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Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Wordful Wednesday: Twelve Months.

Well, Internet, we made it. On Saturday, Tori will be one whole year old. I thought this achievement deserved official portraits, but haven't had much luck with our local portrait studio. Here's proof.

So instead, we headed out to a particularly picturesque garden nursery in town and had our own impromptu photo shoot. The results were pretty awesome, if I don't say so myself.


First we spent some time checking out the nursery's fish pond. It took a while to draw her attention away from the brightly colored koi, but the results were worth it, don't you think?


Then we plunked her inside this handy pot. She drew quite the audience while taking this picture, thus the big smile (she loves to be the center of attention).


Then we set her loose in the lawn and did our best to keep up with her. She crawled around, giggling like a maniac...

But when she found an interesting looking stick, she actually sat still for a minute.


And this one? Well, I don't know when we took this one, but it's pretty cool, isn't it?

Take that, Sears Portrait Studio. You are dead to us.

There is more Tori goodness, but I won't bore you with the rest. Instead, head over to Seven Clown Circus for more Wordful Wednesday fun!

Monday, March 29, 2010

Dreaming a Daughter's Future.

One of Tori's favorite things to do is to stand in front of my old electronic keyboard synthesizer thing and pound dramatically on the keys. Sometimes she'll press the little orange buttons that make drum sounds, but mostly, she just crashes her fists against the keyboard randomly, reveling in the noise.

But recently, she's begun delicately pushing one key down, then another, smiling as she goes. It probably means nothing, but being her mother, I assume it signals the beginning of a lifelong musical career.

"Maybe she'll play in Carnegie Hall one day," I say to Brian.

"Do you even know where Carnegie Hall is?"

"New York. Somewhere. But that's not the point. Can't you see we have a child prodigy in the making?"

He snorts dismissively. "Because she likes pressing the piano keys? You might as well say that because she's flexible enough to put her foot in her mouth, she's destined to be a gymnast."

"Who knows? Maybe she is. As long as she doesn't want to be a cheerleader."

"And what if she does?"

I shudder dramatically. "Well, I'll support her, of course. But I'll try my darnedest to make sure she's that one nice cheerleader who's sweet to the nerds, gets straight As, and doesn't party with the football players too much."

Drawing himself up to his full height, Brian suddenly looks more imposing than usual. "She's not ever  partying with the football players. My little girl is going to have a nine o'clock curfew. And she's not dating until she graduates from college."

"Riiiight. Keep dreaming, Daddy."

"Well she's certainly not going to have time to date if she wants to be a brain surgeon."

Now it's my turn to snort. "A brain surgeon, huh? With our collective genes, she's much more likely to be an actress. Or an artist. Or a penniless writer. Or..."

"Not if we start steering her toward chemistry and math now!"

"So, what are you saying? We should get her a microscope for her first birthday?"

"It couldn't hurt. Tiger Woods started golfing when he was three."

"I'd rather let her figure out what she wants to do herself."

"And what if she wants to smoke pot and play the guitar in an alley somewhere?"

"Well, as long as she doesn't cook up crystal meth and live in a van down by the river," I tease.

"She'd have to back that van up over my dead body first," he growls.

"Lighten up, Papa Bear," I say, kissing him on the cheek. "She's going to need to learn to walk before she can go anywhere."

"I still say we should get her started on math now..."

"Fine. Teach her how to count blocks. But first, go grab her off the stairs before she falls to her death."

Grumbling, he goes to do as I asked. Moments later, I hear him explaining what molecules water is made of as he washes her sticky hands in the sink.

I can't  help but smile as I roll my eyes.

With a daddy like that watching out for her, her future is guaranteed to be bright.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Banishing the Baby Belly is on Hiatus.

Oh, that dang scale. Sometimes it's my worst enemy and sometimes it's my best friend. Right now, it's status could best be described as "frenemy." Its numbers aren't dropping, but they're not rising either. They're just...there. Taunting me.

But you know what? I really don't have the energy to care.

Life is kicking my butt right now.  I'm still sick. I have the usual mountain of ridiculous deadlines to meet. And my house? Well, let's just say I wish there was something called "get your shit together leave." So, you know, you could take a few weeks off to take care of business.

But since this is the real world, no such thing is forthcoming. So instead, I continue to drag my exhausted ass from Point A to Point B, hoping not to cause any more chaos than absolutely necessary as I go.

I'm sure eventually I'll remember what it feels like to be healthy. And rested. But until then? I don't feel like battling the scale.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Writer's Workshop: A Mantra Worth Having.

It's 8:45 on a Tuesday morning. I'm pawing desperately through the last clean laundry basket, flinging socks, underwear and bras behind me as I search for a clean pair of pants for Tori. When its gleaming white bottom glares back at me I admit defeat.

Reluctantly, I turn toward the discarded clothing pile by her changing table, pulling out a pair of navy blue capris. I give them the sniff test. They're okay. Well, I think, taking a deep breath, she really only wore these for a half day...and we never left the house.

I glance up at the clock. It's 8:53. Screw it. She's wearing dirty pants today. Silently, I remind myself...

You're the best mom she's ever had.

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon. Tori is grabbing every object in her toy box and flinging them as far from her as she can. Eventually, she's half buried in a toy mountain. She looks around her, squeals happily, and then starts putting them back in the box.

For a moment I watch, mouth gaping open. Then, realizing I need to record this momentous occasion - the birth of our savior, the child who cleans - I run to the kitchen for the video camera. Only it's not where I thought it was. Precious seconds tick by as I search, finally locating it under a pile of clean clothing on the ironing board.

I race back to the living room. She's not where I left her. In fact, she's not in the room at all. I turn toward the stairs, my heart in my throat, just in time to see her reach for a step and miss, falling backwards in a heap.

Time slows as I run to scoop her up, fully expecting to see blood pouring from her head. But though she's screaming loud enough to wake the dead, she's fine. As I hold her close, kissing her hot, frown-wrinkled brow, I repeat...


You're the best mom she's ever had.

It's a little after eight on a Thursday morning. Tori is sprawled across my lap, drinking a bottle. I'm curled around her, drinking in the sweet grassy smell of her hair. I play with her bare foot, still toasty from the footed jammies she wore to bed, marveling at the sheer size of it. It seems like just yesterday that I sat here with a days-old baby nestled in the crook of my elbow.

Tears prick at the back of my eyes, and for a moment I long for those slow, quiet mornings. Then she stirs, breaking me from my trance. She pulls herself up my body and grabs my nose. "Mama," she says, grinning from ear to ear.

Grinning in return, I poke her in the nose. "Tori," I reply. She giggles, her tongue peeking out between the gap in her teeth. "Mama," she says again. I laugh and tickle her tummy until she melts into a puddle of laughter. Beaming, I congratulate myself...

You're the best mom she's ever had.

That's my mantra, and I'm sticking to it. Now go visit Mama Kat and see what the other workshoppers have to say for themselves!

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Top Ten Signs You're Not Ready to Have Another Baby.



Now that Tori’s reaching the one year mark, the questions are beginning again. Whether it takes the form of a casual, “so, do you think you guys are going to have another,” or the much pushier, “you know, you really should think about giving her a sibling,” everyone wants to know.

When am I going to pop out another baby?

My first reaction is usually “none of your business, damn it.” But really? I have no idea. We’re certainly not ready yet. And here are ten reasons why:

 I still haven’t lost the last 15 pregnancy pounds. And yes, in my world, doing so is a necessity. I want to be a MILF, damn it.

Getting out the door with one kid is still a challenge. She fights me tooth and nail while I dress her. Then she screams and arches her back as I try to put her in her car seat. Then, when I finally get her harnessed in, she poops. And the cycle begins again. Add in the search for the diaper bag and my car keys, and we’re always at least 30 minutes late.

I’m not done sleeping yet. Once I got preggers, I never managed another eight solid hours of sleep. First it was the constant peeing. Then, the insomnia hit. Then the joints started aching. And then, of course, I had a newborn. So yeah, I’d like to appreciate my pillow for a while longer yet.

I haven't forgotten how much being pregnant sucks. Sure it's a magical time filled with beauty and wonder. It's also nine months full of ever expanding body parts, constant exhaustion and  extreme indigestion.

Our love life hasn't recovered from the first one yet. And that's all I'm going to say about that (my mom reads this, yo).

I haven't forgotten how much maternity  jeans suck. I never found a pair that would stay up. Ever. So I was constantly waddling around, holding on to the waistband, hoping to keep the crotch from ending up at my knees.

Formula is expensive. Sure, if I had another kid I'd try to breastfeed again, but given my resounding failure with Tori, I don't hold out much hope. I'm looking forward to not having to spend 30 bucks a week on glorified powdered milk for a while (mama needs some new shoes).

I haven't figured out the whole work/baby/life balance yet. I'm told it's possible to stop feeling like you're constantly behind in every aspect of your life, but I'm not sure I believe it. Until I figure it out (or find proof that everybody's lying), I'm not ready to add more chaos to my household.

I really enjoy wine. And lattes. I missed both terribly while on the baby making journey, and I'm not quite ready to say good bye again.

I'm not ready to surrender to the minivan. In my mind, I still drive my little blue convertible. I don't think my psyche could take the transition to family hauler.

So there they are. My top ten reasons I'm not ready to have another baby just yet. What about you guys? How did/will you know when you're ready to try again?

Don't forget to visit Oh Amanda for the other Top Ten entries!

Monday, March 22, 2010

A First Birthday Gift Conundrum.

As I may have mentioned a time or two hundred, Tori's going to turn one soon. Which means that various relatives and friends are asking me what she'd like for her birthday.

The thing is, I really don't know what she wants. I mean, I'm not sure she even knows it's her birthday. So I asked her. And you know what? She did have opinions.

So here it is. Tori's Birthday List (as interpreted by me).

A Swing Set.

Now, I was thinking about getting her a little something like this...

But she says all the cool kids have Sky Forts (peer pressure starts early). She wants one like this...

I told her she'll need to find new parents first (this set is a little too rich for our blood).

A sand box.

Now that seems pretty doable. I thought this one (with its own little wading pool) would do nicely.

But no. She wants something a little more like this...

I told her that might be a little beyond our budget this year. So next she tells me she wants...

A pony.

Since she can't even walk yet, I assumes she means a rocking horse. Like this.

But no. She saw Hannah Montana riding one like this, so nothing else will do.


I told her I'd get working on that "searching for my real parents" ad for her.

Crossing her arms in a huff, she asked me if she could at least have...

A swimsuit.

I thought that was a great idea. So I showed her this adorable number from Gymboree.

Turns out that my baby girl only wants designer clothing this summer. Her choice? A stylish one piece from Dolce and Gabbana.


I laughed and told her the only designer labels she would be wearing are those from Target.

Hearing this, she threw one of her signature temper tantrums for about two minutes. And afterwards? She told me all she really wanted was a day with her grandparents, lots of hugs and kisses, and maybe a new set of measuring cups to chew on.

That, I said, makes sense. After all, what more does a one-year-old need?

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Flashback Sunday: One Year Ago Today.

I'm exhausted. Baby Girl Page has been ridiculously sick all weekend long. Ridiculously sick, and wanting her mama.  Her mama who's also not feeling all that great. Which means I have no brain cells left to write you a witty post today...

So instead, we're going to look back at the trouble she was causing me on this exact same day last year...


Like Mother, Like Daughter?

Baby Girl Page had a big surprise for us this week. Turns out she's decided to be breech—just like I was. But she's taking it up a notch. Instead of landing in the standard breech position, she's in something called the oblique lie, which means she's laying on her side, like she's in a hammock. With her head oh-so-comfortably jammed under my right ribs, her butt on the left, and her shoulder where a more obliging baby would put her head.

In other words, unless something changes, there's no way she's coming out of there the normal way. And to make it worse, the placenta's on top of her, so trying to turn her from the outside would be a risky business, to say the least.

But I don't think I even want them to try. According to my mom, they attempted to turn me, and I obliged, but then decided I really didn't like being upside down and turned myself back around at the very last second. And since she's my daughter, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has the exact same attitude.

Yep, so it looks like Mommy is going to get a C-section, like it or not. And I? Don't like that idea at all.

The whole thing scares me to death. I have a hard time not passing out when I have to get a little blood taken. And now they're going to cut me open and pull a baby out of me? Excuse me while I go throw up.

In fact, I know this is pretty immature of me, but every time I think of C-sections, I think of this clip from Spaceballs:


But, I know that at the end of the day, all that matters is that I end up with a happy, healthy baby in my arms. She certainly won't remember how she was born. Although, this way, I'll have a physical scar to prove  just how traumatic her birth was—proof I can use to slather on the guilt for the rest of her life.

And what mom doesn't love the opportunity to guilt the crap out of her progeny every once in a while?

Friday, March 19, 2010

Helpless.

I hate being sick. Hate the closed-in, claustrophobic feeling of a stuffed up head. And the dagger-sharp pain of trying to swallow with a sore throat. Not to mention the bone-breaking hack that threatens to shake my body apart.

But you know what's worse? Watching Tori suffer from the same symptoms, knowing there's almost nothing I can do to help.

She can't have any decongestants or cough medicine. She doesn't understand that she needs to blow her nose. She doesn't know how to clear her throat to rid herself of phlegm.

Instead, the snot bubbles out of her nose and down her face. She coughs until she cries, rubbing her clogged ears the whole time. She wants to be held, to be snuggled close and comforted, but at the same time, she wants to get down on the floor and play - and doesn't understand why her body won't do what she tells it to.

She doesn't understand why she feels this way. Doesn't understand why I can't do anything about it. She just looks at me with her big blue eyes, wordlessly saying, "help me, mama."

So I force saline drops up her nose. Suck out the boogers with the bulb syringe. Ply her with Tylenol and sit with her in the steamy bathroom, hoping the moist air will make it easier to breathe. At night, I hold her sleepy body close as she struggles to make her way to dreamland, rubbing her back as she coughs.

But really, there's not much I can do except watch and wait, hoping the sickness quickly runs it course.

It's a terrible feeling, this helplessness.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Wordful Wednesday: The Body Image Edition.

When this picture was taken, I thought I was fat.


I was a size 6.

And now? Well, I'm quite certain that right now I am, in fact, what if you were being very polite, you would call "curvy." So when I look back at this picture? I want to slap that girl and tell her to enjoy that body while she has it.

But I know she would just roll her eyes at me.

Truth is, I've always struggled with my body image. I've always felt just a little bit awkward in my own skin. I was all of ten when I put myself on my first diet. Ten.

Since then, my weight has yo-yoed dramatically, sending me into sizes as big as 18 and as small as the aforementioned 6. And while I'm generally at my happiest and healthiest at an 8 or a 10, I've never actually been "happy" with what I see in the mirror.

Why do I bring that up now? Well, because I have a daughter. A daughter who's starting to understand what's going on in the world around her. And I? Can't stop putting myself down. Can't stop using the words "fat" and "ugly" in reference to my reflection.

And Internet? It won't be long before she starts to pick up on what I'm saying. It won't be long before she starts modeling her behavior after mine. And I do not want her to go through life with baggage like mine.

But I can't seem to stop. I keep telling myself that after I lose the next ten pounds, I'll feel better about myself. When I can finally run a 5K again, I'll feel sexy. When I can fit into my pre-preggo jeans again, I'll be proud of the woman I see in the mirror.

I'm not sure I believe me, though. Do you?

See the other Wordful Wednesday entries at Seven Clown Circus.

Monday, March 15, 2010

A Visit With A Little Green Monster.

One evening not too terribly long ago, I sat snuggled up on the couch with a nice glass of wine when an unexpected visitor plopped down next to me.

LITTLE GREEN MONSTER: Hey, whatcha drinking there?

ME: Wine.

MONSTER: Out of a plastic cup?

ME: The good glasses are in the dishwasher. And besides, who cares? It tastes the same no matter what you drink it out of.

MONSTER: I dunno. It just seems a little pathetic. I'll bet Melissa never drinks wine out of dixie cups.

ME: How would you know?

MONSTER: I'm just guessing. But a little birdy told me she has a cleaning service come in twice a week, so there's probably no shortage of clean glasses.

ME: A  maid? Well...good for her. She works hard. She deserves it.

MONSTER: Just like Tabitha deserved that European vacation, right? Just months after her Jamaican escape?

ME: Yes. Exactly like that.

MONSTER: Hey, did you hear about Jeremy's new job?

ME: No. He got a new job? That's great. Where at?

MONSTER: I don't remember the agency. But he's already hard at work concepting a Super Bowl commercial for next year.

ME: Him? A Super Bowl commercial? But I'm ten times as talented as he is. That conceited ha-(PAUSES AND BREATHES DEEPLY). I mean...how awesome. I'm sure he'll do great.

MONSTER: Yep. He's got it made. Kinda like Cindy.

ME: Cindy?

MONSTER: You didn't know? She met a millionaire on the set of that reality TV show she was doing. Now they're getting married and moving to Hawaii. I hear there's already a bun in the oven, if you know what I'm sayin'.

ME (MUTTERING): We'll see how much he likes her when she's carrying 25 pounds of baby weight two years from now....

MONSTER: What was that?

ME: Ummmm, nothing. Nothing at all. Just wondering what I should get them for a wedding gift.

MONSTER: Not sure. Maybe you should go in with Jackie on something.

ME: You're right, I should. I haven't talked to her since she had her baby. It'd be a good excuse to give her a call.

MONSTER: Well, if you decide to get together, meet somewhere that's not too crowded. Otherwise you won't recognize her.

ME: What are you talking about? Of course I will - I've known her for 15 years!

MONSTER: Yeah, but you've never seen her this thin. She's down to a size two now.

ME: What? But her baby's only five months old. How is that possible?

MONSTER: When Paramount bought the rights to that book she wrote, she figured she better slim down before Hollywood came calling.

ME: She's got a movie deal? But that's not fair! She's not even a real writer—she just did it to pass the time while she was on bed rest. I've been writing since the third grade, and what do I have to show for it?

MONSTER: An ulcer and a mountain of debt?

ME (GETTING UP FROM THE COUCH IN A HUFF): ARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!

MONSTER: Hey, where you going?

ME: To the store. I need some more wine.

MONSTER: Well, you'll have to walk. Your car's in the shop, remember?

ME: Go away. I hate you!

MONSTER: Aaaaand my job here is done. Enjoy the rest of your evening.
 
 ME (THROWING PILLOW AT MONSTER'S BACK): Enjoy your spot in hell!

THE END

Saturday, March 13, 2010

BBB Round 2: Four Foods that Make Dieting Doable.

After a two week hiatus, the diet that never ends is on again. And this time it's crunch time. I'm not going to make my deadline (Tori's birthday), but I'm bound and determined to have this weight off in time for my vacation in June (plus, I am not buying a "fat" summer wardrobe).

I'm off to a good start - I'm down three pounds this week. Which is actually only a half pound less than the last time I weighed in (healing from surgery requires lots of ice cream, you know), but I'm going to go ahead and give myself credit for all three.

Helping me along in my pursuit of skinniness are a few key foods. Foods that fill me up, but not out. Here's four of my favorites.


For breakfast, I rely on Yoplait Yogurt Delights. At only 100 calories a pop, this yogurt puts only the tiniest of dents in my daily points allowance, and when mixed liberally with a bowl of berries, actually fills me up.


At lunchtime, Campbell's Select Harvest Light Soups do the job. There are a few different varieties, but none have more than three points for the whole can. Even better, they actually have taste (unlike those Progresso nasties).


When I can't face another meal of soup, I turn to salad.  And these dressings by Bolthouse Farms are pure awesomeness. They're made with yogurt instead of whatever salad dressing is usually made from, so they're both low calorie and filled with the creamy goodness of "real" dressing. I have to get them from my neighborhood co-op, though, so I don't know how easy they are to find.


Even the most dedicated dieter needs to snack. And when the 3 o'clock munchies hit? For me, nothing but chocolate will do. Luckily, these Fiber Plus Granola Bars taste almost exactly like candy bars. Seriously. But they'll only set you back two points (or 120 calories for you traditionalists). So you can have your candy and your shrinking waistline, too!

Those are my current lifesavers. What are yours?

Disclosure: If you know me at all, you know that no one pays me to write about anything. But just in case you don't, let me assure you I received no compensation (not even coupons), for including these products in my blog. I just happen to like them and thought my newest discoveries might make life a little easier for the rest of you.

Dieters unite!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Writer's Workshop: Emails From Beyond.

Hi Amber,

I was just getting caught up on your blog (yep, we have Internet access in heaven) and I read about your recent cancer scare. I'm so sorry you had to go through that! Six weeks is a long time to go without knowing what's wrong with you. Remember how they told me my symptoms were just caused by mastitis?

I knew it went deeper than that, but it took months for the doctors to come up with the right diagnosis. And even when they did, I didn't believe them. I mean, breast cancer? I was only thirty. Thirty with a newborn to take care of. I didn't have time for cancer! But, unfortunately, cancer had plenty of time for me...

Anyway, I understand what you went through, and how awful that must have felt. If I was there, I'd give you a hug. But the only way I could do that is if I told the Big Guy I wanted to haunt you - and that just wouldn't be very relaxing for either of us.

Sending you a virtual hug,
Julie

____________________________________________________________

Julie,

 Thank you for your note. I'm so glad that you're in heaven, and that you're happy (you are happy, aren't you?). I think about you all the time. There are so many things I wish I could say to you...

I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were struggling with your disease. I wanted to do something, but I didn't know what. I'd never known someone (well someone so young) with cancer before, and I didn't know how to handle it.

We all thought that you'd beat it. That you'd pull through. I was sure I'd have lots of time to make up for my...I don't know what the word is. Fear? That's really what it came down to. I was afraid of you - of what was happening to you.

And when I found out that you gave all the money we raised for you to research instead of using it to pay your bills? Well, I don't think I've ever been so in awe of another human being in my whole life.

Julie, I want you to know I'll always remember you. I give a donation to the American Cancer Society every year in your name. No one should ever have to go through what you did. No one.

Hugs right back,
Amber

P.S. Do they have chocolate in heaven? I've always wondered...
____________________________________________________

Amber,

Thank you for your kind words. You weren't the only one who was tongue-tied. Lots of people reacted the same way. But it's okay. I knew you were all thinking of me, and that you wished me well.

I learned a lot from that experience. I learned to be grateful for what I had. To tell the people I cared about that I loved them every chance I got. I learned that every day, every hour, every minute, every second is precious, and not a single one should ever be taken for granted.

I won't lie. I didn't want to die. I wanted to see my kids grow up, and finish building my house with my sister. I wanted to live. But if what my doctors learned by caring for me can help another woman avoid the same fate, then it was all worthwhile.

I'll be checking in on you from time to time, so be good. Tell Brian I said hello and hug that little girl of yours for me. She really is adorable. And take care of yourself. I don't want to see you up here for a long, long time.

Julie

P.S. The chocolate is divine. Get it? Divine...No? Oh, never mind.
__________________________________________________________________________

This week, Mama Kat asked us to write a letter to ourselves from someone who has died. As usual, I took a few liberties, but the story is true. My friend Julie was diagnosed with a rare type of breast cancer just months after giving birth. She battled it for a number of years, and at times she appeared to be winning, but she eventually succumbed in late 2008.

Breast cancer can happen to anyone, at any age. So, please, do those self breast exams monthly. And if you can? Donate to the Susan G. Komen Foundation,  or the American Cancer Society. Together, we can find a cure.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Wordful Wednesday: Eleven Months.


While it seems like just yesterday that I was holding Tori in my arms for the first time, in reality it's been almost a year. And that little baby I fell in love with? Is fast becoming a toddler.

She can brush her own hair (at least she likes to think she can).


She can stand on her own two feet.


She can even climb up into a chair.


But when I see her smiling face...


And look into her big blue eyes...


I know no matter how big she gets, she'll always be my baby girl.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

The Search for the Couch and Other Stories.

We had to have a plumber come to our house today (leaking bath tub + wet ceiling = bad news). That’s bad enough, but you know what’s worse? Having to clean the house for the plumber.

Yep, you read that right. Our house was so embarrassingly dirty that my husband and I spent more time than I’d like to admit making it presentable. For the plumber. Not spic and span, by any means. But clean enough so that we’re reasonably sure the guy won’t call CPS on us.

Which he might have, had he seen it on Saturday.

The kitchen floor was littered with cheerios, puffs, pieces of dog biscuits and other random bits of trashy excellence. So much so that I found myself constantly chasing Tori around, snatching things out of her mouth (I may or may not have let her eat a few stray cheerios along the way).

The table was piled high three feet high with books, magazines, cereal boxes and mail. It had gotten so bad that I was forced to shove things aside to make room for our plates every time we actually wanted to have a meal there.

The family room and living room were buried in toys, laundry and the other flotsam of daily life. In fact, it took me fifteen minutes to even find the couch. And when I finally got out the vacuum? I managed to completely fill up the canister before I even finished a single room (but in my defense, the animals are all shedding).

And don’t even get me started on the state of our bedroom.

I’m sick to death of living this way. Tired of being greeted by a scene from a disaster movie every time I open my front door. I don’t want to live with a laundry pile that’s perpetually in danger of taking over the house. And I certainly don’t want to plan my meals based on what pots are clean.

But I’m not sure how to get a handle on it.

The things my mom always told me? You know, like put stuff away after you use it. And wash the pan you were using before you take another one out. And do a load of laundry every night. Those kind of things?

Are all very good ideas. And seemingly easy to implement. Except they’re not. At least, not for me.

I won’t lie, I’ve always been a slob. But since Tori was born, it’s got a thousand times worse. The dishes don’t get done after dinner because as soon as I’ve eaten, I’m rushing to get her ready for bed. My things don’t get put away because I almost never finish what I start—halfway through, I get pulled away by a Tori roar and never quite make it back.

And as for laundry? Well, by the time I can tackle the clothes pile, all I want to do is collapse on the couch for an hour or two.

My husband and I have resolved (yet again), to do better. To actually clean up after ourselves and keep the mess under control. We’re really going to try. At least until the memories of our latest cleaning frenzy fade. I'm just not sure how.

How do you guys do it? How do you manage to get everything done in the 24 hours we’re allotted each day? Does it ever get easier to pull off the super mom charade?

A Moment of Fun.

Deadlines. Don't you hate 'em? I know I do, especially when they get in the way of blogging. And that, lovely readers, is exactly what's happening in my life right now.

Lots and lots of deadlines. Which means I still don't have a real post for you (but I will be back tonight, promise). In the meantime, have a giggle courtesy of the Muppets.




I just never get tired of the Muppets. Do you?

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Nearly Silent Sunday.

I have one word for you - hope.


Those are daffodils, folks. Spring's definitely on the way! Now, if you excuse me, I'm going to go back outside and enjoy the warmish weather while it lasts.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

The World's Smallest Headbanger.

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, I fancied myself something of a headbanger. I rocked out to what passed for hard rock in that era, including bands like Guns n Roses, AC/DC, Poison, Bon Jovi, Warrant (yes, really), Skid Row and, ummm, even Nelson (yeah, I cringed when I wrote that).

But I never thought my daughter would follow in my footsteps at the tender age of ten months.

So you can imagine my surprise when she started banging her head.  Sometimes, it's obvious she's doing it just for fun. Sitting in her high chair, she'll rock backwards into the seat back. When playing in the kitchen, she'll knock her forehead on the cabinet doors, grinning at the sound. In her crib, she'll gently bang against the wooden slats.

That doesn't worry me.

But you know what does? The way she slams her skull around she gets angry. If she's on the floor, she'll bang her head into the ground. If I'm holding her, she head butts me (and believe me, that can hurt). If she's sitting in her high chair, she gets up close and personal with her tray.

Fortunately, it never lasts long.

See, she has my temper. So she'll get extremely, explosively angry for short periods of time. She'll scream, she'll flail, she'll throw herself around and generally be a pain in the ass for five minutes or so. Then she'll get distracted by something shiny and the storm will pass as quickly as it started.

Almost before you can blink an eye, her smile will be out in full force again, and the only sign of the temper tantrum that was are the tears still tracking down her cheeks.

What do you guys think? Should I be worried? Or should I just start collecting video for her VH1 Behind the Music episode when she makes it big as the lead singer of a heavy metal band?

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Eleven Tiny Moments...

It was a Tuesday evening. I put my bowl of ice cream down on the ottoman to throw a pillow at the cat clawing his way to China through our couch. When I turned around, Tori had the spoon in her mouth, chocolate dripping down her chin and delight shining in her eyes. I had all the proof I ever needed that she was my daughter...

It was a Saturday night. I was sobbing silently, in too much pain to keep my misery to myself any longer. Down the hall, Tori howled heartbrokenly from her crib, not yet ready to face the night alone. Wiping my eyes, I hurried to her side and swooped her up into my arms, squeezing her tight. She burrowed into my shoulder and together, we snuffled and sniffed until our tears died on our cheeks. I rocked and rocked and rocked until her breathing slowed and her snuffles gave way to soft snores, taking comfort in her animal closeness…

It was a Monday morning. I was running late, taking frantic sips of precious caffeine while shredding chicken for the dog, stirring oatmeal for Tori and slapping food into bowls for the cats. Thinking it was strangely quiet, I turned just in time to see her pull the last items from our overflowing junk drawer on to the already messy floor. I wanted to scream in frustration, but seeing her grin, could only smile in return…

It was a Sunday night. Tori sat perched in her daddy's arms as he took her on her nite nite tour. "Say nite-nite mommy," Brian said. Grinning, she waved her little hand at me and said, "ni-ni!" My heart swelled with pride...

It was a Saturday afternoon. I was burrowed under a blanket on our big blue recliner, a snoozing Tori nestled in the crook of my elbow. I wiggled my fingers, trying to ease the discomfort of my slowly numbing digits without waking her up. Suddenly, she stirred. Half opening her eyes, she gave me a sleepy smile and reached out to touch my face before returning to dreamland. Pain be damned, there was no way I was moving from that chair…

It was a Thursday evening. Cookie Monster's image filled my computer screen. As he stuffed his mouth full of apple cores, Tori started laughing her daddy's giant hee haw of a laugh. I almost suffered death by laughter...

It was a Friday night. I was wrestling with a screaming Tori, trying to pin her flailing body down with one arm while cramming her foot into her pajamas with the other.  I looked on helplessly as her face turned purple with rage, having no idea how to break the stalemate. Then Brian walked up and zerberted her tummy, surprising laughter out of her. The spell was broken...

It was a Monday evening.  Grandma was on the phone, imploring Tori to babble to her through the speaker. She was oblivious, busily smacking two blocks together instead. One dropped to the floor and she bent down to pick it up without hanging on to anything. Brian and I looked at each other and said, "did she really just do that?" She did...

It was a Sunday morning. Tori climbed up one stair. Then another. And another until she reached the top, giggling all the way. She turned and grinned victoriously at a slightly horrified me, so proud of her new skill...

It was a snowy Tuesday morning. Hauling Tori in her car seat, I walked out into the frigid morning air. I shivered, but Tori shrieked with laughter, loving the feeling of the cold on her skin. Seeing her joy, I  paused to make a tiny snowball, giving it to Tori to feel. Her delighted smile was all it took to make me stop cursing the February weather...

It was a Thursday night. Tori was bundled up in her towel, still damp from the bath. As I tried to dry her hair, she snatched it away from me with a little Tori roar. I thought a temper tantrum was unavoidable, but instead, she put the towel to her face, then pulled it away, grinning. Suddenly understanding, I hollered "peekaboo!" She giggled and did it again and again and again...

Eleven tiny moments from yet another month filled with wonder, frustration and more joy than one human heart should be able to hold. Happy Eleven Month Birthday, little one...

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

A Look Back...

My baby's going to be eleven months old tomorrow. Eleven months. That's almost a whole year. To all you veteran mommies out there, that probably seems like no big thing, but to me? Well, the thought of how different everything was this time last year takes my breath away.

So tonight, for your reading pleasure, I'm re-posting an entry I wrote on March 5, 2009 (cue the Wayne's World flashback music).

One Month To Go.
 
Yesterday marked the beginning of the one-month countdown to baby delivery time. That should seem pretty scary. And honestly, sometimes the thought, “Holy crap, I’m going to have a baby in less than a month,” crosses my mind, and my body’s flight or fight instinct takes over.

My heart pounds. My brain bleats in panic. And I start searching anywhere and everywhere for a responsible adult to take charge. Then I remember, I’m supposed to be the grown-up now.

Which pushes me straight into “I want my mommy” mode.

But she’s seven hours away. Of course, I know if I were to call her up and start howling in her ear, she’d panic and show up at my door in approximately 7.5 hours—faster if sheer force of will could propel her there.

Fortunately, so far, I’ve resisted the urge.

The good news is that these moods are the exception rather than the rule. More often, I find myself getting all warm and fuzzy at the thought of actually meeting my baby. I’ll sit in the big recliner we moved into her room and imagine curling up there with her in my arms. Or I’ll go through her closet, trying to picture an actual baby in those tiny doll clothes. I’ll play with her music box, re-fold her onesies, smooth the sheet in her crib…all with a goofy smile on my face.

I can’t wait to stroll around the neighborhood on warm spring evenings with her, my husband and our dog—our family finally complete.

I look forward to working in my garden, chattering to her as I show her the latest flowers.

Heck, I’m even excited to have company when I’m awake at 3:30 in the morning, marveling at how quiet the world is.

As my husband recently remarked, “Even though she’s not here yet, I can’t imagine our lives without her now.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Reminder: This Too Will Pass.

OK Go, one of my favorite bands, returns to viral video goodness with this piece of YouTube awesomeness. I'm posting it here to make up for my whining yesterday...because this too shall pass, yo!




Now go and have a happy Tuesday, everyone!

Monday, March 1, 2010

Bitch and Moan Monday: The Working Mom Blues.

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Disclaimer: While I realize that I do, in fact, have quite a nice life, and when in better spirits, would even go so far as to call myself kind of blessed, I am in a shitty-ass mood today. And when I'm crabby? I reserve the right to bitch, moan and whine up a storm. So, if you'd rather not hear it,  feel free to visit this site instead.

Last week, as you all know, I was lucky enough to have my second abdominal surgery in less than a year. And while this time, I was given four small incisions (as opposed to the six-inch monster that now decorates my bikini line), that did not make the process pain-free.

Quite the opposite, in fact. In fact, I think this "minimally invasive" surgery was worse than my C-section. Why? Well, because I wasn't expecting this level of pain. In fact, my doctor told me that most people go back to work the next day after a procedure like the one I had. That's right. The very next day.

Well, I'm here to tell you that my doctor is a liar, liar, pants on fire. 

It was very painful, folks. And to make it worse? The painkiller I was on causes constipation. A fact I didn't find out until I was crying hysterically in the bathroom (open abdominal wounds + constipation = torture), just like I was last April. So, yeah, my weekend sucked. 

I'm sure I don't need to tell you, then, that when Tori woke up crying with teething pain at 5:30 this morning, I was less than pleased. Especially since,  recovered or not, I was scheduled to return to work (and its attendant deadlines) today.

And when I realized that the Gods of Menstrual Cycles hadn't decided to spare me my regularly scheduled bout of PMS? I'm surprised Indiana didn't suffer an earthquake brought on by the strength of my internalized screams.

Nevertheless, I got myself together, got Tori bundled in her car seat and got the business of paying my beloved daycare provider (I'm serious here, she really does rock and I feel very, very lucky to have her), out of the way. But when signing the check, it was all I could do not to sob out loud.

Sometimes, it's very, very hard to pay someone else to live the life you wish you could lead.

And that, my friends, is also why it sucks to be a working mom, no matter how much you love your job. 

Now, go visit my friend Kisha at In Through The Out Door and tell her what you would like to bitch and moan about today. Or, since you're already here, you could just tell me...

And don't forget to come back tomorrow. I'll be doing my first book review—of Free Range Kids (and no, no one's paying me to do so. I just happen to think it rocks). It will be whine-free, I promise.