inside dog

Who needs sleep when there's Seven Quick Takes?

1. It's recently come to my attention that I need to resume going to bed by 10:30.  Syd wakes up early again since she's back on a decent schedule and I'm having to DRAG myself out of bed a good 45 minutes after she's awake.  She's happy to play in her bed and look through her books for a while but I shouldn't be waiting for her to get MAD to finally get up and get her. Mom FAIL. Not to mention that I'm a total RAVING LUNATIC JERKFACE by 3 pm every day because I'm so out-of-control tired. UGH.

2. Tonight marked my first Twitter-rant. The subject? Our basset hound, who is NOT neutered and his tendency to MARK (URINATE) inside MY house on a regular basis. Tonight he stole a leftover piece of prime rib from Lawry's off the dining room table when I left the room for 30 seconds to get Sydney's sippy cup. THAT TAKES BALLS, people. And the dog doesn't deserve to have them anymore. Why? Because when he got caught MAKING OUT with the prime rib from said expensive restaurant, he was scolded and put outside for punishment. That's it. He was made to stay outside for the duration of Sydney's meal which KILLED him because the girl gives free handouts to the dogs ON PURPOSE. Soon after I let him in the house and left for AN HOUR and came back to PEE. EVERYWHERE. ESPECIALLY IN MY BEDROOM. (Retaliation pee much?)  He also had a nice gallop by the sleeping girl's room when I let him back in after I got done cleaning up pee. And yes, it woke her up. And yes, it took two hours for her to go back to sleep. All this combined with the fact that the dog runs out the front door at ANY and EVERY opportunity means one thing: He'd better enjoy licking his balls for the next few weeks because I'm asking for neutering for my anniversary present on July 30. AND IF I DON'T GET IT I'M BUYING IT FOR MYSELF.

3.  I want to acknowledge that I have been writing about darker things (here and here) on my blog recently. It occurs to me that sometimes when I am going through difficult things I kind of wash over them in real life AND in print and I'm trying to make an effort to stop. I realize that for the readers who enjoy reading (only) my mom freak-outs that it's a sudden turn and it's awkward or whatever.  And it's fine if you just read.  But you know what else?  It's fine to say something too.  I'm giving you that permission in my life.  This is not me begging for comments. This is not me apologizing for writing those blog entries. But as I've looked back over what I've written over the last week it's occurred to me that there are others out there who need me to say something about how to respond to someone dealing with grief:

A lot of times when people encounter someone who is grieving or going through something they can't empathize with they just kind of throw their hands up and say "I can't relate" and move on by.  Maybe they're afraid to offend?  Maybe they don't know what to say?  Maybe they just can't handle it?  I want to tell you that being caught in the wash of tragedy is an isolating thing.  And when people say nothing?  It makes you feel like you're the only one who has ever been through it or that no one likes the version of you that is hurt and broken.  Even though it may be hard for you - and even though there is risk involved because grieving people say and do things they normally wouldn't because they are lost and hurt - don't be afraid to reach out to someone.  No matter how they react the fact that someone cares and recognizes what they are going through is important.

4. On Friday nights we have church at the park near our house. We bring a little grill, cook out, the boys play football, and we roast marshmallows and eat s'mores (so yeah, it's the most awesome church EVER).  At the park several homeless people have felt ok with hanging out with us and we are in the process of getting to know them better.  I mention all this because my neighbor - who is a very nice man that will be friends with us so long as we don't try and Jesus him up and we're all right with that - regularly goes to the same park and feeds and tries to help out some of the homeless who stop there. When I got home tonight he was sitting on his front stoop with his dog waiting for his wife to get home and I asked him about one of the people we'd met tonight.  He knew who I meant and he responded that he didn't really like to help people (mind you we were talking about homeless people) who seemed "better off." The person that I'd mentioned was living in their pickup truck with two dogs, and the bed of the truck was packed neatly with supplies (I saw a sleeping bag, things like that) and there was food for the dogs at least.  As I was mopping up PEE tonight I wondered to myself what it is about humans that we try to figure out "who needs it more" and make up little mental rulebooks for who we will help and who we don't think is worthy of our help.  At the end of the conversation with myself I decided that's it's ok to me if some people take advantage of my help who might need it less - or dare I say not at all - so that I don't accidentally skip over someone who might really need my help because I'm all busy being cynical about it. That probably makes me a doormat but whatevs.

5. My mom made it to Denver. I'm so dang proud of her!

6. We have been rearranging furniture this week ... the full size bed once and for all came out of Sydney's room and went into the Room Formerly Known As John's Office. It still looks like John's office except there's a bed where the desk used to be. At least Nana will have lots of good reading material when she visits (there are SO MANY BOOKS IN THERE) and Sydney will sleep the uninterrupted sleep of a princess (HA!) when we have visitors. 

7. I mentioned earlier that we ate at Lawry's this week ... it was a special occasion! John's parents celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary this weekend.  How cool is that? I hope they have another 40 happy years together.  I am so glad to have their marriage to look up to and to have the fruits of their years of hard work (AHEM, their SON) paying off so many fold in my own life.  I am so blessed to have them as my parents-in-law and as our daughter's grandparents!  Love you Momma and Pop!

(and yes, they got married YOUNG!!)

More Quick Takes here.

The ten-month mark (a week late)

I am so, so proud of this strawberry-loving girl right here.

 

 

Why?

Because on Tuesday she cut a surprise tooth (bottom #3).  I say "surprise" because we've been watching with baited breath as her top front tooth bulged in her gums FOR WEEKS threatening to break through at any moment (and totally screwing with us all in the process).

And then on Wednesday she cut TWO MORE (top #3 & 4).

And aside from only taking a thirty minute nap on Wednesday - who could blame her? Mama had no idea what was going on and gave her NO Tylenol or teething tablets ALL DAY - she was a perfect angel.  She's gone to bed by 7 every night this week since Sunday (HALLELUJAH!) and around noon every day she goes down for a 2-3 hour afternoon nap.  I know I'm probably jinxing the whole thing by putting it in print but I just HAD to brag on my awesome kid.  Who now has 7 teeth!!

Also we are going out of town as a family Sun-Thursday so IT WAS FUN WHILE IT LASTED (as we know, vacations screw with our little ones.  BOO).

More fun Sydney updates:

Says: Dada, Mama, Bubba, Hat!, dog!, NaNa, FAFA!, BABA! and understands and obeys the commands "Give me five!" (slaps your hand) and "Gimme a kiss!" (leans in with open mouth) and "Want a bite?" (opens mouth if the answer is yes, ha ha).  

She knows "Do you want a bottle?" and nearly gives herself whiplash turning around to see if you have it when you utter the words.  She also very coyly and flirtatiously waves "Hello" when asked to "Say hi" and plays a mean game of peek-a-boo.  Also understands (but expressly refuses to obey) the commands "NO!" and "Be nice!" (humph).  Another fun game we play is sticking out our tongues at one another and then doing a full inspection of mama's tongue, teeth, and lips.  We might have a future dental hygienist on our hands ... she is NOT gentle.

She crawls like LIGHTNING, pulls up and cruises furniture, and can stand flat-footed without holding on to anything for a 20-count.  She often puts a foot down on the floor next to her knee as if she's about to stand straight up.  Which is lovely at bath time (NOT). How do we teach the wee ones that standing up in the bathtub is NOT SAFE?! She's also clapping her hands which is just DELIGHTFUL (!!) and she also bops and dances to music (her current favorite is RUN-DMC, her father would like me to share ... no one wears a band t-shirt in this house unless they actually LIKE the band!  I also secretly sing her "Sweet Home Alabama" when he's not home and she stinkin' LOVES that song!).

Syd also has decided that baby food is for BABIES and straight up SLAPS anything that closely resembles baby food OUT YOUR HAND, fool. Then she yells "I PITY THE FOOL WHO TRIES TO FEED ME OFF A SPOON!"  If it's on a spoon and is not yogurt (she is in LOVE with YoBaby) things such as mashed avocado or refried beans are doomed to the floor unless I can get a little in her mouth so she realizes what it is.  After that? NOM NOM NOM refried beans!!!!!!!!  Syd also likes to SHARE her food.  I can't count how many soggy Cheerios, soggy cereal puffs, and soggy Goldfish crackers I've eaten in the last week (the dogs aren't complaining either ... it seems our daughter has started a charity organization to feed fat dogs. Ohboy).

She's totally bored with all her toys and so I had to empty out my kitchen cabinets to keep her entertained for more than 1.43 seconds.  Now she spends most of the morning bopping around on the carpet with my whisk looking very much like the Swedish Chef (and sounding a lot like him too now that I think about it what with all the "FAFAFABABABABAS!' she is singing all the time these days! Heh!).  

I guess that's just how you roll when you're 10 months and a week old!

The long goodbye

As far as goodbyes go, I'm of the keep-it-short variety.  When we part ways, my family can usually expect a quick hug, an "I love you" and something like "See you soon!" and off you go!  People have different goodbye styles ... you hear them say that they're not good at goodbyes or they don't say "goodbye" they just say "see you later" or that they always like to have the next meeting planned and that helps, but generally people seem to agree that goodbyes aren't fun or easy.  There is usually some element of heartache involved and so we do what we can to truncate that pain.

The worst Goodbye that I can remember is when I got on a plane one summer at age 21 to head to Maine to be a summer camp counselor.  Since leaving for college at 18 I'd never come back to live at home for any stretch longer than two weeks.  It's safe to say that when I left home for college I was more than ready ... I had no qualms whatsoever about kicking my weeping mother and stunned father and sister out of my dorm room as they tried to help me unpack and get settled (and I need to just say that for the record it was the third time I'd ever seem my mother cry In My Life.  Grandmother's Revenge is sure to get me on that one, huh Ma?).  As far as goodbyes went, I was always looking ahead and never looking back.

But as my family walked me to gate O'Hare that summer, seeing me off to this far-away place called Maine to which I'd never been and where I didn't know a soul, I felt my throat clenching up.  The gate was the last one on the end of the terminal and there were windows floor to ceiling and you could see the jet waiting outside and the runway behind it and the flat empty fields beyond.  We posed for photos together - my sister was still in her pajamas - and stood together as we waited for my boarding call.  Things had been tense in our family that year, but there we were together hugging each other and saying "I love you" like we always had and lingering over the goodbye.  They called my boarding group and I put on my backpack and hugged them all again and got in line.  I looked back and they were all looking at me and smiling wistfully, their arms around one another.  

I found my seat on the plane, a window facing the terminal glass and immediately I saw that the three of them had walked up to look for me.  I waved my hands frantically until my father spotted my window and raised his arms above his head and crossed his hands back and forth in slow motion, as if it would slow down time.  As we pulled off I saw them waving frantically and I waved back until I was speeding away and I kept waving until they were tiny specks and long after they were gone.  The landing gear pulled up into the plane and I burst into tears.  I was afraid of what the future held. I wondered why I had spent so much of my life speeding away from my family and through goodbyes.

Tomorrow my mother is leaving the house that I will remember as the one where I grew up.  I lived there from age 12-18, but it's the one I am talking about when I mention my childhood home.  It is the background of most of the memories I have of my family.  How many meals did we eat in that kitchen, how much did we laugh as we played games at the table or spun across the floor in our socks?  When I think of the tears that have been shed there I imagine the very floor being full of them, the flood creeping up the walls. This is the purpose a home serves: shelter from the storm, a place to be naked, here's a room for quiet and rest, walls to hold in private hurricanes, a backyard stoop to sit on late at night when you cannot sleep and the world is a smaller place.  This was my home. This was where we lived.  It is time for us her leave it behind for other walls, new memories, new laughter and new sorrow.  

In a sense she's already left.  Her belongings are packed in a POD and headed across the country to their new temporary resting place in storage.  The new owners have already taken possession ... I wonder if they are already moving in as she watches from where she's staying only a few doors down?  Her car is most likely packed and standing ready in her friend's driveway, ready to point west toward her new life.  I imagine as she tucks into bed with her dog tonight she is tired and excited and maybe a little sad.  I know that she feels unburdened, ready to move forward and leave the last seven years behind.  I know that she is EXTREMELY TOTALLY EXCITED to spend more time with her granddaughter and to live nearer to her daughters and son-in-law.  

I know these things.  But the pangs of loss are still with me tonight.

Lately it has come to my attention that grieving is messy.  It is not a checklist you go down point by point, completing stages until you are done.  A friend of mine is a mental illness rehabilitator and she once told me that mental illness is incurable.  Because it often onsets later in life, people who are mentally ill often fall into cycles where they attend counseling or take medication and then feel better, and so thinking that they are "cured" discontinue treatment.  When they break off counseling or medication their illness revisits them, and they relapse into whatever destructive behavior and end up at rock bottom again and again.  The bottom line is that mental illness changes you and you must learn to re-live as a person who is mentally ill.  You can never go back to the way you were before.

I sometimes wonder if grief is this way.  Once the initial shock and pain wears thinner and you are functional again, you try to resume "normal" life ... whatever normal is to you.  For a while it's ok: Your friends breathe a sigh of relief and stop giving you those sideways glances that say "I don't know what to say to you or if I should bring it up." They laugh around you again and it feels good.  You go back to work and to relationships and you feel fine, you feel like you're getting on top of it.  And then all of the sudden you turn a corner and there it is waiting for you.  And you start all over again as the rest of the world continues to move forward as you stay behind.  You realize quickly that you have changed, that the person you were before is gone and there's a new one in her place.  You wonder if she's worth getting to know.

Lately grief sneaks up on me like that.  One moment I'm jumping for joy because after more than a year, the house finally sold!  After seven years she's finally able to move forward with no more baggage!  No more sump pump breakdowns in the middle of the night, no more electric bills on a 1600 square foot home in Illinois winters, no more draining her retirement for house payments, NO MORE!  And then?  I realize that it's gone.  That I will never visit her there again.  I will never walk through our old bedrooms, never trip down the stairs and see John and my mother deep in conversation over coffee in the kitchen, I will never roll on the floor with my sister in our traditional wedgie wars, or decorate the Christmas tree or cut into a Thanksgiving turkey there again.  And the worst?  My daughter will never cross the threshold of the home where I grew up.  

These things represent a long goodbye that I've been putting off.  And it's waving to me now from the window, the choke hold is on my throat, and the wheels are pulling up.  It's time to fly.  It's time to let go.

But it's hard.

Conversations with my father

"Whoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story. That is his duty."–Elie Wiesel

Last night my in-laws were over for dinner and over Rummikub tiles we talked about our relatives.  As it turns out, my husband is from a family full of Yankees and I'm from a family full of Confederates.  My father-in-law mentioned having a great-great-great-great grandfather who was a general for the Union ... I have a great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather (something like that) who was a general on the other side.  We laughed as we imagined our ancestors rolling over in their graves at the very thought of the union between my husband and I.  Quite seriously he has relatives with the first name "Ulysses" and the middle name "Grant" and I have relatives with the first name "Robert" and the middle name "Lee."  Oops.

Genealogy has always been a subject of fascination in my family.  In her latter years, my mother's mother obsessively researched her family's bloodlines as a hobby.  I have boxes and boxes of files containing pencil-written notes and lists of dates and family trees in her lilting cursive.  My grandmother had two older sisters and five older brothers who did fascinating things like chase Pancho Villa across Mexico on horseback (as her brother Rob did), work for railroads, have seven children of their own ... you get the idea.  Her father was killed in a train-car accident when she was in her early twenties and her mother lived nearly 30 more years.  My own mom has memories of living with "Gongi" and her parents until she was twelve.  My grandmother could talk for hours about her family, and she would.  She knew every single name and every story there was to tell.  And she told the stories. And so now I know them too.

 

My mother and her grandmother, "Gongi" (also pictured: Her dog, Henry, who happens to be a lookalike for my dog Henry).

Conversations like the ones I was having with my in-laws often turn to my own mother and father and their people. The subject of my father's family (unlike my mother's side) is sticky for me.  I know generally that my father's mother was from Texas and his father's family was from Virginia, but they moved around a lot because my granddad was in the Air Force.  They eventually settled down in Virginia and that's where my parents met and where I was born.  We moved when I was a few months old and I have memories of visits, but my mother's mother passed away when I was 18 (both of my grandfathers had already passed away by then). I kept in touch with my remaining grandparent - my dad's mom - through letters and the occasional phone call while I was in college.  My father's departure from our family when I was 22 all but ended that contact.  

When my father left seven years ago, he took everything with him.  Every photo and every scrap of paper from his past was packed up in the back of a U-Haul truck never to be seen again.  There was a photo of my granddad as a young man standing in the snow in his Airmen's uniform that I always loved.  There were copies of his combat medals which included the Purple Heart and the Star of Bravery.  I had a sense that there was history there.  That there was a story to tell.  I had hope to still hear it one day.

My father died as the result of a drunken accident in his home on July 6, 2006.  We had not seen each other in four years, and the phone conversations we'd had during that time were quarterly shouting matches about the messy divorce, about his infidelity and lies ... there was a lot of anger on both sides.  I was angry at what he had done and his refusal to make amends for it, he was angry at me for cutting him out of my life.  The last time we talked was in the October preceding his death.  I sensed that for the first time since he'd left that he was listening when I told him that yes, I did love him but it was going to take time for me to forgive him and try to build a new relationship.  I've rewritten that conversation so many times in my head in the years since it transpired.  I didn't know it would be the last time we would speak.  I didn't know that I wouldn't have time to forgive.

Later I learned that a few weeks after we spoke - on his fifty-third birthday - he married his mistress. I've often looked back at that point of contact as my father's one attempt, and subsequent failure, to be honest with me.  Nine months later he was dead and I had no access to the paper trail of his history which now lived with his new wife in his new home in the new life that he had constructed around himself in a protective fort. There was no way out for him and there was no way in for me.

In the years since his passing the anniversary of his death sneaks up on me so soon after Fathers Day.  I think about what I was doing at this time three years ago: Sitting in a hospital in Kentucky with my comatose father, holding his hand, telling him that I forgave him for all the shit he'd put us through and that it was all right for him to move on when they finally turned the machines off.  It comforts me to imagine that if my father could have opened his eyes and sat up in those final moments he would have chastised me, probably saying something like, "I wondered if you'd come."  Because he is like me, he would have wanted to have the last word, but instead I was the one with that unfortunate honor.  There was no more contradiction left between us.  It was him and me and I unleashed everything I'd wanted to say to him over the past four years and watched his heartbeat quicken on on the monitor even though his brain activity remained flatlined.  I screamed at him and wept over him.  I told him that I loved him and that it was all right. It was going to be all right now.

While others are making plans for fireworks and barbeque I find myself lost in a sea of questions. How do I explain to Sydney the absence of any photographic evidence of my paternal grandparents?  Who are these people from whence she came?  I can rearrange photos on the mantel all I want ... but they are not in the photos there.  Those people seem so distant to me now because I know so little about them and have no hope to learn more.  I wonder what I should tell my daughter about her grandfather who died before she was born.  I wonder if it will one day be ok for me to put a photo of my dad somewhere in my house, if doing so will ever not feel like a betrayal to my mother and my sister, even to myself. 

 

In many ways my father was a wonderful man and because of that it makes me angry at him for all that we're missing now.  All that he's missing.  It's hard for me to talk about him at all.  It hurts.  There are questions I can't even answer for myself because I don't understand what happened or why it did.

 

All I know is that I had a father once, I loved him, and he has a story.  I can't just pack the memory of him up in a box and put it away.  I came from somewhere.  Beyond the dark territory of our last days there are good memories; there are moments of my life that I would never trade.  I know I was blessed to have a good father who loved me, for however brief of time it was, no matter how terribly it all ended.  It's the sifting through the rubble of anger and loss - what is on top of those good things - that is the problem.  I don't know how to make those things go away, or even if I should.  To whence do we clear those things that weigh us down?  Is there some basement or garage of the soul that I don't know about yet?

And so the storytelling is left to me.  There are puzzle pieces to fit together, names to learn, dates to list on pads of paper.  I wish I was more like Grandmother, who fiercely tracked details down one by one until her family tree was full.  Instead I hide inside myself, afraid to ask about Daddy, about his parents, about their parents.  I wonder, what are their names?  What did they do?  Where did they live?  What were they like?  

And who will tell me?

Beware the Mommy Blogger

Dear Internet,

Today has been one of those days.

Since the moment I woke up (or should I say, she woke up) Sydney has been whining and yelling at me.  No matter where we go or what we do, she's not happy with it.  And the times she's been willing to peacefully flip through a book in her crib? I've had to spend doing fun things like cleaning out her pack-n-play because she just threw up an entire bottle in it (she did that while I was finally showering ... at 2 p.m.) and starting a load of throwup laundry.  And then?  Back to the demanding whining and the cycle of trying EVERYTHING in the book to please the Little Monster so that I can get five minutes to finish my cup of coffee or go to the bathroom.

It's not helping that for the past two nights I've been up until 2 a.m. making out with my new MacBook (and who can blame me? The kid won't go to bed until at least 9 p.m. anymore, so night-time is Mama Time now.  And Mama needs to learn how to work this here computer.  BOO).  It would also really be nice if she'd make it through an entire nap without waking up 45 minutes in RANTING AND WAILING to be rocked back to sleep, and then the second she is put down ASLEEP waking and starting with the RANTING AND WAILING again.  Sigh.  I have a tremendous headache.  My lunch consisted of things that can be scooped with a tortilla chip and three soggy Cheerios (that my daughter happily offered to me with her sweet little fingers, the poor dear).

It's also not helping that I've been trying to work on an emotionally heavier post today. Writing such things requires space inside one's own head I suppose.  And because I can't carve out even a little time to finish the thing the process is stretching out longer and longer (5 minutes here or there, all with "DADADADADADADA AHHHHHH HAAAAAA BUBUBUBUBUBAAAAA" in the background) and it's weighing on me.  Between my husband working from home today and his miniature doppelganger driving me completely bonkers I AM LOSING IT.  What I wouldn't give for silence in this house for 30 minutes, for an hour to have to spend as I choose with no one bothering me.  Or a nap.  Oh, does a nap ever sound sexy.

Right now I'm longing for drives I took around Illinois cornfields just for the sake of driving, smoking cigarettes (gasp!) and thinking about life.  I'm romantically remembering sitting on back porches somewhere in other times of my life with cups of coffee, watching sunsets as my dog chased squirrels around the yard.  

I need to remember how nasty cigarettes are (all it takes now to remind me is a whiff of someone smoking within 30 feet of me), how lonely I was when it was just me and Henry, and that going to the bathroom with a clear conscience is overrated.

Also?  I need some ideas for how to keep the girl entertained for more than 2.38 seconds at a time.  All her old toys are, apparently, totally played out.  HALP.

Love,

Manda

A moment to catch my breath (and up on my errands).

Yesterday my mother-in-law came over to visit with her granddaughter for the afternoon after being out of town for a few weeks. 

Grandma's here!  PARTY TIME!

Being the opportunist that I am, I decided to take off for the afternoon to catch up on the colossally humongous grocery list that's been building up at our house over the past few weeks.  Under normal circumstances I keep our pantry stocked with staples like canned diced tomatoes, packets of taco and chili seasoning, canned vegetables and beans, pasta, rice ... you get the idea.  Things have been busy and financially tight the last month, and so I've been VERY creative and used everything we have on hand to make our food stretch as far as possible and only making smallish trips to the grocery store.  Thankfully over the weekend a little money came in and I got the green light to head to Costco and to the grocery store to do some damage.

It took me FIVE HOURS.  AND I DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A BABY WITH ME.  (For the record I wasted the first two hours returning a rug at Target and then going to another Target trying to find the rug I wanted to find that the rug I wanted was only available ONLINE, just LET ME DIE).  I was so tired last night it wasn't even funny (and yes, the kid is still staying up until 10 p.m. just for the record).

(Also? I have yet to get around to finishing my business at the Social Security office, getting a TB test, and getting my application at the district employment office done.  UGH.)

The point of this whole story was to say that today I'm finally able to try out a few recipes that I've been eyeing.  And it feels so good and I am so blessed to have a full refrigerator and pantry.  And my husband - after eating his good lunch - just left the house and on his way out said "You're SO getting a fun surprise later!" YEAH!

Also? I WON A CONTEST!! That totally made my day today.

Also?  My sister has volunteered to train and run the half-marathon with me.  I LOVE MY SISTER!!  She lives in Denver but we're going to train together via text message or something.  I'm toying with the idea of this half-marathon even though it's in San Francisco and uh, SF is HILLY and stuff.  But I've never been to San Fran before and I'm thinking we could just make a family trip of it and do dorky things like ride the trolleys and see (and of course take pictures with) the Golden Gate Bridge. 

In WW news, it's definitely time to recommit.  I lost zero pounds this week, stalling my weight loss total at 23 pounds.  I've enjoyed all the baked goods and cheese and pasta and bread, but I tried on my favorite jeans a few days ago and while I can zip them up ... that's all I can say about it.  They were horrendously uncomfortable.  My daughter turned 10 months old two days ago which means that I have less than two months -- 8 weeks to be exact -- to lose another 17 pounds!  YIKES!

Also?  My baby is ten months old??!!

  

 

Why does it surprise me that she now refuses eat baby food?

That she claps?

That she points at her dogs and says "dog"?

That she can stand for a 5-count by herself?

It is so strange that she's now been in the outside world longer than she was in my womb.  Soon people will ask me "How old?" and I will say "one."  ONE.

To my daughter I say: STOP RUSHING.

To myself I say: SLOW DOWN.  You're missing it.

(Sigh.)

[UPDATE!!  The surprise my husband told me I was going to get?  WAS A MACBOOK.  He just walked in the door and handed me a huge bouquet of sunflowers and a MACBOOK, people.  I have no shame in admitting that I just cried like a baby.  The lesson? DON'T DOUBT THE POWER OF FOOD. EVER.]

Quick Takes: Ultimate Frustration Edition

So, Friday is Seven Quick Takes day, right?  Let me tell you about how Friday went down (in 7 Quick Takes, that is) for me and then you'll understand why I couldn't get around to this until today:

1. Got up early to head to my school district's employment office.  Because?  For some reason the people who are in charge of such things didn't realize that for me to become a school employee (which I thought happened MONTHS ago), that I would have to put in an entirely different application than the volunteer application that I initially put in (that was Dec. 2007).  Which means?  That I might not get paid for working last spring.  I wouldn't mind this so much if we weren't so BROKE.

I arrived at the employment office and was immediately told that I could not even START the application process until the names on my driver's license and my Social Security card matched EXACTLY. And what counts as NOT matching exactly you say?  Do I still have my maiden name on my Social Security card or some wacked-out weirdness?  NO.  "Not matching" means that my middle name does NOT appear on my Social Security card but DOES appear on my driver's license.  I am politely told that if I do not march myself down to the Social Security office AND HAVE MY CARD CHANGED that there will be no paychecks for me!  Hooray! I must also get ANOTHER TB skin test because the only ones they'll accept are ones that are less than 60 days old!

2.  From the parking lot of the employment office I make an appointment with my doctor to get the TB test at 1:00 that very day.  After spending 30 minutes on the phone with Social Security, I get myself home to pick up my birth certificate.  We have a fireproof box where we keep our important documents, and when I'm flipping through it, I realize that my passport is missing.  The last time I saw my passport was when I got my driver's license (while nine months pregnant  ... oh lord it could be ANYWHERE).  I tear through the contents of my desk - which are currently in a laundry basket in the floor of my bedroom - and all my drawers and all the usual places for such a thing and it is just GONE.  THIS ANNOYS ME TO NO END.

3. I get back into the car and find my way to the Social Security office, get oogled by the security guard (EW) who tells me that it's about a 45 minute wait and take a number (the numbering system estimates it will be a 90 minute wait) and sit down to fill out my form for a new Social Security card.  When I'm done with that - it takes about 90 seconds - I of course turn to my "crack" (iPhone) and try to send a few text messages, which for some reason won't go through.  It's 12:15.  I think that there's just no reception in the building.  I wait another 20 minutes.  I know I need to get to my doctor's appointment and then get home to take over for John who's been watching Syd since 9:30 that morning. I finally step outside to try to get my phone to work.  I'd like to just stick it out at the SS office and I want to make sure it's ok with John and also I want to reschedule my doctor's appointment.  I dial John and I get this lovely message "Your phone has been disconnected.  Please contact your service provider.  Thank you.  Have a nice day." AWESOME. 

4.  Back to the car with me!  I give up my spot in line at the SS office and high-tail back toward the doctor's office.  I figure I can just run into the doctor's office real quick and get my skin test (you get a skin puncture one day and have to come back a few days later to have the results read) and then head home to figure out what's going on with the phone.  I'd like to get at least SOMETHING accomplished.  I get to my doctor's office at 12:55.  There is a sign on the door:  "Back at 1:30."  When I saw that I think I heard an echo in the hallway of me yelling, "YOU MUST BE SHITTING ME!"  Classy.

5.  By the time I get home I'm FUMING.  Luckily there's a huge box on the porch that I KNOW is my replacement glider base!  YAY!  "We rock the baby to sleep in style tonight!"  I think.  I get inside and throw down my purse and keys and declare "THAT WAS THREE HOURS OF MY LIFE I WILL NEVER GET BACK!  MY PHONE'S NOT WORKING!  AT LEAST THE GLIDER BASE IS HERE!"  John stands in the kitchen with his hands out like a hostage negotiator.  No one should make any sudden movements when Manda talks in CAPS LOCK.  He knows that he must say exactly the right thing or risk an explosion that will take us all out.  Very calmly he explains that the phone thing was an error (we do in fact pay our bills, which makes it even more awesome that they accidentally cancel our phone service RIGHT WHEN WE NEED IT) and they're already back on and everything's going to be fine.  I shout "I KNOW!  I'M JUST SO FRUSTRATED RIGHT NOW!" and grab a pair of scissors and head out to the porch to open the box that will SAVE THE DAY!

6.  It's the wrong glider base.

*my head explodes*

I force it on the glider ANYWAY and MAKE IT WORK.  Even though it's not an exact fit and it's totally a different color at least it's better than the office chair which is giving me a hernia.  Then I sit down to write Shermag and VERY COLORFUL email demanding that they fix it or replace my glider and ottoman set AND ALSO make me cupcakes or we WON'T BE FRIENDS ANYMORE EVER AGAIN.

7.  The rest of the day went by in a blur but I do rememeber that I ate Taco Bell and had to take a nap when Sydney finally went down for hers.  Other highlights include cleaning dog pee off the diaper pail in the baby's room (thanks Juicy!  Needed that!) and rifling through the cabinets for chocolate and finding nary a chocolate chip.

Because days like yesterday? Are why baked goods were invented in the first place.

More Quick Takes here.

The thing about making goals

It's suddenly occurred to me that if I make a goal public, this means that I might actually have to get around to at least attempting to accomplish it.  I'm remembering - before I've even bothered to get up off my butt and DO anything, mind you - that running hurts.  Last night I laid in bed thinking of all kinds of wonderful excuses NOT to start running again.  I mean, there's the fact that because my baby was so big that I now have scoliosis in my lower back!  And there's that old tailbone injury that flares up when I work out too hard!  And my feet!  What about my poor, poor feet!  My toenails are SO close to being somewhat NORMAL again!  Do I REALLY want to jeopardize my chances at having cute summer feet again?!  The 30 Day Shred really does the job after all.  Maybe at my advanced age that is the best solution for me ... 20 minute fitness (even though I have not cracked the DVD box open in a month).  Yes.  Working out in my pajamas is the best! 

My running shoes are safe and clean where they belong ... in the bottom of my closet.

And then there's the whole thing about having to get up early to get a run in so as not to upset the delicate balance of SLEEP that my baby is CONSTANTLY tugging back and forth with these days: Do I REALLY want to chance accidentally waking her as I fumble around trying to get past her room and out of the house in the wee hours?!  Because there is no way EVER that I am going to try to attempt to pack up a jogging stroller and a baby AND THEN run MILES.  Because?  That would end up lasting about half a day.  Actually -4 days is more like it ... I decide to just go ahead and quit just THINKING about running that way (I've done it ... it can't be an everyday thing just yet. I have a jogging stroller.  The thought just ... nope).

I know.  Pathetic.

Even more pathetic?  Last night I baked ANOTHER cake.  Because teenagers hang around my house sometimes and they might NEED a cake, you know?  Because baked goods are teenager-friendly!  And then!  I might only eat ONE piece of cake and not HALF the cake!

WHO AM I KIDDING?  If I don't start running soon I'll be waving hello again to all the pounds I lost two by two very VERY soon.

The funny thing about all this is that on smaller scales I don't seem to have a problem with goals, in a way I almost WELCOME them.  Just a couple of days ago I decided that I was going to move some things around to create a workspace for John in our dining room area.  It's something we've been talking about for a while.  Within 30 minutes of deciding that I was going to do this ... I DID IT.  I just went for it.  And we LOVE the result.  Sure the work was kinda hard and the process wasn't necessarily easy (my goodness moving furniture around uncovers A LOT of dirt and dog hair.  My Swiffer was in CONSTANT motion) but the end result was just so dang REWARDING.  Same goes for cleaning out a closet (Yay for OOTLES!), losing 25 pounds, packing up our television ... my point is that I KNOW that setting goals and then doing something about it is WORTH IT.

And yet?

I'm a bit stuck.  I'm procrastinating.  I'm saying, "Oh, I'll start next Monday" and "Yeah, I'm on my period right now so I'm totally ALLOWED to eat cake and lounge around in my pajamas all day" and "I have a baby so this crap is HARDER for me" when I should be setting my alarm and lacing up my running shoes and just biting the bullet. 

I hate it when I'm right.

My sentences are too heavy JUST LIKE ME

As you can tell from reading the last post, the past couple weeks have been a bit of an emotional roller coaster.  Since there was a teensy chance that I might have been pregnant (but I'm not!) I decided to unpop the top button on my jeans and ACT a little like I might actually BE pregnant and eat my weight in pasta and ice cream bars, bake up batches of brownies and butter cake, and also consume bowls of cereal the size of my head (at 11 p.m.).  You know, JUST IN CASE (and yes I realize that it was totally in violation of my pact to not be a total IDIOT the next time I get pregnant and gain 40 pounds and HURT MYSELF).

That being said, the scale told me on Monday that I'd gained 2.5 pounds in a week.

Just step back and take that in for a moment: TWO-POINT-FIVE POUNDS.  IN SEVEN DAYS.  When I go to the grocery store I don't even buy packages of ground beef THAT BIG. 

This, friends, is monumental because it marks the biggest gain - and lapse in "sticking to it" - that I've had in seventeen weeks.  For the last few weeks you've heard me gripe about the crapola I've been (happily) eating and then wanted to beat me down thanks to my complete and total shock (!!) when I hadn't gained weight!!  I'd even lost a half pound or two!  WOO!  I had a momentary thought that I'd actually figured out how to BEAT THE SYSTEM!  As in, "Yeah!  Take THAT, you dumb system!  I'll just eat only junk food and STILL lose weight and it'll be awesome and all those hippies that tell me to eat my vegetables (HI MOM!) will learn the folly of their ways!"

Oops.  I guess the hippies were right again.

My best guess is that all the bad eating I've done in the last few weeks has just finally caught up to me.  The whole packing up the television thing has had SO many advantages - and packed-up it's staying for a while longer! - but I haven't Shredded ONCE since we put it away, despite my promises to pop it into my laptop and work out that way.  And yes, while it's nice to shovel down three caramel brownies and wash them down with a Diet Coke, enough is enough.  I need something to keep me on the wagon (or at least a better excuse to eat junk food once in a while).

AND SO (drumroll please) I have made a decision not unlike the one I made six years ago to return to school to get my master's degree ... something I swore I'd NEVER DO AGAIN after getting my B.A.  I have decided to train for (and run) a half-marathon sometime this fall.  I ran a half-marathon in 2004 as a part of a team that was raising money and although I was a serial jogger, I didn't train very well.  Actually, other than running 9 miles one day with the rest of my team and almost DYING, the only other training I did were my little jig-jogs (while spacing out with my headphones on of course) around the flat Illinois neighborhood where I lived.

Some might think that I've finally TRULY pulled a Britney Spears and "lost my dang mind, y'all!  WOO!"  but I assure you that I will not be busting out a pink wig anytime soon and also wear underwear EVERY DAY.  As a track coach (and coming this fall Head Varsity Cross-Country Coach!  YEAH!  FANCY!) it seems pertinent that I be, uh, a good example to the high school students that I coach and actually RUN once in a while.  Since I'm going to be like IN CHARGE of a whole TEAM (there are usually a whopping 8 kids on the XC team, by the way, so not too many students to for me to MESS UP, phew), I'd actually like to be able to run - on foot - with them!  Behind them!  Way back there!  And so that means that this summer I'm going to need to get my butt out there and TRAIN.  Because the only thing sadder than a pudgy track coach (me) is a cross-country coach who REFUSES TO RUN.  Sigh.

I have to admit that I'm really not excited, but at least I'm motivated.  Anyone know of any cool California-ish races coming up that are FUN and EASY (NO HILLS SO HELP ME) and also have GOOD SWAG?  One must have priorities (and proper motivation, might I add).  Because I'm not doing it unless I get free bagels and beer at the end.  Also a race t-shirt to wear to practices that does not have the date 1997 on it.  OOPS. 

If you're interested in carrying me through the race and totally running at a pace well below the one that you'd planned running with me ... please, by all means, OUT THYSELF.

I used a lot of parentheses in this post to help with the awkwardness (you're welcome).

So up until yesterday there was some question about whether or not I am knocked up. 

(I'm not.  Don't freak out.)

(No, we weren't trying to get pregnant again already.)

(Married people are allowed to HAVE SEX by the way, it's NOT GROSS.  Unless it's your parents, that is. *shudder*)

(Quite obviously, that's how babies are made.  Even us.  That one time they did it. EWWWW.)

(And sometimes, welp, married people are spontaneous too.)

ANYWAY.  A few weeks ago the married people who live in our house (us) had a little (spontaneous) fun.  And then?  Soon after that?  As in ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AFTER THAT?  The female member of the married couple (me) started showing signs that she was ovulating.  I know because of this book [which you women of the reproductive persuasion MUST read and then force all your lady friends to read.  I am not so much into the birth control method it suggests but the medical info?  Changed My Life] and because the last time things happened in this order?  This arrived nine months later.

YOU GET THE POINT.  There was a possibility that "oops!  Might have just gotten pregnant!"  And for a stretch of moments it was really, truly scary to think that we might be jumping back on the Pregnancy Truck and then welcoming a new member to our family before Syd even turns two.  I'm not saying that if you pull a Britney Spears and have two kids very very close in age that there's anything wrong with you (unless you're also married to Kevin Federline and then shave your head and cover it up with a pink wig and smack cars with umbrellas, then yes, there IS something wrong with you).  It's probably just not (ok it totally wasn't) how we imagined doing things in OUR family.  And then again?  It was exciting to think that the decision would be out of our hands, that our "plans" were being thwarted and we might be welcoming a new member to our family!  Call us crazy, but we think our Sydney is amazingly awesome and wonderful and the coolest person out of all three of us BY FAR.  So yeah, we want another one a-those!! 

And so we hunkered down and waited. 

And waited.

And then I could take early pregnancy tests and they were negative.  Oh well, we'll see!

And then my period was late.  One day.  Then two.  Then three.  Still negative.

Holy crap!  What does this mean!?  Where are the HORMONES up in this joint?

And then, yesterday, nature took its course.  No baby on the way.  And so I'm back to my goals.  Lose another 15 pounds.  Maybe train for and run a half-marathon?  Get through coaching cross country in the fall ... my first head-coaching position.  Enjoy our baby girl a little bit longer.  Get projects done.  Enjoy the little routine we're (sorta) maintaining at our house.  Plan a vacation this summer.  Eat more dinners as a family.  Get this little girl walking and talking.  All good things.

Yet?

I think we're a little sad.  Despite the enormous, crazy INSANE life-change two children so close together in age would have represented to our (sometimes overbooked) family, we long for more sweet little spirits (and their spit up and poop laundry too) in our home.  Over the past few weeks we've really had to have The Serious Talk about More Kids and at the end of it?  All things considered?  Even the scary things (most importantly being that Manda is the most complain-y expectant lady EVER)?  We would have been thrilled to be pregnant right now.

And we will be thrilled when it's time (again). 

Because this is all about "have" ... and not "have not."  And we have something awesome going over here.  That's blowing our minds and molding us into the best possible versions of ourselves.  That's teaching us the true meaning of the things that are so vastly more important than what we could come up with ourselves.  And that, friends, is worth building on.  Worth being thankful for.  Worth it all (even the poop).

(working hard on Daddy's Fathers Day gift.)