my brain is just really good at switching between tasks.
...Which, come to think of it, is not necessarily true. Because I forget a LOT of stuff most of the time. I drop balls like a novice juggler. Hell, I'm not even making decent analogies right now.
Speaking of brains, The Nugget was recently diagnosed with ADHD (inattentive type) and ODD (for those of you who don't know, that's oppositional defiant disorder. The first step on the path to conduct disorder. For those of you who don't know what conduct disorder is, introduce yourself to most of the habitual offenders in our prison system today). I won't even begin to wax knowledgable about either of these disorders, because I'm still learning all I can about these disorders. But looking back on my poor sweet boy's life, in perspective and through the lenses of these labels, so, so much makes sense now.
There's a certain level of comfort in finally having a label for the thing that has made parenting The Nugget for these last 11 years so difficult. He couldn't remember to do basic tasks, like shutting the front door or to change his socks. He was almost four before he was fully potty trained. He was almost nine before he learned to tie his shoes without help.
Then there were the issues at daycare and at school. Every new school year, I braced myself for the onslaught of notes and conferences that seemed to always accompany The Nugget through school. Every week - sometimes every day - there was a new note. Really, though, it wasn't a new note so much the same note on a different day tinged with a growing frustration that The Nugget just couldn't seem to get his shit together.
Before that, it was at least once a week that he was being sent home from daycare because his behavior was just so abysmal the teachers couldn't control him.
And nothing seemed to work to change the behavior. No amount of punishment or reward; begging or bribing would make The Nugget behave. I remember one time, when The Nugget was about four or so, when, sobbing with frustration about being reprimanded again, he wailed, "but Mama! I'm being haved!" For him, he really was trying. He was being his version of "haved". I didn't know then what I know now. And now that I know, the story isn't as cute anymore.
I chalked it up to The Nugget being a boy. The Monkey outgrew all of this behavior, surely The Nugget would, too! Then I chalked it up to the teacher being an asshole, but then The Nugget had some really fantastic teachers and I couldn't use that as an excuse anymore. I clung desperately to the idea that maybe he was just Huck Finn and why on earth would I want to change that? I was in serious denial that there was something actually wrong with him.
And now I have a label; I have a reason for it all. But that label and the reason don't make things any easier. In fact, I have a tremendous amount of guilt in letting it go on for as long as I did before I really truly insisted on getting him tested. Though, letting it go on and letting his record get supremely thick helped us skip right through all the bureaucratic bullshit red tape. We passed go. We collected our diagnoses. He has an education plan which will help get him through elementary school, at least.
Depending on what you're reading, the root causes for ADHD and ODD aren't entirely clear, but they do know that it happens in the brain - whether it's a structural cause or a chemical imbalance is still a matter of debate. They don't know exactly what contributes to these defects - everything from maternal consumption of caffeine and nicotine while pregnant to genetic factors have been cited - but everyone seems to now agree that it's not just teachers and parents looking to medicate kids to the point of zombie-hood.
The Nugget's... actually, let me pause. He deserves to be spoken of as something more than an anecdote. The Nugget's name is Liam... the version of ADHD that Liam has is the inattentive type. We're luckier than some folks there because he really doesn't need medication. He's capable of sitting still. He's capable of focusing some of the time (and only if there are absolutely no distractions). He has some mild tics and socialization issues, but nothing that is considered clinical (just borderline) in that arena. Liam also has a very difficult time processing his emotions in a "normal" way, and suffers a fair amount of anxiety most of the time.
But what makes a disorder like this more difficult for families like ours is there's no outward appearance of abnormality. There's nothing that screams "my child has special needs! Back the fuck off and show him some respect!" because he looks normal. People expect him to be able to operate on the same level as most folks. He just can't. He can fake it. He can find ways to cope in the world. But he will. Never. Be. Normal. And folks will just keep on wondering why the weird kid is weird.
That's a hard pill to swallow as a mama. Especially at this stage of the game. My child has special needs. My child will never be normal. My child will always struggle in the world. My child will always have to work extra hard. My child will often be at a loss to explain why he did something and why it was wrong (or why it was right) and will get in trouble for it. Because he looks normal.
------
I don't know how to sum this post up. It's open-ended, I suppose, because there's still so much left to learn. I'm still grieving for my boy and am still processing all of this information in a space of grief. No, he's not dying - and I am lucky for that! And he doesn't have a terminal illness. But his life is, and always was, inexorably changed.
The quest to actually follow through on my New Years resolutions has fallen way, way short. Mostly this is because life has demanded my attention be focused elsewhere, and all at once. The people in white lab coats say that the human brain is not capable of actually, literally multitasking. I don't think they did those scans on full time moms with full time jobs. Or maybe my brain is just really good at switching between tasks.
...Which, come to think of it, is not necessarily true. Because I forget a LOT of stuff most of the time. I drop balls like a novice juggler. Hell, I'm not even making decent analogies right now.
Speaking of brains, The Nugget was recently diagnosed with ADHD (inattentive type) and ODD (for those of you who don't know, that's oppositional defiant disorder. The first step on the path to conduct disorder. For those of you who don't know what conduct disorder is, introduce yourself to most of the habitual offenders in our prison system today). I won't even begin to wax knowledgable about either of these disorders, because I'm still learning all I can about these disorders. But looking back on my poor sweet boy's life, in perspective and through the lenses of these labels, so, so much makes sense now.
There's a certain level of comfort in finally having a label for the thing that has made parenting The Nugget for these last 11 years so difficult. He couldn't remember to do basic tasks, like shutting the front door or to change his socks. He was almost four before he was fully potty trained. He was almost nine before he learned to tie his shoes without help.
Then there were the issues at daycare and at school. Every new school year, I braced myself for the onslaught of notes and conferences that seemed to always accompany The Nugget through school. Every week - sometimes every day - there was a new note. Really, though, it wasn't a new note so much the same note on a different day tinged with a growing frustration that The Nugget just couldn't seem to get his shit together.
Before that, it was at least once a week that he was being sent home from daycare because his behavior was just so abysmal the teachers couldn't control him.
And nothing seemed to work to change the behavior. No amount of punishment or reward; begging or bribing would make The Nugget behave. I remember one time, when The Nugget was about four or so, when, sobbing with frustration about being reprimanded again, he wailed, "but Mama! I'm being haved!" For him, he really was trying. He was being his version of "haved". I didn't know then what I know now. And now that I know, the story isn't as cute anymore.
I chalked it up to The Nugget being a boy. The Monkey outgrew all of this behavior, surely The Nugget would, too! Then I chalked it up to the teacher being an asshole, but then The Nugget had some really fantastic teachers and I couldn't use that as an excuse anymore. I clung desperately to the idea that maybe he was just Huck Finn and why on earth would I want to change that? I was in serious denial that there was something actually wrong with him.
And now I have a label; I have a reason for it all. But that label and the reason don't make things any easier. In fact, I have a tremendous amount of guilt in letting it go on for as long as I did before I really truly insisted on getting him tested. Though, letting it go on and letting his record get supremely thick helped us skip right through all the bureaucratic bullshit red tape. We passed go. We collected our diagnoses. He has an education plan which will help get him through elementary school, at least.
Depending on what you're reading, the root causes for ADHD and ODD aren't entirely clear, but they do know that it happens in the brain - whether it's a structural cause or a chemical imbalance is still a matter of debate. They don't know exactly what contributes to these defects - everything from maternal consumption of caffeine and nicotine while pregnant to genetic factors have been cited - but everyone seems to now agree that it's not just teachers and parents looking to medicate kids to the point of zombie-hood.
The Nugget's... actually, let me pause. He deserves to be spoken of as something more than an anecdote. The Nugget's name is Liam... the version of ADHD that Liam has is the inattentive type. We're luckier than some folks there because he really doesn't need medication. He's capable of sitting still. He's capable of focusing some of the time (and only if there are absolutely no distractions). He has some mild tics and socialization issues, but nothing that is considered clinical (just borderline) in that arena. Liam also has a very difficult time processing his emotions in a "normal" way, and suffers a fair amount of anxiety most of the time.
But what makes a disorder like this more difficult for families like ours is there's no outward appearance of abnormality. There's nothing that screams "my child has special needs! Back the fuck off and show him some respect!" because he looks normal. People expect him to be able to operate on the same level as most folks. He just can't. He can fake it. He can find ways to cope in the world. But he will. Never. Be. Normal. And folks will just keep on wondering why the weird kid is weird.
That's a hard pill to swallow as a mama. Especially at this stage of the game. My child has special needs. My child will never be normal. My child will always struggle in the world. My child will always have to work extra hard. My child will often be at a loss to explain why he did something and why it was wrong (or why it was right) and will get in trouble for it. Because he looks normal.
------
I don't know how to sum this post up. It's open-ended, I suppose, because there's still so much left to learn. I'm still grieving for my boy and am still processing all of this information in a space of grief. No, he's not dying - and I am lucky for that! And he doesn't have a terminal illness. But his life is, and always was, inexorably changed.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Comparing Apples to Agent Orange -- How Not to Be a Dick
One of the most solid pieces of advice that any person anywhere will ever hear is never to compare their last relationship to the one they're currently in. It's just bad news all the way around. But we're also human beings, so we're going to do exactly the opposite of the thing we're not supposed to do.
As a rule -- at least this time around -- I don't compare The Fiancee™ to The Ex. There's no comparison. The Fiancee™ is far and away the better of the two. I may reflect back on the previous relationship to make sure I'm not repeating mistakes or clearing out the detritus from some leftover baggage, but I usually don't compare.
Until I had a baby with The Fiancee™. Ever since I had The Bean, a constant thought runs through my head, "I wish I'd had The Trolls with The Fiancee™". He's such a fantastic and remarkable father. He's hands on. He reads. He listens. He's all the things The Ex isn't. Every time I have to send The Trolls off with The Ex, I cringe and count the seconds 'til they're back home with us, because The Ex is just a shit.
(I'm probably going to regret typing that last sentence -- and then publishing it in a public forum -- especially if The Trolls ever find out I have a blog, but... well... First Amendment and all that).
But really why I take to my blog is not to extoll the virtues of my beloved, but to speak to all The Exes out there. Call it Sady's Rules for Not Being a Dick and Everyone Will Be Happy.
1) Visitation: the children should always come first. Sure, every now-and-again there are going to be times when you have to work late or you need a break, but as the non-custodial parent, when you have an opportunity to see your children, you should take it. You shouldn't blow them off for, oh I don't know, a tour (you're a forty-year-old wanna-be rock star who is never going to be a famous musician. Just come to grips with that already, wouldja?)
If you can't make a scheduled visit, call the other parent NOT the children. Messages like that should not be delivered to or through the kids.
If you need to reschedule a visit, call the other parent NOT the children.
If you want to see the children, call the other parent NOT the children.
Stick to the prearranged schedule unless there's an emergency. Schools frown upon unexcused tardies and your ex gets really annoyed having to wait around for you.
2) Call the children: by all means, call the children. Regularly. Several times a day, even. There's no need to speak to the other parent if you're just calling to say, "hi."
But if the other parent needs to speak to you, the polite thing to do is take the call. If you don't want to talk to your ex, that's fine. Shoot him or her a text message. He or she would probably prefer it since he or she didn't want to talk to you, either. Talking to your ex is a necessary evil when you have children together.
3) Scheduling a visit: as a matter of fact, you do need to speak to your ex if you want to see your children. Your ex should not have to keep the children's schedules indefinitely open in the hopes that you'll find time in your schedule to see them. I know, I know. You hate feeling like you have to ask permission to see your kids, but you know what? You do need to make sure that they don't already have plans. Suck it up, Cupcake.
4) Don't trash talk: sure, you hate your ex. She or he hates you, too. That's why the two of you aren't together. Keep the trash talking between you and the voice in your head. The children don't need to be caught in the crossfire.
5) Child Support: I've got news for you, Buttercup -- child support is necessary. You don't get to arbitrarily decide that you'll buy the kids something in lieu of paying child support. It doesn't work that way. Child support goes toward the cost of raising children and, in most cases, doesn't even begin to cover what your ex has to pay toward their cost of living. Children are fucking expensive.
And if you think you're just spiting your ex by not paying, well, think again. You're just a dick that likes to hurt your own kids. NOT paying child support prevents your ex from doing things for the kids -- like get them braces or pay for sports.
It's not "extra money", by the way. It's money that is very, very needed. But even if it is extra money and your ex chooses to spend it on hookers and blow, he or she can. He or she has already paid the mortgage, the light bill and put food in the children's bellies. You're simply paying your ex back a small portion of what he or she has already spent on the children.
And let's just address this while we're at it: your ex cannot ask his or her parents to help. It's your job to support your children.Your ex's current is not responsible for the financial burden of your children, either. He or she does it because he or she loves your kids -- and you should be goddamned grateful for that and not take it for granted.
Oh and side note: if you can afford to take time off from work to go on fucking tour, you better make sure that you've paid your child support. Dick.
(Item five is especially touchy for me, since The Ex -- who only is required (by our mutual agreement... for now) to pay $300 a month for two kids hasn't paid a dime since October 2012. All points covered are all arguments he used to justify not paying).
6) Don't be super-happy-funtime-parent: Seriously, just don't. Don't be the parent that the kids get to have all the fun with while your ex is the one that has to make them eat their vegetables and do their homework. Because, you know what? The next time you have a weekend with your kids, your ex may just send them over all hopped up on Mountain Dew and bags of sugar. You'd deserve it.
7) Don't be a dick to your kids: don't say things like "you're just like your mother" or "you're stupid" or "you're fat and lazy." Saying those kinds of things is a sure fire way to get yourself a one-way ticket to The-Kids-Are-Permanently-Busy-and-Can-Never-See-You-Again-ville.
8) Blending families: make sure that the children have a place of their own in your home -- especially if you're living with someone who already has kids. There's nothing quite so sure to guarantee to make a child require years and years of therapy as one or both of their parents making their "biological" child feel like a red-headed step-child.
9) Do what you say you're going to do. And don't argue about it if it's not convenient for you anymore. You made your bed, now lay in it.
As a rule -- at least this time around -- I don't compare The Fiancee™ to The Ex. There's no comparison. The Fiancee™ is far and away the better of the two. I may reflect back on the previous relationship to make sure I'm not repeating mistakes or clearing out the detritus from some leftover baggage, but I usually don't compare.
Until I had a baby with The Fiancee™. Ever since I had The Bean, a constant thought runs through my head, "I wish I'd had The Trolls with The Fiancee™". He's such a fantastic and remarkable father. He's hands on. He reads. He listens. He's all the things The Ex isn't. Every time I have to send The Trolls off with The Ex, I cringe and count the seconds 'til they're back home with us, because The Ex is just a shit.
(I'm probably going to regret typing that last sentence -- and then publishing it in a public forum -- especially if The Trolls ever find out I have a blog, but... well... First Amendment and all that).
But really why I take to my blog is not to extoll the virtues of my beloved, but to speak to all The Exes out there. Call it Sady's Rules for Not Being a Dick and Everyone Will Be Happy.
1) Visitation: the children should always come first. Sure, every now-and-again there are going to be times when you have to work late or you need a break, but as the non-custodial parent, when you have an opportunity to see your children, you should take it. You shouldn't blow them off for, oh I don't know, a tour (you're a forty-year-old wanna-be rock star who is never going to be a famous musician. Just come to grips with that already, wouldja?)
If you can't make a scheduled visit, call the other parent NOT the children. Messages like that should not be delivered to or through the kids.
If you need to reschedule a visit, call the other parent NOT the children.
If you want to see the children, call the other parent NOT the children.
Stick to the prearranged schedule unless there's an emergency. Schools frown upon unexcused tardies and your ex gets really annoyed having to wait around for you.
2) Call the children: by all means, call the children. Regularly. Several times a day, even. There's no need to speak to the other parent if you're just calling to say, "hi."
But if the other parent needs to speak to you, the polite thing to do is take the call. If you don't want to talk to your ex, that's fine. Shoot him or her a text message. He or she would probably prefer it since he or she didn't want to talk to you, either. Talking to your ex is a necessary evil when you have children together.
3) Scheduling a visit: as a matter of fact, you do need to speak to your ex if you want to see your children. Your ex should not have to keep the children's schedules indefinitely open in the hopes that you'll find time in your schedule to see them. I know, I know. You hate feeling like you have to ask permission to see your kids, but you know what? You do need to make sure that they don't already have plans. Suck it up, Cupcake.
4) Don't trash talk: sure, you hate your ex. She or he hates you, too. That's why the two of you aren't together. Keep the trash talking between you and the voice in your head. The children don't need to be caught in the crossfire.
5) Child Support: I've got news for you, Buttercup -- child support is necessary. You don't get to arbitrarily decide that you'll buy the kids something in lieu of paying child support. It doesn't work that way. Child support goes toward the cost of raising children and, in most cases, doesn't even begin to cover what your ex has to pay toward their cost of living. Children are fucking expensive.
And if you think you're just spiting your ex by not paying, well, think again. You're just a dick that likes to hurt your own kids. NOT paying child support prevents your ex from doing things for the kids -- like get them braces or pay for sports.
It's not "extra money", by the way. It's money that is very, very needed. But even if it is extra money and your ex chooses to spend it on hookers and blow, he or she can. He or she has already paid the mortgage, the light bill and put food in the children's bellies. You're simply paying your ex back a small portion of what he or she has already spent on the children.
And let's just address this while we're at it: your ex cannot ask his or her parents to help. It's your job to support your children.Your ex's current is not responsible for the financial burden of your children, either. He or she does it because he or she loves your kids -- and you should be goddamned grateful for that and not take it for granted.
Oh and side note: if you can afford to take time off from work to go on fucking tour, you better make sure that you've paid your child support. Dick.
(Item five is especially touchy for me, since The Ex -- who only is required (by our mutual agreement... for now) to pay $300 a month for two kids hasn't paid a dime since October 2012. All points covered are all arguments he used to justify not paying).
6) Don't be super-happy-funtime-parent: Seriously, just don't. Don't be the parent that the kids get to have all the fun with while your ex is the one that has to make them eat their vegetables and do their homework. Because, you know what? The next time you have a weekend with your kids, your ex may just send them over all hopped up on Mountain Dew and bags of sugar. You'd deserve it.
7) Don't be a dick to your kids: don't say things like "you're just like your mother" or "you're stupid" or "you're fat and lazy." Saying those kinds of things is a sure fire way to get yourself a one-way ticket to The-Kids-Are-Permanently-Busy-and-Can-Never-See-You-Again-ville.
8) Blending families: make sure that the children have a place of their own in your home -- especially if you're living with someone who already has kids. There's nothing quite so sure to guarantee to make a child require years and years of therapy as one or both of their parents making their "biological" child feel like a red-headed step-child.
9) Do what you say you're going to do. And don't argue about it if it's not convenient for you anymore. You made your bed, now lay in it.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
If I click my heels three times...
The only downside to going home for a visit is the raging homesickness that I feel for weeks afterward. Sometimes, like after my last visit, it doesn't last terribly long. Other times, it'll take weeks for it to ebb. Methinks this is one of those times where I'll be longing for home long after I've left.
Sweet Lady Gray was thoroughly doused with much love by her extended family. She also got to spend some time in the hands of the women (her great-grandmothers) who are so important to me and, hopefully, have enough life left in 'em to last long enough for her to actually remember them. I hate the thought that she might only know them through pictures.
The Trolls are still up north for an extended visit with their side of the family and I miss them terribly. I miss their noise and their smell. I even kind of miss their mess in the living room. OK, I'm lying about that last part. It's actually quite nice not having to fight with them to pick up their mess.
But on the topic of homesickness, part of me doesn't want it to go away. Part of me wants it to hang on for dear life so that the fire of my "Two Year Plan" doesn't turn into a slow burning cinder. I want the fire to rage. I want to be motivated to scrimp and save so I can get the hell out of Dodge. That's the hardest part for me. I'm such a hedonist that depriving myself of instant gratification for a long term goal is incredibly difficult. And every time I go home, I come back to Florida thinking that THIS time I'll get my shit together and save some money, but then something shiny tempts me and there goes the Massachusetts fund.
But not this time. This time I'm determined to get back home for good. No, seriously. I am. If I have to, I'll drag The Fiancee™ kicking and screaming with me, but we're going. Because who wouldn't want to be surrounded by this all the time:
"If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any
further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really
lost it to begin with!"
Sweet Lady Gray was thoroughly doused with much love by her extended family. She also got to spend some time in the hands of the women (her great-grandmothers) who are so important to me and, hopefully, have enough life left in 'em to last long enough for her to actually remember them. I hate the thought that she might only know them through pictures.
The Trolls are still up north for an extended visit with their side of the family and I miss them terribly. I miss their noise and their smell. I even kind of miss their mess in the living room. OK, I'm lying about that last part. It's actually quite nice not having to fight with them to pick up their mess.
But on the topic of homesickness, part of me doesn't want it to go away. Part of me wants it to hang on for dear life so that the fire of my "Two Year Plan" doesn't turn into a slow burning cinder. I want the fire to rage. I want to be motivated to scrimp and save so I can get the hell out of Dodge. That's the hardest part for me. I'm such a hedonist that depriving myself of instant gratification for a long term goal is incredibly difficult. And every time I go home, I come back to Florida thinking that THIS time I'll get my shit together and save some money, but then something shiny tempts me and there goes the Massachusetts fund.
But not this time. This time I'm determined to get back home for good. No, seriously. I am. If I have to, I'll drag The Fiancee™ kicking and screaming with me, but we're going. Because who wouldn't want to be surrounded by this all the time:
 |
| My cousin, KadyRose, my Aunt Moe, The Monkey, my Aunt Kathy, and the Nugget at Mt. Tom Ice Cream |
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| Sweet Lady Gray enjoying real grass while watching her brothers play wiffleball. Notice her monkey toes? |
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Time Flies When You're Busy Staring at Your Baby
I admit it: I'm one of those sappy, stares-at-my-babies kind of moms. Seriously, I make some REALLY good looking kids. It is physically impossible to NOT stare at them. Each one of 'em had/has one of those baby smiles that light up a room and I would and will do anything to see that smile. It just slays me!
My baby girl is officially two months old today. I don't know how that happened. I don't know how she got so big, so fast when, clearly, all I do is look at her.
Happy birthday, Baby Girl! You light up my world, my heart and my soul. I am grateful for every single solitary second I have you.
My baby girl is officially two months old today. I don't know how that happened. I don't know how she got so big, so fast when, clearly, all I do is look at her.
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| At her first baseball game. Of COURSE she's rocking a Red Sox onesie. |
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| Experiencing her very first photo bomb, courtesy her biggest brother. |
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| She's knows she's adorable. Also, she hates dresses and will take any opportunity she can to poop on them. |
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| Even her metal scream is adorable. |
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| Seriously?! How can you NOT want to see that face EVERY SINGLE MINUTE?! |
Monday, May 27, 2013
I'm still not sure about all the comma rules, so probably shouldn't be lecturing about punctuation.
Saturday night I had the pleasure of seeing at least 15 minutes of The Fiancee's nephew in a high school stage production of "Oklahoma." I would've seen more, but The Lady Gray decided that she wanted to voice her opinion about the production, so I excused myself to allow her to rant all she wanted... in the car.
While pacing in the vestibule, waiting for the rest of our group to exit the auditorium, I happened to notice the signs for one of the bathrooms:
While pacing in the vestibule, waiting for the rest of our group to exit the auditorium, I happened to notice the signs for one of the bathrooms:
Girl's
Bathroom
(some [probably poorly punctuated] Braille)
Really! This is in a HIGH SCHOOL, y'all! Supposedly a place of learning -- even if not of the higher variety. How in the Hades could this have gone unnoticed? What one lucky girl gets to use this bathroom? Do they have a vote each day? Does the prom queen get to use this bathroom or does she need to find the one that is properly punctuated?
Apostrophe abuse makes me itchy in a big way.
But I probably shouldn't have expected anything less from a school that has intentional textese graffiti all over the entrance.
Textese makes me break out in hives. Really is it SO difficult to put in the extra letters? We're not paying by the character anymore, People! You can spell the whole word!
This is what scares me about the world I'm leaving to my children. I remember when "ain't" wasn't actually a word. Now it's in the dictionary! We're deliberately dumbing down rather than holding our offspring to a higher standard. Instead of making our kids work their asses off for a trophy, we're handing them out like so much candy to soothe their little wounded egos.
What. The. Fuck. Is. WRONG with us?!
Look. It's our job as parents to wound our children. No, seriously. It is. (Side note: my mother can now die happy that I admitted that). Because it's our job to teach our kids that the world is a tough motherfucker and she takes no prisoners. I would love nothing more than to save my kids from every heartbreak and hardship they'll encounter, but I would be doing them a disservice. Just like I'd be doing The Monkey a disservice for telling him that his crap-tastic, half-assed paper about the 1936 Olympics was good enough to hand in rather than making him re-write it (I let him off the hook when it would warrant a C. But only because I was tired of arguing with him about it). Or if I let The Nugget hand in his math homework with every answer wrong because "Mrs. Kling will go over it tomorrow in class".
NO! It's my job to torture my kids and make them sit at the table 'til the job is done. It's my job to yell at them. It's my job to paint a bleak picture of the kind of future they can expect if they continue to accept mediocrity as the standard.
But I'm wicked hard-pressed to enforce these lessons when the schools around here allow apostrophe abuse to go unchecked and humor textese, because my kids will know I'm full of shit. They'll know that the world at large accepts half-assery and they will be able to out-argue me. And I won't have the safety net of the world giving them their comeuppance because the world is all, "Meh. I'm too busy watching Breaking Amish. Catch me at the commercial."
Monday, April 29, 2013
Happy Birthday, Lyla-Gray
My baby girl is officially one month old today. It seems like yesterday that my teething, smiling, gassy-as-a-trucker, sweet baby graced us with her presence.
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| She was actually only 20 inches long. I'm short; she didn't have a whole lot of room to work with. |
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| It's hard to be photogenic when you're opened up like a Thanksgiving turkey. |
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| Oh! The indignities of the first minutes of life. I'm proud to say she scored an 8 and 9 on her APGARs. |
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| Don't let this sweet face fool you. OK. Go ahead and let it. She's still fooling us (she's a few hours old in this one) |
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| The Fiance™ and Lady Gray |
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| The Fiance™'s twin brother (and Lady Gray's godfather). No, they look nothing alike. |
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| Nugget love! |
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| She looks so much like The Monkey, I shall call this "Doppleganger sister!" |
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| Seriously, don't let the sweetness fool you. |
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| Cuz she can be a banshee when she wants to! I call this "Metal Scream!" |
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| She does smile. A lot. It's cute. |
Monday, April 8, 2013
Because I'm taking the high road on Facebook, I'll come to my blog to rant
The Lady Gray is down for her umpteenth nap at the moment, so I have an hour or so of time to myself. I could be cleaning or doing something more productive than sitting on my back porch wishing that it wasn't so damn hot out already, but I have to go and get the trolls soon. Once the trolls get home, it'll be pure craziness round these parts for a bit.
Speaking of the trolls...
One of the things that kept me with The Ex far longer than I should've was his family. They're a tight knit bunch and I was worried that if I left, he'd get them in the divorce. Fortunately, it was a baseless fear, since -- as it turns out -- they're a tight knit bunch who know how to compartmentalize. As such, I've remained friends-ish with his sister over these past few years. The friendship has cooled to more of a friends-on-Facebook level over the last few months, which happens when life gets in the way.
The Lady Gray has been home for a week now. Like any good new mom, I've been kind of blowing up Facebook with pictures of her. I'm not going over the top, but I also have a crap ton of family up north who don't get the benefit of watching her grow up and probably won't meet her for quite some time. It's my way of keeping them in the loop. Besides, my step-dad asked me to keep posting there.
Today, the ex-SIL decided to comment on one of the pictures of The Lady and asked where pictures of "my other two children" were. Clearly she's upset that I haven't been giving equal air time to all three of my children. One half of my brain was all, "Oh my god! She's such a good aunt!" The other half of my brain was all, "Da fuck?!" So I decided to play the middle road and say something along the lines of, "Well, they're at school at the moment... ;) But actually, I've taken pictures of with The Monkey's phone... etc" Her response, "Yeah, but you've had her for a week."
On Facebook, I decided to let it drop. But I want to go on the official record as saying the following:
Just because there aren't more pictures of The Monkey and The Nugget on Facebook doesn't mean that I love them any less than The Lady Gray. In fact, if it's possible, I love them MORE since she's gotten here (there's something about loving more that makes you love MORE, y'know?). I wasn't in the habit of posting pictures of them all the time before she got here and since The Monkey now has his own Facebook page, he can post all the pictures of himself that he wants. That's the beauty of having a teenager in the house.
Here's the real thing though: I don't post pictures of them every day because I'm too busy trying to keep their routine as normal as possible [with a mom that needs to sleep when the baby does and all that jazz]. There are things like home work that needs to be done and supper that needs to be cooked and eaten, and chores that need to be completed. Life needs to happen despite the fact that there's a new baby here. I don't get a mulligan on the old kids because there's a new one. And I don't have a whole lot of time to stop and take pictures of our daily routines.
And let's not forget that, despite the fact that I'm moving around really well, I still had a c-section. I'm trying to do all of this while recovering from major abdominal surgery.
There are more pictures of The Lady Gray because her routine consists of eating, sleeping and pooping (and sometimes pooping in her sleep). I'm home with her all day and, frankly, it's kind of boring. So I'm trying to keep myself entertained with something other than crap TV.
Not for nothing, but The Lady Gray is ten years younger than her closest sibling. The Trolls have had at least ten years more of pictures being taken and posted, and framed and hung than she has. Yes, she's been here for a week and she's got a lot of catching up to do.
Speaking of the trolls...
One of the things that kept me with The Ex far longer than I should've was his family. They're a tight knit bunch and I was worried that if I left, he'd get them in the divorce. Fortunately, it was a baseless fear, since -- as it turns out -- they're a tight knit bunch who know how to compartmentalize. As such, I've remained friends-ish with his sister over these past few years. The friendship has cooled to more of a friends-on-Facebook level over the last few months, which happens when life gets in the way.
The Lady Gray has been home for a week now. Like any good new mom, I've been kind of blowing up Facebook with pictures of her. I'm not going over the top, but I also have a crap ton of family up north who don't get the benefit of watching her grow up and probably won't meet her for quite some time. It's my way of keeping them in the loop. Besides, my step-dad asked me to keep posting there.
Today, the ex-SIL decided to comment on one of the pictures of The Lady and asked where pictures of "my other two children" were. Clearly she's upset that I haven't been giving equal air time to all three of my children. One half of my brain was all, "Oh my god! She's such a good aunt!" The other half of my brain was all, "Da fuck?!" So I decided to play the middle road and say something along the lines of, "Well, they're at school at the moment... ;) But actually, I've taken pictures of with The Monkey's phone... etc" Her response, "Yeah, but you've had her for a week."
On Facebook, I decided to let it drop. But I want to go on the official record as saying the following:
Just because there aren't more pictures of The Monkey and The Nugget on Facebook doesn't mean that I love them any less than The Lady Gray. In fact, if it's possible, I love them MORE since she's gotten here (there's something about loving more that makes you love MORE, y'know?). I wasn't in the habit of posting pictures of them all the time before she got here and since The Monkey now has his own Facebook page, he can post all the pictures of himself that he wants. That's the beauty of having a teenager in the house.
Here's the real thing though: I don't post pictures of them every day because I'm too busy trying to keep their routine as normal as possible [with a mom that needs to sleep when the baby does and all that jazz]. There are things like home work that needs to be done and supper that needs to be cooked and eaten, and chores that need to be completed. Life needs to happen despite the fact that there's a new baby here. I don't get a mulligan on the old kids because there's a new one. And I don't have a whole lot of time to stop and take pictures of our daily routines.
And let's not forget that, despite the fact that I'm moving around really well, I still had a c-section. I'm trying to do all of this while recovering from major abdominal surgery.
There are more pictures of The Lady Gray because her routine consists of eating, sleeping and pooping (and sometimes pooping in her sleep). I'm home with her all day and, frankly, it's kind of boring. So I'm trying to keep myself entertained with something other than crap TV.
Not for nothing, but The Lady Gray is ten years younger than her closest sibling. The Trolls have had at least ten years more of pictures being taken and posted, and framed and hung than she has. Yes, she's been here for a week and she's got a lot of catching up to do.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Sweet Lady Gray
The Lylabean is here (or, as I've taken to calling her, Sweet Lady Gray). She came into the world at 9:21 last Friday morning, weighing in at a whopping 9 pounds, 8 ounces! Talk about a weight loss plan; ten pounds right outta the gate!
Tomorrow, The Fiance™ goes back to work. I'm sad about this -- mostly because my hormones are still settling down from birthing the Lady, but also because having a helpmate has made all the difference in the world, during this first week of new parenthood. If I'm honest, I'm a little bit scared that I won't be as adequate at this parenting stuff without him.
They say it's like riding a bike, having a new baby. But there have been a lot of firsts for me with Lady Gray. We're successfully breastfeeding, which I wasn't (or wouldn't do) able to with the trolls. (Knock on wood), she sleeps pretty soundly for the most part and for long durations, something neither of the trolls did this early for sure and, in the Nugget's case, at all until he was a toddler. Having a partner who gets up at 3 AM just to change the baby's diaper is something novel, too, because The Ex wasn't a big fan of helping out in the wee hours of the morning (when he was actually around).
I'm feeling ridiculously blessed and scared, but mostly blessed. I am so grateful for this life I have.
Tomorrow, The Fiance™ goes back to work. I'm sad about this -- mostly because my hormones are still settling down from birthing the Lady, but also because having a helpmate has made all the difference in the world, during this first week of new parenthood. If I'm honest, I'm a little bit scared that I won't be as adequate at this parenting stuff without him.
They say it's like riding a bike, having a new baby. But there have been a lot of firsts for me with Lady Gray. We're successfully breastfeeding, which I wasn't (or wouldn't do) able to with the trolls. (Knock on wood), she sleeps pretty soundly for the most part and for long durations, something neither of the trolls did this early for sure and, in the Nugget's case, at all until he was a toddler. Having a partner who gets up at 3 AM just to change the baby's diaper is something novel, too, because The Ex wasn't a big fan of helping out in the wee hours of the morning (when he was actually around).
I'm feeling ridiculously blessed and scared, but mostly blessed. I am so grateful for this life I have.
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| Lady Gray, a couple hours after she was born. |
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| The Fiance™ cutting the cord. |
Sunday, March 24, 2013
I don't have the slightest urge to nest.
I started my maternity leave a week early, because I knew I'd be a complete waste a work (a) and (b) I wanted time to clean and get ready for the Lima Bean's impending arrival. But if I'm honest with myself, I think I just wanted time to sit around and put my feet up because, for real y'all, I have absolutely no urge to nest. I'm looking around at the piles of stuff that need to be done *cough*laundry*cough* and merely think "I still have yoga pants I can fit in. The laundry can wait."
I should be stocking my freezer with meals The Fiance™ can heat up for the trolls, but he already bought out the frozen pizza aisle, so I'm using that as justification for not doing any cooking if I can avoid it. Which is weird, because I usually love cooking. And the trolls are with The Ex this week, so you'd think I'd want to take advantage of the unencumbered time to get shit done. But no. We have pizza in the freezer, so we're good.
I have, like, the opposite of nesting right now. Maybe it's because I know, in the back of my mind, that the next five years are going to consist of anything but rest. It'll be a non-stop whirlwind of sleepless nights, chasing a toddler, making trolls pick up after themselves and chasing a five-year-old around before I can finally just take a nap. Seriously, I won't be able to nap for years. That's some ole bullshit, if you ask me.
Besides, moving around too much makes me feel like I'm going into labor. And when I feel like I'm going into labor, I get all freaked-the-hell-out. And when I get all freaked-the-hell-out, I make The Fiance™ time my phantom contractions while I whine and cry like a baby. Then he falls asleep and, magically, my contractions become more manageable. And when my contractions become more manageable, I want to take a nap. And when I want to take a nap, I don't want to clean. So, really, it's best if I just skip all the whining and crying and go take a nap.
It's called logic, y'all.
I should be stocking my freezer with meals The Fiance™ can heat up for the trolls, but he already bought out the frozen pizza aisle, so I'm using that as justification for not doing any cooking if I can avoid it. Which is weird, because I usually love cooking. And the trolls are with The Ex this week, so you'd think I'd want to take advantage of the unencumbered time to get shit done. But no. We have pizza in the freezer, so we're good.
I have, like, the opposite of nesting right now. Maybe it's because I know, in the back of my mind, that the next five years are going to consist of anything but rest. It'll be a non-stop whirlwind of sleepless nights, chasing a toddler, making trolls pick up after themselves and chasing a five-year-old around before I can finally just take a nap. Seriously, I won't be able to nap for years. That's some ole bullshit, if you ask me.
Besides, moving around too much makes me feel like I'm going into labor. And when I feel like I'm going into labor, I get all freaked-the-hell-out. And when I get all freaked-the-hell-out, I make The Fiance™ time my phantom contractions while I whine and cry like a baby. Then he falls asleep and, magically, my contractions become more manageable. And when my contractions become more manageable, I want to take a nap. And when I want to take a nap, I don't want to clean. So, really, it's best if I just skip all the whining and crying and go take a nap.
It's called logic, y'all.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Wherein I think I'm in labor, but it might actually just be gas. It's hard to tell this late in the game.
Yes. I am at that lovely stage of my pregnancy where every other minute I'm having some sort of twinge that immediately sets me into "AM I IN LABOR?!" mode. The Boyfriend™ has learned to sleep through it at this point, God bless him. See, the thing is I don't know what actual prolonged labor is like. Well... that's not entirely true. I was in full blown labor with The Monkey, but that had a fairly obvious start (my water broke). With The Nugget, I was in labor for about 12 hours and then it stopped. "They" say that's called false labor. But again, it's hard to tell when you're two weeks overdue.
Right now, I'm right on time with the Lima Bean and I'm pretty sure she's ready to come out (if the constant head-butting of my cervix is any indication). My cervix just isn't cooperative at all. Possibly because my children have ginormous heads and it would be really fucking painful to birth them the right way, and my body is more than willing to take advantage of medical science to help itself along.
And I'm pretty ready for the Lima Bean's debut. Enough with the touchy-feely, love your children, Waldorf School bullpucky. I. Want. My. Body. Back! Granted, I'm going to be nursing, so I won't really have it back, but I'm hoping the swollen ankles and feet will disappear and take their bastard friend Restless Legs along with them. And I'd really like to enjoy a glass of wine without feeling sixteen kinds of guilty about it (that is to say, the guilt I feel merely thinking about enjoying a glass of wine while the alien is in residence prevents me from actually consuming it. I must've been severely Catholic in a previous life).
Not for nothing, but finding out you're pregnant five weeks into it makes for a very long pregnancy indeed. I miss the days when I didn't religiously keep track of my menstrual cycle and I found out I was pregnant close to the end of my first trimester.
In other news, The Boyfriend™'s name is now officially The Fiance™ as of last night. Yes, Dear Readers, the man proposed! It was sweet and slightly awkward and he's taken to claiming he owns various parts of me -- like my belly button -- now that he's slapped a ring on my finger. I gotta tell you, aside from the vaguely misogynistic overtones, I couldn't be happier. I'm pretty sure he's happy about it, too.
Now I just need to get divorced. There's something fairly sister-husbands about still technically being married whilst engaged to another man.
Right now, I'm right on time with the Lima Bean and I'm pretty sure she's ready to come out (if the constant head-butting of my cervix is any indication). My cervix just isn't cooperative at all. Possibly because my children have ginormous heads and it would be really fucking painful to birth them the right way, and my body is more than willing to take advantage of medical science to help itself along.
And I'm pretty ready for the Lima Bean's debut. Enough with the touchy-feely, love your children, Waldorf School bullpucky. I. Want. My. Body. Back! Granted, I'm going to be nursing, so I won't really have it back, but I'm hoping the swollen ankles and feet will disappear and take their bastard friend Restless Legs along with them. And I'd really like to enjoy a glass of wine without feeling sixteen kinds of guilty about it (that is to say, the guilt I feel merely thinking about enjoying a glass of wine while the alien is in residence prevents me from actually consuming it. I must've been severely Catholic in a previous life).
Not for nothing, but finding out you're pregnant five weeks into it makes for a very long pregnancy indeed. I miss the days when I didn't religiously keep track of my menstrual cycle and I found out I was pregnant close to the end of my first trimester.
In other news, The Boyfriend™'s name is now officially The Fiance™ as of last night. Yes, Dear Readers, the man proposed! It was sweet and slightly awkward and he's taken to claiming he owns various parts of me -- like my belly button -- now that he's slapped a ring on my finger. I gotta tell you, aside from the vaguely misogynistic overtones, I couldn't be happier. I'm pretty sure he's happy about it, too.
Now I just need to get divorced. There's something fairly sister-husbands about still technically being married whilst engaged to another man.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Now that's more like it
I just had to open all the open-able windows in my house because my kitchen is filled with smoke. Since our house has an open floor plan, the whole house is actually filled with smoke. This is the sign of something tasty about to come out of my kitchen in about four to five hours.
I started cooking for the week on Sundays, a few weeks back, in an effort to get supper on the table sometime before 8:30 at night. Cooking for the week also gives the trolls options for supper - they can have whatever they want, so long as it's something that's already made. Cooking for the week can be a challenge, because you want to make something that reheats well, so things you want crispy... Well, sorry. Not gonna happen (unless it's Sunday night supper).
Like all of my good intentions, though, things happened and I fell off the "being prepared" wagon for a bit. Of course I chose Thanksgiving week to get back in the saddle. So, we're having ethnic food this week: Moroccan Cubanos and Pasta Rustica. The fat content notwithstanding, these are super healthy meals - especially when paired with a nice salad or steamed vegetable (the Cubanos have pickled veggies included). And being healthy is not something I've been terribly good at these days.
And so I return to my scrubbed-top-to-bottom kitchen (there's just something about a super clean kitchen that makes me want to get in there and cook) to bring healthy and delicious meals back to my family - and just in time for the Lima Bean's taste buds to appear. She'll being enjoying the flavorful combinations, too. This tree huggin mama, with her love of organic and yoga and fresh fruits and veggies has returned. I just hope the boys are ready!
And on that note, while I wait for the pork to roast, I am going to tackle the studio. It's elving season and I anticipate having to spend a LOT of time in there.
I started cooking for the week on Sundays, a few weeks back, in an effort to get supper on the table sometime before 8:30 at night. Cooking for the week also gives the trolls options for supper - they can have whatever they want, so long as it's something that's already made. Cooking for the week can be a challenge, because you want to make something that reheats well, so things you want crispy... Well, sorry. Not gonna happen (unless it's Sunday night supper).
Like all of my good intentions, though, things happened and I fell off the "being prepared" wagon for a bit. Of course I chose Thanksgiving week to get back in the saddle. So, we're having ethnic food this week: Moroccan Cubanos and Pasta Rustica. The fat content notwithstanding, these are super healthy meals - especially when paired with a nice salad or steamed vegetable (the Cubanos have pickled veggies included). And being healthy is not something I've been terribly good at these days.
And so I return to my scrubbed-top-to-bottom kitchen (there's just something about a super clean kitchen that makes me want to get in there and cook) to bring healthy and delicious meals back to my family - and just in time for the Lima Bean's taste buds to appear. She'll being enjoying the flavorful combinations, too. This tree huggin mama, with her love of organic and yoga and fresh fruits and veggies has returned. I just hope the boys are ready!
And on that note, while I wait for the pork to roast, I am going to tackle the studio. It's elving season and I anticipate having to spend a LOT of time in there.
Monday, October 29, 2012
To be honest, I wasn't really surprised.
The Lima Bean was cooperative. It's official - we're having a girl!! The Boyfriend™ has been wandering through the house singing, "I'm having a daughter! I'm having a daughter!" and grinning like a school boy whenever he looks at the ultrasound pictures.
As for me, I'm thrilled! But I wasn't surprised to find out that this little one is very, very much a girl. I knew she was a girl from the outset... Even before she had proper sex organs. She is just so vibrantly THERE; her presence palpable and real, it's as if I've known her my whole life. Her spirit is fierce and strong. She will most definitely be a force to be reckoned with.
I'm not the best mother in the world. I swear a lot. I watch TV when I should be hanging with the trolls. I am remiss in helping with homework. I don't make them brush their teeth. But at the end of the day, I am a pretty good mom and I get an A+ when it comes to loving my kids - and I do, fiercely.
The Trolls have already taught me so much that I am only mildly nervous about becoming a mother for the third time. But this little one growing inside of me whispers in her own quiet way (like the trolls did, too, in their own ways) that it will be all right; there's nothing to worry about because we'll get through it together and just fine. It's funny; I think she already senses how much she is already loved, and in that knowledge feels safe and secure.
Now that I'm having my own daughter, I am more thoughtful about my relationship with my mother and the line that is continuing. I look at the women that surround me and I think how lucky this little one is to have such wonderful, strong role models. She's lucky in the same way I was lucky and that is most definitely an inheritance worth passing on.
As for me, I'm thrilled! But I wasn't surprised to find out that this little one is very, very much a girl. I knew she was a girl from the outset... Even before she had proper sex organs. She is just so vibrantly THERE; her presence palpable and real, it's as if I've known her my whole life. Her spirit is fierce and strong. She will most definitely be a force to be reckoned with.
I'm not the best mother in the world. I swear a lot. I watch TV when I should be hanging with the trolls. I am remiss in helping with homework. I don't make them brush their teeth. But at the end of the day, I am a pretty good mom and I get an A+ when it comes to loving my kids - and I do, fiercely.
The Trolls have already taught me so much that I am only mildly nervous about becoming a mother for the third time. But this little one growing inside of me whispers in her own quiet way (like the trolls did, too, in their own ways) that it will be all right; there's nothing to worry about because we'll get through it together and just fine. It's funny; I think she already senses how much she is already loved, and in that knowledge feels safe and secure.
Now that I'm having my own daughter, I am more thoughtful about my relationship with my mother and the line that is continuing. I look at the women that surround me and I think how lucky this little one is to have such wonderful, strong role models. She's lucky in the same way I was lucky and that is most definitely an inheritance worth passing on.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
I need to buy a new coffee maker and other Sunday thoughts
My house is very quiet at the moment. The trolls are with The Ex, The Boyfriend™ is sleeping off the weekend's busyness, and the whole of the world seems very quiet at the moment. In the perfectness of the quiet and temperature of the air, I miss home a bit more than usual right now. Sundays have that effect on me.
Tomorrow, we find out if the Lima Bean will cooperate enough to let us know if she or he is a she or he. The Boyfriend™ will get his first glimpse of his child and get to hear his or her heartbeat live, rather than the recorded version he's heard so far. I'm beyond excited to begin calling this little one by either of the names we've chosen, and to start properly preparing for him or her.
I'll keep you posted and, perhaps, post a picture here for you.
Tomorrow, we find out if the Lima Bean will cooperate enough to let us know if she or he is a she or he. The Boyfriend™ will get his first glimpse of his child and get to hear his or her heartbeat live, rather than the recorded version he's heard so far. I'm beyond excited to begin calling this little one by either of the names we've chosen, and to start properly preparing for him or her.
I'll keep you posted and, perhaps, post a picture here for you.
Friday, October 12, 2012
And then I finally remembered that I don't own a Canon
After three attempts to order a new USB cable for my camera, so I could make with the picture goodness up on here, I finally got the right one. I would lock the cable in a safe or something, but I'd probably just forget what the combination was. Also: it took my a solid 20 seconds to remember the word "combination" (I kept wanting to call it a password).
SO! I finally have pictures for you from my last two visits home. I didn't take nearly as many as I thought I had and, for that, I am very sad. But that's just all the more reason to get my touchis back to Massachusetts -- for good -- so I don't need to take pictures; I'll already be living there.
Really -- there's no place like home. I can't wait to get back there for good!
SO! I finally have pictures for you from my last two visits home. I didn't take nearly as many as I thought I had and, for that, I am very sad. But that's just all the more reason to get my touchis back to Massachusetts -- for good -- so I don't need to take pictures; I'll already be living there.
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| This is my Uncle. The Trolls call him Gus. I love him so! |
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| The beautiful Connecticut River |
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| Roasting weenies on the campfire |
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| The Trolls, hiking through the creek |
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| SOOC -- mossy rocks and roots |
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| The Boyfriend™ contemplating... the dog, I think? |
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| Barton's Cove, wherein we hunted for dinosaur foot prints |
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| The farm down the road from my nana's. I want some version. |
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| I love these shelves. They're in my Gram's house |
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| The back of downtown Northampton |
Sunday, October 7, 2012
It's really difficult to get into Halloween when it's 90 degrees out
The Nugget and I went costume shopping Friday night. He really wanted to be a wrestler, but I vetoed the idea because that muscle suit? It's practically a snow suit and he won't make it very far sweating his touchis off. Now he's going to be a reaper... And only wear a t-shit and shorts underneath.
Being from Massachusetts, we dress for Halloween in layers - because we never know how cold it's going to be. Some years it's mild, other years it's snowing. I can only remember one Halloween EVER being warm enough to warrant only the meagerest of undergarments; there were quite a few when we needed jackets over our costumes.
In Florida, you pick your costume assuming that it will be hot out. More often than not, you see kids in just masks and in their regular clothes, because anything else would be excruciating. It's bad enough having to walk down street after street of darkened houses, only come to home to find that half your Halloween haul is Jack Chick tracts and pleas to turn away from Satan and turn to Christ; but to have to sweat to get it? That's GITMO level torture.
Halloween and a TRUE autumn are some of the things I miss the most living in Florida. While there's something to be said for being able to comfortably swim in the middle of October (and November... And December), it doesn't make up for the lamentable lack of crisp autumn air and neighbors doling out candy. Halloween marked the beginning of a busy holiday season, days growing shorter and family togetherness. One's internal clock was set by the changing of the seasons: summer clothes swapped out for fall, holiday shopping and meal planning. You don't need a calendar in the north; you can tell the season by the air.
It occurs to me that the trolls need a real Halloween. And as much as I want to get them home now, at least for a visit, it's more important to toil and save to get home for good. I need to work my ass off. I need to make this happen.
Being from Massachusetts, we dress for Halloween in layers - because we never know how cold it's going to be. Some years it's mild, other years it's snowing. I can only remember one Halloween EVER being warm enough to warrant only the meagerest of undergarments; there were quite a few when we needed jackets over our costumes.
In Florida, you pick your costume assuming that it will be hot out. More often than not, you see kids in just masks and in their regular clothes, because anything else would be excruciating. It's bad enough having to walk down street after street of darkened houses, only come to home to find that half your Halloween haul is Jack Chick tracts and pleas to turn away from Satan and turn to Christ; but to have to sweat to get it? That's GITMO level torture.
Halloween and a TRUE autumn are some of the things I miss the most living in Florida. While there's something to be said for being able to comfortably swim in the middle of October (and November... And December), it doesn't make up for the lamentable lack of crisp autumn air and neighbors doling out candy. Halloween marked the beginning of a busy holiday season, days growing shorter and family togetherness. One's internal clock was set by the changing of the seasons: summer clothes swapped out for fall, holiday shopping and meal planning. You don't need a calendar in the north; you can tell the season by the air.
It occurs to me that the trolls need a real Halloween. And as much as I want to get them home now, at least for a visit, it's more important to toil and save to get home for good. I need to work my ass off. I need to make this happen.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
One week later
I went home for a too brief visit last week, to go to my paternal grandmother's (Dottie) family reunion. It was ridiculously good to be home, among family. I was spoiled rotten and catered to - because the LaBarge/Newman/Miller clan believe that pregnant women need to be spoiled. It's no wonder there are so many of us - a girl could get used to that kind of treatment.
My aunt Kathy and I compared many notes about our lives, likes and dislikes. We talked about family. We talked about friends. There was a good deal of sharing - even in the inconsequential stuff. Our bonds were reaffirmed and I felt validated. Here in the Sunshine state, I often get called crazy for loving the rain and complaining about all the sun. As it turns out, that's a family trait.
When Sunday rolled around, and it was time for me to head for points South, I didn't cry, which surprised me (because these days, I cry about everything). I felt more resolved to get home for good. WhenI walked in the door to a sleeping boyfriend and trolls, I was glad for those still packed boxes. We'll move those out to the garage for now, and keep them packed. It's stuff we want to keep, but nothing we're going to need in The next couple of years.
One week later, I miss home utterly. It's taking a great deal of strength not to huddle in a ball and cry about wanting to go home. I have to remind myself that there is work to be done here first. The necessary tilling and planting is happening now, so the harvest of home will await us in just a couple of short years. But I'm impatient and I want it NOW. But going home prepared for that first winter of obscene heating bills, with a nest egg socked away in case employment doesn't happen right away, will make everything better. I don't want to start the way I left home - sort of running away from a daily struggle to keep the lights on and feed the trolls.
I also have to remember to keep the hopes small, in terms of what I want when I get home. Ideally, I want a homestead that we can farm. I want self-resiliency and family under foot. But the monkey will be 15 and less likely to want to be underfoot. The nugget will be 12 and trailing his brother. A homestead may only happen with Lima Bean under foot and the trolls off on their own adventures - but I'm really OK with that. We'll be close to the large nest of family.
In the mean time, my dear friend Meeshka is working on getting her hand crafted pieces into shops around the area. I'm trying to convince her that we should go into business together. I would love nothing more than to have an established business to go home with (and to).
One week later and I am resolved. We WILL be home and soon, and all of this work of planting will bring a mighty harvest.
My aunt Kathy and I compared many notes about our lives, likes and dislikes. We talked about family. We talked about friends. There was a good deal of sharing - even in the inconsequential stuff. Our bonds were reaffirmed and I felt validated. Here in the Sunshine state, I often get called crazy for loving the rain and complaining about all the sun. As it turns out, that's a family trait.
When Sunday rolled around, and it was time for me to head for points South, I didn't cry, which surprised me (because these days, I cry about everything). I felt more resolved to get home for good. WhenI walked in the door to a sleeping boyfriend and trolls, I was glad for those still packed boxes. We'll move those out to the garage for now, and keep them packed. It's stuff we want to keep, but nothing we're going to need in The next couple of years.
One week later, I miss home utterly. It's taking a great deal of strength not to huddle in a ball and cry about wanting to go home. I have to remind myself that there is work to be done here first. The necessary tilling and planting is happening now, so the harvest of home will await us in just a couple of short years. But I'm impatient and I want it NOW. But going home prepared for that first winter of obscene heating bills, with a nest egg socked away in case employment doesn't happen right away, will make everything better. I don't want to start the way I left home - sort of running away from a daily struggle to keep the lights on and feed the trolls.
I also have to remember to keep the hopes small, in terms of what I want when I get home. Ideally, I want a homestead that we can farm. I want self-resiliency and family under foot. But the monkey will be 15 and less likely to want to be underfoot. The nugget will be 12 and trailing his brother. A homestead may only happen with Lima Bean under foot and the trolls off on their own adventures - but I'm really OK with that. We'll be close to the large nest of family.
In the mean time, my dear friend Meeshka is working on getting her hand crafted pieces into shops around the area. I'm trying to convince her that we should go into business together. I would love nothing more than to have an established business to go home with (and to).
One week later and I am resolved. We WILL be home and soon, and all of this work of planting will bring a mighty harvest.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
I have 17 minutes before I'm supposed to be awake
Every once-a-while, I like to pretend that I'm a list person, in that I will do those things that I put on a list. I'm very bad at accomplishing everything on a to do list, as a rule, despite the feeling of accomplishment I get whenever I DO complete my to do list.
Yesterday I made a to do list for the week, filled with lots of simple things. See, I'm trying to simplify. I'm trying not to be so scatterbrained despite scatterbraininess being part of my genetic make up. So I have this list, and I carry it around with me in my purse. On my to do list are things like "clean out purse" so I don't lose things, like my to do list... Or drivers license; and "make the bed", because I sleep better in a made bed (The Boyfriend™ does not share that quirk).
Because The Nugget will be getting on the bus earlier, starting tomorrow, I also have "wake up earlier" on my list, in an effort to make an early rise time a habit. Unfortunately, this means The Boyfriend™ and I are now waking up at the same time. Neither of us are morning people and both of us being awake at the same time may result in jail time for one or both of us. He is extra cantankerous in the morning, and I am extra sarcastic. Not a good combo.
Frankly, a world run by morning larks should be illegal. I am a night owl; all my best thinking happens at night, the way God intended it. And as I sit here on the back porch up earlier than necessary, sipping my coffee, looking at the pile of cat food on the floor (one of them just knocked a bucket of it down), I remind myself that patience is a virtue.
...One I don't possess. Especially in the morning.
Yesterday I made a to do list for the week, filled with lots of simple things. See, I'm trying to simplify. I'm trying not to be so scatterbrained despite scatterbraininess being part of my genetic make up. So I have this list, and I carry it around with me in my purse. On my to do list are things like "clean out purse" so I don't lose things, like my to do list... Or drivers license; and "make the bed", because I sleep better in a made bed (The Boyfriend™ does not share that quirk).
Because The Nugget will be getting on the bus earlier, starting tomorrow, I also have "wake up earlier" on my list, in an effort to make an early rise time a habit. Unfortunately, this means The Boyfriend™ and I are now waking up at the same time. Neither of us are morning people and both of us being awake at the same time may result in jail time for one or both of us. He is extra cantankerous in the morning, and I am extra sarcastic. Not a good combo.
Frankly, a world run by morning larks should be illegal. I am a night owl; all my best thinking happens at night, the way God intended it. And as I sit here on the back porch up earlier than necessary, sipping my coffee, looking at the pile of cat food on the floor (one of them just knocked a bucket of it down), I remind myself that patience is a virtue.
...One I don't possess. Especially in the morning.
Monday, September 10, 2012
12 Things... Why I'm 98% Sure Lima Bean is a Girl
It's been a while since we did a 12 Things around here and since The Boyfriend™ is dead to the world and there's only so much Pawn Stars I can take, I thought I'd regale y'all with baby talk. Fun, right?
1) I don't have any cravings...except when I do and then it's for sweet stuff.
If little boys are snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, then my cravings with The Trolls were just about dead on. Savory and meaty (except with The Nugget. I couldn't do meat with him). With Lima Bean, I want sweet: juice, fruit, candy and ice cream. She's already a bit of sugar and spice.
2) I have zero appetite. As soon as The Boyfriend™ actually gives in and goes to the store to get whatever-it-is-I'm-craving-which-of course-isn't-anything-we-have-in-the-house, I no longer want it. Or only want a bite of it.
3) I cry ALL THE TIME. No, seriously. It's like a waterfall up in here...a snot-filled waterfall. Over a lamentable lack of gummy bears. I wish I was kidding.
4) The teensiest thing will make me want to blow chunks. Yesterday, a wadded up piece of bread sent me reeling (I am holding back a gag even as I type this).
5) I am WHINEY. Especially when The Boyfriend™ farts... Which is all the time. I'm pretty sure there's a hole in the ozone his butt is solely responsible for.
6) I'm breaking out like a 13-year-old boy before his Bar Mitzvah. And since I currently live with a 13-year-old boy, I know from greasy skin. This isn't pregnancy glow, Loves. It's a super shiny t-zone.
7) I have a sudden love for all things pinky and fuzzy.
8) I change my mind more often than I change my underwear... Which is a LOT, since I'm also sweating like a nun in a whorehouse.
9) My mood swings more often than I change my mind. Those sob fests of waterfall proportions? Yeah, I've also taken to LAUGHING during them. Which is painful. And not just for The Boyfriend™.
10) Boys are icky.
11) My will is strong. When I was having the trolls, I insisted that I would have boys. I only wanted boys then. I have since learned my lesson, which is why....
12) I told The Boyfriend™ that I was not letting any Y sperm up in my vajeege. As a rule, I'm fertile Myrtle and it took us FOREVER to get pregnant. I'm fairly certain it's because my vagina was doing battle against invading Y-ers. The go 'round that put me in the family way, he must've been shooting nothing but Xes because (not to get too graphic), there wasn't a whole lot of opportunity to get pregnant, if you know what I mean.
Of course, I'll let you know for sure, once we have the official confirmation. But for now, we're either giving our son a wicked sexual identity issue or I'm having a girl.
Now I'm going to cry over my gummy bears.
1) I don't have any cravings...except when I do and then it's for sweet stuff.
If little boys are snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, then my cravings with The Trolls were just about dead on. Savory and meaty (except with The Nugget. I couldn't do meat with him). With Lima Bean, I want sweet: juice, fruit, candy and ice cream. She's already a bit of sugar and spice.
2) I have zero appetite. As soon as The Boyfriend™ actually gives in and goes to the store to get whatever-it-is-I'm-craving-which-of course-isn't-anything-we-have-in-the-house, I no longer want it. Or only want a bite of it.
3) I cry ALL THE TIME. No, seriously. It's like a waterfall up in here...a snot-filled waterfall. Over a lamentable lack of gummy bears. I wish I was kidding.
4) The teensiest thing will make me want to blow chunks. Yesterday, a wadded up piece of bread sent me reeling (I am holding back a gag even as I type this).
5) I am WHINEY. Especially when The Boyfriend™ farts... Which is all the time. I'm pretty sure there's a hole in the ozone his butt is solely responsible for.
6) I'm breaking out like a 13-year-old boy before his Bar Mitzvah. And since I currently live with a 13-year-old boy, I know from greasy skin. This isn't pregnancy glow, Loves. It's a super shiny t-zone.
7) I have a sudden love for all things pinky and fuzzy.
8) I change my mind more often than I change my underwear... Which is a LOT, since I'm also sweating like a nun in a whorehouse.
9) My mood swings more often than I change my mind. Those sob fests of waterfall proportions? Yeah, I've also taken to LAUGHING during them. Which is painful. And not just for The Boyfriend™.
10) Boys are icky.
11) My will is strong. When I was having the trolls, I insisted that I would have boys. I only wanted boys then. I have since learned my lesson, which is why....
12) I told The Boyfriend™ that I was not letting any Y sperm up in my vajeege. As a rule, I'm fertile Myrtle and it took us FOREVER to get pregnant. I'm fairly certain it's because my vagina was doing battle against invading Y-ers. The go 'round that put me in the family way, he must've been shooting nothing but Xes because (not to get too graphic), there wasn't a whole lot of opportunity to get pregnant, if you know what I mean.
Of course, I'll let you know for sure, once we have the official confirmation. But for now, we're either giving our son a wicked sexual identity issue or I'm having a girl.
Now I'm going to cry over my gummy bears.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Three Day Weekend. Thanks, Isaac!
I am sitting on the back porch (I refuse to call it the Florida room) at the moment, listening to the wind In The trees. It's Monday and I should've been at work an hour-and-a-half ago, but the county closed the schools just in case Isaac decided to get nasty, so I am on Troll duty.
So far it hasn't gotten nasty. So far, it's actually quite peaceful and soothing. A much needed balm for my soul. I am restless these days; full of longing for home. I am not sleeping well, for all this want. But right now, I feel at peace and for that, I am grateful. I don't know what possessed me to move to the Sunshine State, when I much prefer cloudy days to sunny; cold to hot.
And so The Two Year Plan stays in motion. Every step a little closer to being home for good.
Today, I am going to unearth my studio and set it to rights. My hands are itching with the need to create and a desire to have my creative space at the ready. But first, Big Breakfast is in order. I have a house full of hungry boys.
So far it hasn't gotten nasty. So far, it's actually quite peaceful and soothing. A much needed balm for my soul. I am restless these days; full of longing for home. I am not sleeping well, for all this want. But right now, I feel at peace and for that, I am grateful. I don't know what possessed me to move to the Sunshine State, when I much prefer cloudy days to sunny; cold to hot.
And so The Two Year Plan stays in motion. Every step a little closer to being home for good.
Today, I am going to unearth my studio and set it to rights. My hands are itching with the need to create and a desire to have my creative space at the ready. But first, Big Breakfast is in order. I have a house full of hungry boys.
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