Something happens to me each week at about this same time. Or at least on the weeks when I have any control over the TV programming. Not counting the CSPANiverse and eight home shopping networks, we only get one real cable channel: TLC. And I have found myself irrefutably drawn to one of its simplest yet most voyeuristic shows: Miami Ink.
Maybe it's living in the perpetual safety bubble of pregnancy, but I've developed a brand-new fascination with tattoos. Or more specifically, with getting myself tattooed. I went through my twenties with no interest in the ink. (Of course, I also went through my twenties with no interest in beer. The geekiness knows no bounds.) I am not, by anyone's definition, a rebel. But in the last year or so, I've started giving very serious consideration to what I might want permanently affixed to my body. You know, other than Miss M.
My lifelong hesitations about tattoos come through when I get down to the details. For starters, I feel like I'd have to pick a spot on my body that is at least relatively immune to the forces of gravity. It's hard enough to imagine myself as a tattooed 70-year-old; I can't bear the thought of having to use two hands in order to see my art. I'm also continually flummoxed as to what image I'd use. I guess that's probably the strongest sign that I'm not ready for a tattoo, since I can't easily settle on the design I'd want to carry around for the rest of my life. Although lately, it's not from a lack of ideas, but rather an abundance. I'm constantly looking at everything from Norse goddesses to the native wildflowers of Minnesota and wondering how well they'd translate onto my own skin.
Sure, it's easy to talk big about stabbing a picture onto my body during this period of my life when I absolutely can't do it. I've also spent a lot of time longing to dye my hair Natalie Maines brown and run off into a quiet room with a tray of sushi and an entire bottle of Bordeaux. But I think this craving might actually stick. After delivering two babies, the fear of pain would be nowhere near a factor, and 1.5 pregnancies have already gotten me a lot more comfortable with the ever-fluctuating nature of my body. Or maybe that's what I'm actually rebelling against.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Whip-Smart As The English Channel's Wide
It feels a little sketchy divulging the details of a parent/teacher conference, somewhat akin to violating attorney/client privilege or doctor/patient confidentiality, but it also seems important to document this first major scholastic event. And not just because the school director said Miss M was super, super smart.
We weren't all that surprised when the opening discussion of M's overall demeanor and temperament involved the word bossy, though. Apparently her father and I are not the only people she likes to drag around by their noses. She's what Miss F. euphemistically referred to as a "leader," which is the polite Montessori term for the kid who targets a group of smaller children and commands them to do her bidding. "She's got Fortune 500 written all over her," Miss F said optimistically. Meanwhile, The Admiral and I were slightly relieved to discover that it's a common stage, and can be exacerbated by major life events (like an upcoming baby), but will eventually become a less overpowering part of her persona.
The academic portion of the review was more heartening. It seems a little silly to call a 3-year-old's efforts to pour water and sort beads and button buttons "academic," but I've bought into the Montessori theory of cosmic education enough to believe that these small, seemingly unimportant tasks are laying the groundwork for the bigger work that lies ahead. And the good news is, she's doing well. She loves "practical life," which is the school's category for things like serving food, washing dishes and cleaning up messes. I suspected as much, considering that one of her greatest joys in life is helping me dust and she waxes poetic about the joys of the "spill tray." But we were surprised to see how well she was progressing in language, since she never really talks about doing that work (a taste for irony is genetic, I guess). And Miss F said she'd even ventured into some of the math work, which is quite advanced for her age and time in Montessori. The only category where she really wasn't taking a dramatic interest was sensorial, which I thought was sort of odd considering what a sensitive kid she is. Maybe that's why, though. Maybe she senses enough as it is.
In all, it was an interesting and revealing look into her activities during the seven hours a day she is out of our immediate control. Especially since she's turned into a 14-year-old lately, and answers all questions about her day with, "Nothin'" (Her teenage 'tude is dampened a bit, however, by her pronunciation issues. "What did you have for lunch today?" "Nussin.") It's a tremendous relief to know that she's happy and thriving and taking in experiences that we wouldn't even think to offer her. Although she'd probably think of them herself, because, you know, she's brilliant.
We weren't all that surprised when the opening discussion of M's overall demeanor and temperament involved the word bossy, though. Apparently her father and I are not the only people she likes to drag around by their noses. She's what Miss F. euphemistically referred to as a "leader," which is the polite Montessori term for the kid who targets a group of smaller children and commands them to do her bidding. "She's got Fortune 500 written all over her," Miss F said optimistically. Meanwhile, The Admiral and I were slightly relieved to discover that it's a common stage, and can be exacerbated by major life events (like an upcoming baby), but will eventually become a less overpowering part of her persona.
The academic portion of the review was more heartening. It seems a little silly to call a 3-year-old's efforts to pour water and sort beads and button buttons "academic," but I've bought into the Montessori theory of cosmic education enough to believe that these small, seemingly unimportant tasks are laying the groundwork for the bigger work that lies ahead. And the good news is, she's doing well. She loves "practical life," which is the school's category for things like serving food, washing dishes and cleaning up messes. I suspected as much, considering that one of her greatest joys in life is helping me dust and she waxes poetic about the joys of the "spill tray." But we were surprised to see how well she was progressing in language, since she never really talks about doing that work (a taste for irony is genetic, I guess). And Miss F said she'd even ventured into some of the math work, which is quite advanced for her age and time in Montessori. The only category where she really wasn't taking a dramatic interest was sensorial, which I thought was sort of odd considering what a sensitive kid she is. Maybe that's why, though. Maybe she senses enough as it is.
In all, it was an interesting and revealing look into her activities during the seven hours a day she is out of our immediate control. Especially since she's turned into a 14-year-old lately, and answers all questions about her day with, "Nothin'" (Her teenage 'tude is dampened a bit, however, by her pronunciation issues. "What did you have for lunch today?" "Nussin.") It's a tremendous relief to know that she's happy and thriving and taking in experiences that we wouldn't even think to offer her. Although she'd probably think of them herself, because, you know, she's brilliant.
Monday, February 05, 2007
I Only Wanted 2 Be Some Kind Of Friend
Since pregnancy has significantly cut into my barhopping (what with the center of gravity shift keeping me from balancing on a barstool with a Pabst in one hand and a Winston in the other), I have to resort to commenting on the shows I'm still able to see. Which is to say, those on TV.
I really didn't know what to expect when I heard that Prince was going to be performing at the Super Bowl halftime show. I was initially excited about the prospect, but then I couldn't help remembering the last, oh let's say 18 Super Bowl halftime shows, all of which involved either Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney. Popular and varyingly talented performers all, but not exactly on the bleeding edge of the music scene. And sure, there was that one unusual year that got a wee little bit of attention, but that obviously taught the halftime powers-that-be not to take any risks at all in their artist choices.
So what did it mean, then, that they picked Prince? Is the man who once threatened the very souls of the Gore daughters now considered wholesome family entertainment? Has becoming a Jehovah's Witness and knocking on the door to 50 mellowed Mr. Nelson to such an extent that he no longer requires a parental advisory label? And most importantly, does being a Prince fan now put me in the same category as the people who thought "Woo hoo!" when they saw Billy Joel creak out for the national anthem?
Thusfore, there was a lot of tension in the SAM household as halftime approached. Some skeptical observers doubted that Prince would even deign to appear in the torrential rain. But then, through some impossibility of chemistry (or maybe physics; who knows, I got Cs in them both), a ring of fire burst through the rain and there he was. Flanked by the flanks of two possibly suicidal dancers in what was astutely described by Sassy Molassy as "Italian pirate" gear and 9" heels, my hometown boy strutted across the eponymously shaped stage, rocking a medley that I'm sure is a highlight of his new Las Vegas show. Let's Go Crazy, Baby I'm A Star, Purple Rain, even a little Proud Mary ... nothing revolutionary (and mostly Revolution-era), I'll admit, but an engaging and energetic set nonetheless.
Prince took on a little more of a Morris Day persona as he quipped about his hair and kept his own dance moves to a minimum - can't be risking a broken ankle when you've got 3000 people paying $125 to see you every weekend, I guess. But I wouldn't go so far as to say he was entirely safe, either, what with the patented guitar-as-phallus antics going on behind the billowy curtain set. He kept up a remarkably good attitude, considering the weather and his general reputation for prissiness. I have to say, after all we've been through in the last 20-odd years (let's not get me going about the whole Crystal Ball debacle), the little man won me back over.
I really didn't know what to expect when I heard that Prince was going to be performing at the Super Bowl halftime show. I was initially excited about the prospect, but then I couldn't help remembering the last, oh let's say 18 Super Bowl halftime shows, all of which involved either Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney. Popular and varyingly talented performers all, but not exactly on the bleeding edge of the music scene. And sure, there was that one unusual year that got a wee little bit of attention, but that obviously taught the halftime powers-that-be not to take any risks at all in their artist choices.
So what did it mean, then, that they picked Prince? Is the man who once threatened the very souls of the Gore daughters now considered wholesome family entertainment? Has becoming a Jehovah's Witness and knocking on the door to 50 mellowed Mr. Nelson to such an extent that he no longer requires a parental advisory label? And most importantly, does being a Prince fan now put me in the same category as the people who thought "Woo hoo!" when they saw Billy Joel creak out for the national anthem?
Thusfore, there was a lot of tension in the SAM household as halftime approached. Some skeptical observers doubted that Prince would even deign to appear in the torrential rain. But then, through some impossibility of chemistry (or maybe physics; who knows, I got Cs in them both), a ring of fire burst through the rain and there he was. Flanked by the flanks of two possibly suicidal dancers in what was astutely described by Sassy Molassy as "Italian pirate" gear and 9" heels, my hometown boy strutted across the eponymously shaped stage, rocking a medley that I'm sure is a highlight of his new Las Vegas show. Let's Go Crazy, Baby I'm A Star, Purple Rain, even a little Proud Mary ... nothing revolutionary (and mostly Revolution-era), I'll admit, but an engaging and energetic set nonetheless.
Prince took on a little more of a Morris Day persona as he quipped about his hair and kept his own dance moves to a minimum - can't be risking a broken ankle when you've got 3000 people paying $125 to see you every weekend, I guess. But I wouldn't go so far as to say he was entirely safe, either, what with the patented guitar-as-phallus antics going on behind the billowy curtain set. He kept up a remarkably good attitude, considering the weather and his general reputation for prissiness. I have to say, after all we've been through in the last 20-odd years (let's not get me going about the whole Crystal Ball debacle), the little man won me back over.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Cluck Ol' Hen
The technology, people. It's an amazing thing. 
A few months back - let's say six or so - I got a message from my past in the form of a MySpace email from my former junior and high school classmate, Josh. He'd apparently been breezing through the alumni listing and saw my page, then also happened to notice that I was doing artist booking. In an intriguing coincidence, Josh was now part of an old-time country duo, The Get Up Johns (not what I'd have predicted when he was rocking out to Christian rap after Physics lab, but still somewhat fitting). And, unlike most of the musicians who contact me through MySpace, they were really, really good. You have no idea what a relief it is to have a friend say, "Hey, would you mind listening to this?" and having it actually be something worth listening to. And that's coming from someone who, quite frankly, does not have the world's keenest aural sense (I'm really just here to pimp the songwriters, my acoustically enhanced literary brethren and sistren).
So, over the next few months, we kept in touch and managed to forge together a 5-date tour of the southeast, an area of the U.S. that these country die-hards had not yet explored (at least as a touring act - Josh's partner Jake is a native of Morgantown, WV). As you might expect, it was quite possibly my easiest booking run ever. An old-time country duo? In the South? Almost embarrassingly easy. After making sure they had a good anchor show in Memphis, I got them shows in Opelika, AL; Knoxville, TN; Atlanta and Savannah, GA. Through their own MySpace hustling, they also got a Nashville show with Kathy Louvin, daughter of one of their idols, Ira Louvin.
And then, I'm embarrassed to admit, I sort of forgot all about it. I got them all their show specs and tried to help their publicist get the press info she needed, but then it sort of dropped off my radar. Until I got an email from Josh, sent on Tuesday morning, saying that they were going to drive in from Chicago that night and could I suggest someplace for them to park their mobile lodgings (which I assumed to be a van, but which turned out to be a Jetta wagon with a homespun plywood bunk across the way-back). Since I didn't get that email until 10pm Tuesday night, they were left to their own midwestern devices, which led them to the Elvis Presley RV park, within spitting distance of Graceland. (Listen as the Memphis locals release a sigh of pity/gasp of fear as they picture two country singers in a VW station wagon, sleeping innocently behind a used car lot on EP Blvd.) Thankfully, they survived the night and were up and at 'em on Wednesday in time for their live appearance on Bashful Bob's "Sho' Nuff Country" show on WEVL.
And now, a brief moment to express how much I love Bashful Bob. Oh, how I love him.
Ahem. Anyway, the on-air went fabulously (I listened to it online, another modern wonder) and they gamely followed my instructions to lunch at Gus's Fried Chicken. After a mandatory tour of Sun Studio, they headed to the P&H to check out the bar and enjoy their free wi-fi. When I and the rest of the crowd started arriving around 7:45, the boys were showered, shaved and dressed in their customary suits. It soon became clear that this wasn't going to be a typical night at the P&H, not just because the musicians weren't wearing faded Big Star t-shirts but because the median age was about 62. Turns out, there was a large contingent from Arkansas sitting right up next to the stage who had caught the boys on Midwest Country, a Minnesota-produced Opry-style show that airs on this obscure satellite channel called RFD. Apparently Bashful Bob had seen that appearance as well, and it was part of the reason he'd come all the way up from Tupelo to have the guys on his show. Bob and his Mississippi crew were anchoring another table near the bar.
Between those two groups, the Get Up Johns had a faithful following all night long, but they also grabbed the attention of the hipsters slouching in the booths. The show was fantastic, with Josh and Jake proving that the seamless harmonies and adroit picking heard on their CD is not some sort of production trick. These boys can really play. Even Stacey and RJA, not generally considered the biggest country fans in Memphis, had to admit that they sounded really good. It was a great evening, and it was in large part due to the wonders of MySpace, streaming radio, and Dish TV. And a whole bunch of songs written when my grandparents were in elementary school.
A few months back - let's say six or so - I got a message from my past in the form of a MySpace email from my former junior and high school classmate, Josh. He'd apparently been breezing through the alumni listing and saw my page, then also happened to notice that I was doing artist booking. In an intriguing coincidence, Josh was now part of an old-time country duo, The Get Up Johns (not what I'd have predicted when he was rocking out to Christian rap after Physics lab, but still somewhat fitting). And, unlike most of the musicians who contact me through MySpace, they were really, really good. You have no idea what a relief it is to have a friend say, "Hey, would you mind listening to this?" and having it actually be something worth listening to. And that's coming from someone who, quite frankly, does not have the world's keenest aural sense (I'm really just here to pimp the songwriters, my acoustically enhanced literary brethren and sistren).
So, over the next few months, we kept in touch and managed to forge together a 5-date tour of the southeast, an area of the U.S. that these country die-hards had not yet explored (at least as a touring act - Josh's partner Jake is a native of Morgantown, WV). As you might expect, it was quite possibly my easiest booking run ever. An old-time country duo? In the South? Almost embarrassingly easy. After making sure they had a good anchor show in Memphis, I got them shows in Opelika, AL; Knoxville, TN; Atlanta and Savannah, GA. Through their own MySpace hustling, they also got a Nashville show with Kathy Louvin, daughter of one of their idols, Ira Louvin.
And then, I'm embarrassed to admit, I sort of forgot all about it. I got them all their show specs and tried to help their publicist get the press info she needed, but then it sort of dropped off my radar. Until I got an email from Josh, sent on Tuesday morning, saying that they were going to drive in from Chicago that night and could I suggest someplace for them to park their mobile lodgings (which I assumed to be a van, but which turned out to be a Jetta wagon with a homespun plywood bunk across the way-back). Since I didn't get that email until 10pm Tuesday night, they were left to their own midwestern devices, which led them to the Elvis Presley RV park, within spitting distance of Graceland. (Listen as the Memphis locals release a sigh of pity/gasp of fear as they picture two country singers in a VW station wagon, sleeping innocently behind a used car lot on EP Blvd.) Thankfully, they survived the night and were up and at 'em on Wednesday in time for their live appearance on Bashful Bob's "Sho' Nuff Country" show on WEVL.
And now, a brief moment to express how much I love Bashful Bob. Oh, how I love him. Ahem. Anyway, the on-air went fabulously (I listened to it online, another modern wonder) and they gamely followed my instructions to lunch at Gus's Fried Chicken. After a mandatory tour of Sun Studio, they headed to the P&H to check out the bar and enjoy their free wi-fi. When I and the rest of the crowd started arriving around 7:45, the boys were showered, shaved and dressed in their customary suits. It soon became clear that this wasn't going to be a typical night at the P&H, not just because the musicians weren't wearing faded Big Star t-shirts but because the median age was about 62. Turns out, there was a large contingent from Arkansas sitting right up next to the stage who had caught the boys on Midwest Country, a Minnesota-produced Opry-style show that airs on this obscure satellite channel called RFD. Apparently Bashful Bob had seen that appearance as well, and it was part of the reason he'd come all the way up from Tupelo to have the guys on his show. Bob and his Mississippi crew were anchoring another table near the bar.
Between those two groups, the Get Up Johns had a faithful following all night long, but they also grabbed the attention of the hipsters slouching in the booths. The show was fantastic, with Josh and Jake proving that the seamless harmonies and adroit picking heard on their CD is not some sort of production trick. These boys can really play. Even Stacey and RJA, not generally considered the biggest country fans in Memphis, had to admit that they sounded really good. It was a great evening, and it was in large part due to the wonders of MySpace, streaming radio, and Dish TV. And a whole bunch of songs written when my grandparents were in elementary school.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Baby, It's You
Parenting is full of surprises. Just three years in and I've already become deeply familiar with that fact. Pretty much everything that happens from bedtime to bedtime is an unknown. (I was going to say from wake-up to bedtime, but that leaves out the night hours that can bring anything from bad dreams to bed-wetting to unconscious shouts of "Give me my cookie!")
So when there's a chance to make things just a little less astonishing, I'm happy to take advantage. This is why I'm all for learning the baby's gender as soon as possible. During our first pregnancy, however, The Admiral disagreed. He wanted the big, cinematic "It's a ..." moment. And so, being the ever-courteous wife that I am, I acquiesced to his wishes. He didn't find out.
But I did.
As I've told anyone willing to stand still for 18 seconds, we had the sonographer write down the baby's gender and put it in an envelope. And then the envelope went away. The Admiral not only didn't know what was in it, he didn't know if I'd even opened it. We were afraid that if he knew that I knew, I'd be subject to intense scrutiny every time I picked up a Hanna Andersson catalog. So I kept both secrets for over four months (not counting that one tiny little slip-up in front of Stacey and Kristy).
And that was ... hard. Even for a stoic specimen like myself, keeping that information to myself was a challenge. And it wasn't just about keeping a secret; I had to keep up an act, lobbying equally hard for my picks on both genders' names, keeping every new nursery item completely gender-neutral, and continuing my vehement argument against circumcision even though I knew it was pointless. Because I knew we were having a girl. If I even doubted it, the exclamation point on the sonographer's note removed all question. My daughter was on her way.
So now, halfway though my second pregnancy, the question rose again. Would we find out or wouldn't we? I actually hesitated at first, thinking that maybe it would be fun to try it the other way, to have the big suspenseful moment after delivery. But then I thought ... naaah. The suspense is just as good in that little dark room with the goop all over my belly. The Admiral, however, still wasn't convinced. While willing, as always, to respect his wishes, I did mention what a challenge it was to keep quiet for 20 weeks. And how much easier it would be if we could plan out things like room arrangements, wardrobe needs, etc. And how nice it would be to prepare Miss M for the exact sibling she'd be getting, instead of constantly saying "little brother or sister" (especially since she'd been convinced from the start that I was having a girl). And about 17 other logical reasons why it really would make more sense for us both to find out.
Up until the day of the ultrasound, he still hadn't decided what to do, but at some point between the exam room and the sonogram suite, he went with Find Out. Thanks to a scheduling snafu, Miss M was actually in attendance as well, so we were looking forward to all finding out together, which was an unlikely scenario at the actual delivery.
Those of you who have ever spent ten minutes with a three-year-old, and my three-year-old in particular, can already see where this is heading. Miss M got bored after about 15 minutes of staring at barely recognizable body parts on a black and white screen. The Admiral did the best he could to entertain - and ultimately restrain - her, but there was just no getting around it. We could keep her locked in there and let the sonographer try to complete a fetal survey over the screams of "I want to play OUTSIDE!" or he could take her out and let the scan finish in peace. He bowed out gracefully and sacrificed The Moment for the greater good.
The sweet little sonographer held out as long as she could, hoping they'd be able to return, but I'd already snuck into a latecomer's appointment time and she couldn't wait any longer. She stopped measuring the skull and diaphragm and kidneys and went right for the up-kilt shot. She asked if Miss M had a feeling about what it was, and I said she was sure it was a girl. "Well," she said, "sometimes children have a good sense about these things." My eyebrows lodged an inch above their natural position as I waited for confirmation. "But this time she's wrong. See?"
And I did. There he was. My boy.
I didn't realize until that second how much I'd been hoping for a son. I'd always admitted to wanting a boy, mostly because of my lifelong fear of adolescent girls, but during this pregnancy, I'd gotten comfortable with the idea of having two daughters (i.e., I had and currently have no plans to be pregnant again). I love the heck out of Miss M, and having her got me way past the idea that gender would have any influence on how I felt about the next child. But still ... a boy. My boy. I felt like I'd just met someone I'd been waiting my whole life to meet. I wondered how I was going to get the ridiculous grin off my face before I got back to The Admiral, but when I saw how disappointed he was to miss the big reveal, and how demonic Miss M was acting, we decided to just stay mum about it until a more family-friendly moment.
Fortunately, I only had to hold it in for three hours instead of four months. When I got home from work, I showed The Admiral the take-home pictures from the ultrasound, including a very immodest shot labeled "It's a boy!" as if there could possibly be a doubt. And then I got to gloat about my amazing psychic powers, the ones that have enabled me to dream the correct gender of my babies twice in a row. The Admiral took the news in stride (especially considering that he was sure it was a girl, based on our 14-week mini-ultrasound), confirming my suspicion that the result wasn't nearly as important to him as the process of finding out.
So now we know, all three of us. The Admiral is a little nervous, because it feels even more like starting all over. Miss M, of course, still insists she's waiting on a little sister. And me, I'm just happy to be able to utter pronouns out loud. I'm all for surprises, but when it comes to the human growing inside my body, I feel that I'm entitled to any advance information I can get.
So when there's a chance to make things just a little less astonishing, I'm happy to take advantage. This is why I'm all for learning the baby's gender as soon as possible. During our first pregnancy, however, The Admiral disagreed. He wanted the big, cinematic "It's a ..." moment. And so, being the ever-courteous wife that I am, I acquiesced to his wishes. He didn't find out.
But I did.
As I've told anyone willing to stand still for 18 seconds, we had the sonographer write down the baby's gender and put it in an envelope. And then the envelope went away. The Admiral not only didn't know what was in it, he didn't know if I'd even opened it. We were afraid that if he knew that I knew, I'd be subject to intense scrutiny every time I picked up a Hanna Andersson catalog. So I kept both secrets for over four months (not counting that one tiny little slip-up in front of Stacey and Kristy).
And that was ... hard. Even for a stoic specimen like myself, keeping that information to myself was a challenge. And it wasn't just about keeping a secret; I had to keep up an act, lobbying equally hard for my picks on both genders' names, keeping every new nursery item completely gender-neutral, and continuing my vehement argument against circumcision even though I knew it was pointless. Because I knew we were having a girl. If I even doubted it, the exclamation point on the sonographer's note removed all question. My daughter was on her way.
So now, halfway though my second pregnancy, the question rose again. Would we find out or wouldn't we? I actually hesitated at first, thinking that maybe it would be fun to try it the other way, to have the big suspenseful moment after delivery. But then I thought ... naaah. The suspense is just as good in that little dark room with the goop all over my belly. The Admiral, however, still wasn't convinced. While willing, as always, to respect his wishes, I did mention what a challenge it was to keep quiet for 20 weeks. And how much easier it would be if we could plan out things like room arrangements, wardrobe needs, etc. And how nice it would be to prepare Miss M for the exact sibling she'd be getting, instead of constantly saying "little brother or sister" (especially since she'd been convinced from the start that I was having a girl). And about 17 other logical reasons why it really would make more sense for us both to find out.
Up until the day of the ultrasound, he still hadn't decided what to do, but at some point between the exam room and the sonogram suite, he went with Find Out. Thanks to a scheduling snafu, Miss M was actually in attendance as well, so we were looking forward to all finding out together, which was an unlikely scenario at the actual delivery.
Those of you who have ever spent ten minutes with a three-year-old, and my three-year-old in particular, can already see where this is heading. Miss M got bored after about 15 minutes of staring at barely recognizable body parts on a black and white screen. The Admiral did the best he could to entertain - and ultimately restrain - her, but there was just no getting around it. We could keep her locked in there and let the sonographer try to complete a fetal survey over the screams of "I want to play OUTSIDE!" or he could take her out and let the scan finish in peace. He bowed out gracefully and sacrificed The Moment for the greater good.
The sweet little sonographer held out as long as she could, hoping they'd be able to return, but I'd already snuck into a latecomer's appointment time and she couldn't wait any longer. She stopped measuring the skull and diaphragm and kidneys and went right for the up-kilt shot. She asked if Miss M had a feeling about what it was, and I said she was sure it was a girl. "Well," she said, "sometimes children have a good sense about these things." My eyebrows lodged an inch above their natural position as I waited for confirmation. "But this time she's wrong. See?"
And I did. There he was. My boy.
I didn't realize until that second how much I'd been hoping for a son. I'd always admitted to wanting a boy, mostly because of my lifelong fear of adolescent girls, but during this pregnancy, I'd gotten comfortable with the idea of having two daughters (i.e., I had and currently have no plans to be pregnant again). I love the heck out of Miss M, and having her got me way past the idea that gender would have any influence on how I felt about the next child. But still ... a boy. My boy. I felt like I'd just met someone I'd been waiting my whole life to meet. I wondered how I was going to get the ridiculous grin off my face before I got back to The Admiral, but when I saw how disappointed he was to miss the big reveal, and how demonic Miss M was acting, we decided to just stay mum about it until a more family-friendly moment.
Fortunately, I only had to hold it in for three hours instead of four months. When I got home from work, I showed The Admiral the take-home pictures from the ultrasound, including a very immodest shot labeled "It's a boy!" as if there could possibly be a doubt. And then I got to gloat about my amazing psychic powers, the ones that have enabled me to dream the correct gender of my babies twice in a row. The Admiral took the news in stride (especially considering that he was sure it was a girl, based on our 14-week mini-ultrasound), confirming my suspicion that the result wasn't nearly as important to him as the process of finding out.
So now we know, all three of us. The Admiral is a little nervous, because it feels even more like starting all over. Miss M, of course, still insists she's waiting on a little sister. And me, I'm just happy to be able to utter pronouns out loud. I'm all for surprises, but when it comes to the human growing inside my body, I feel that I'm entitled to any advance information I can get.
Friday, January 12, 2007
True Confessions
I don't know if guilt is hereditary, but Miss M seems to be channeling the previous generations of Mormon and Catholic repentance. The last thing she does before falling asleep at night, after the two books and one story and two songs, after the lights go off and her mother growls "Lie down, be still, close your eyes" for the 48th time, she confesses something. She goes through her mental summary of the day and finds something that she needs to apologize for. Last night, it was a fairly recent one: "Mama, I'm sorry for knocking over all the books" (which she'd done by kicking them off her nightstand about ten minutes earlier). The night before last, she went further back into the day and recalled an unfortunate potty-related incident that I never held her accountable for in the first place: "Mama, I'm sorry I fell in the toilet." Then she asks the most important question in her world: "Are you my best friend?" Mama stops growling after that.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Drink The Water, Drink It Down
I was trying to come up with something agenty to talk about, since I've been discussing much more family stuff than work stuff lately, but after the appointment with my midwives this morning, I'm having a hard time thinking about anything but the sweet potato in my belly. I wasn't really thinking of it as a sweet potato until I got my weekly BabyCenter email, which always describes the growing baby in terms of something edible. Which is sort of weird, really. Isn't there another comparison we could be using? Like: this week your baby is the size of a Bose speaker, next month it will be the size of a medium Mag-Lite flashlight. Or better yet, using something living. Month Four: fruit bat, Month Five: Cloud Forest Pygmy Owl.
The appointment went well, with me demonstrating ideal blood pressure and textbook weight gain. I was feeling like the perfect little patient, and reliving my high school days of people-pleasing geekdom, until they pointed out that my water intake is abysmal. I'm not sure exactly what "specific gravity" measures and why my pee would have anything to do with quantum physics, but apparently mine measured off the charts. Which means I'm only slightly more hydrated than, say, an actual Mag-Lite. I knew they'd get me on that; I've never been much of a water drinker. Or an anything drinker, really. I generally find fluids to be an inconvenience, what with their leaving rings on the coffee table, taking up armrest space at the movies and making my uncles act ridiculous on major holidays. But I read the handout, and I realize that I'm in the process of growing a human being who, for the next 22 weeks, will be living in its own personal waterworld. It's just always been easier for me to abstain from something fun than to push myself into something that's not even all that unpleasant. I've got no problem dropping alcohol and caffeine, but come on, let's not expect me to drink water or eat an orange. I'm not a robot!
But I may, however, be a flashlight.
The appointment went well, with me demonstrating ideal blood pressure and textbook weight gain. I was feeling like the perfect little patient, and reliving my high school days of people-pleasing geekdom, until they pointed out that my water intake is abysmal. I'm not sure exactly what "specific gravity" measures and why my pee would have anything to do with quantum physics, but apparently mine measured off the charts. Which means I'm only slightly more hydrated than, say, an actual Mag-Lite. I knew they'd get me on that; I've never been much of a water drinker. Or an anything drinker, really. I generally find fluids to be an inconvenience, what with their leaving rings on the coffee table, taking up armrest space at the movies and making my uncles act ridiculous on major holidays. But I read the handout, and I realize that I'm in the process of growing a human being who, for the next 22 weeks, will be living in its own personal waterworld. It's just always been easier for me to abstain from something fun than to push myself into something that's not even all that unpleasant. I've got no problem dropping alcohol and caffeine, but come on, let's not expect me to drink water or eat an orange. I'm not a robot!
But I may, however, be a flashlight.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Father, Hear Me If You Can
I talked to my dad the other night, which is a fairly infrequent occurrence. Despite weekly calls to or from the homeland, my parental contact is usually with my mom. She's the news anchor, on-call counselor and human resources manager of the family. Much like my sister, Mom knows what's going on with everyone, or knows the secret ways to find out what she doesn't. My mom and sister, they're The Talkers.
But Dad and I, we work differently. There's no need to drag my mom onto Springer for a paternity test, because I'm a blondish clone of the big guy. Not just the melon of a skull he gave me, but what clunks around inside of it, too. If we didn't have these women to draw us out, we'd probably sit quietly for days. In fact, we got a good start on that when we took a 7-hour drive together and passed perhaps 23 words the entire time. It sounds awkward and painfully boring, but it was really quite pleasant. We operate on a similar wavelength and we know that silence doesn't have to be uncomfortable.
Of course, I was probably uncomfortable during that Christmas tree hunt when I used all the strength in my 18" legs to keep up with Dad's pace in the knee-high (to me, anyway) snow. At some point, I stepped right out of my boots, but I kept trudging along in my socks, not saying a word about it. When my dad realized what happened, he just smiled, picked me up, and followed our tracks back to my abandoned footgear.
That's us. That's who we are. Blame our Nordic heritage or our Midwestern upbringing or our impossibly youthful skin (okay, that's not really relevant, but I feel bad about calling out our melonheads), but we're quiet people. That's why it's been so unsettling to have my fortress of reserve fired upon by a teeny sniper in footie pajamas. I wasn't prepared for the way having an outgoing, highly reactive child would expose my own emotions. When we spend any length of time together (i.e., daily), I feel like my chest has been sandpapered open, leaving every fear, hope, sorrow, joy and insecurity visible to the world. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and cover myself with a chainmail quilt. But I can't. I have to stand up straight, take her hand, and carefully explain, for the fourteenth time, why she doesn't get to pick up the cat by the ears even though she "really, really loves to."
I don't begrudge Miss M her feelings, and I often envy how quickly and easily she can get over her injuries and resentments. Frankly, I'd probably be a much healthier person if I could admit when my feelings are hurt as freely as she does, although I hope I'd do it more tactfully than by yelling, "You're not my best friend anymore!" But I have to admit that part of me is hoping that this next child will bear at least a few of the Norse genes. It would be a nice break to have as effortless a relationship as my father and I have, to understand each other without having to parse every detail. Just the lower noise level would be a pleasant change. It's not an anti-social wish that Baby Dos won't want to talk to me. It's just a quiet hope that s/he may not always have to.
*Footnote/Contradictory anecdote: for the entire run of the series Northern Exposure, my father and I would dance to the theme song. Not some dignified two-step or anything, but this crazy, spazzy, freeform interpretive dance that often left my mother afraid that we were going to knock down the entire home-made entertainment center. As soon as the drums started up and the moose began wandering the streets of Cicely, we were on our feet. Which, considering all that stuff above, is bizarre enough, but ponder for a moment that I was also in my mid-teens. It was our weekly release from the restraints of Norseness and the all-encompassing indifference of adolescence. No one else was invited to dance with us, because no one else could have understood.
But Dad and I, we work differently. There's no need to drag my mom onto Springer for a paternity test, because I'm a blondish clone of the big guy. Not just the melon of a skull he gave me, but what clunks around inside of it, too. If we didn't have these women to draw us out, we'd probably sit quietly for days. In fact, we got a good start on that when we took a 7-hour drive together and passed perhaps 23 words the entire time. It sounds awkward and painfully boring, but it was really quite pleasant. We operate on a similar wavelength and we know that silence doesn't have to be uncomfortable.
Of course, I was probably uncomfortable during that Christmas tree hunt when I used all the strength in my 18" legs to keep up with Dad's pace in the knee-high (to me, anyway) snow. At some point, I stepped right out of my boots, but I kept trudging along in my socks, not saying a word about it. When my dad realized what happened, he just smiled, picked me up, and followed our tracks back to my abandoned footgear.
That's us. That's who we are. Blame our Nordic heritage or our Midwestern upbringing or our impossibly youthful skin (okay, that's not really relevant, but I feel bad about calling out our melonheads), but we're quiet people. That's why it's been so unsettling to have my fortress of reserve fired upon by a teeny sniper in footie pajamas. I wasn't prepared for the way having an outgoing, highly reactive child would expose my own emotions. When we spend any length of time together (i.e., daily), I feel like my chest has been sandpapered open, leaving every fear, hope, sorrow, joy and insecurity visible to the world. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and cover myself with a chainmail quilt. But I can't. I have to stand up straight, take her hand, and carefully explain, for the fourteenth time, why she doesn't get to pick up the cat by the ears even though she "really, really loves to."
I don't begrudge Miss M her feelings, and I often envy how quickly and easily she can get over her injuries and resentments. Frankly, I'd probably be a much healthier person if I could admit when my feelings are hurt as freely as she does, although I hope I'd do it more tactfully than by yelling, "You're not my best friend anymore!" But I have to admit that part of me is hoping that this next child will bear at least a few of the Norse genes. It would be a nice break to have as effortless a relationship as my father and I have, to understand each other without having to parse every detail. Just the lower noise level would be a pleasant change. It's not an anti-social wish that Baby Dos won't want to talk to me. It's just a quiet hope that s/he may not always have to.
*Footnote/Contradictory anecdote: for the entire run of the series Northern Exposure, my father and I would dance to the theme song. Not some dignified two-step or anything, but this crazy, spazzy, freeform interpretive dance that often left my mother afraid that we were going to knock down the entire home-made entertainment center. As soon as the drums started up and the moose began wandering the streets of Cicely, we were on our feet. Which, considering all that stuff above, is bizarre enough, but ponder for a moment that I was also in my mid-teens. It was our weekly release from the restraints of Norseness and the all-encompassing indifference of adolescence. No one else was invited to dance with us, because no one else could have understood.
Monday, January 01, 2007
When The Bells All Ring And The Horns All Blow
I admit to being sentimental, but I'm not much of a traditionalist. If someone else is going to the bother of doing the same thing year after year, I'm happy to participate. Especially if it's not too much of a hassle. If, say, a 7-foot Balsam fir were to magically appear in my living room and all of the carefully wrapped ornaments were to unpack themselves, then sure, I'd be all over decorating the Christmas tree. But as it is, the nuisance of maintaining traditions generally overpowers my desire for consistency. Hence the 2-foot fake tree aglow in our living room right now.
That's why it's all the more surprising that, come each January 1st, I freely and enthusiastically invite everyone in our address book to come over and spend the first day of the year in our home, nursing their hangovers on a non-stop conveyor belt of homemade food. It's not even my tradition to perpetuate - The Admiral's been hosting New Year's Day feasts since his college dorm days - but it's one I've gotten very attached to. In the past, I've usually spent the day chasing down dirty dishes, refilling wine glasses, and keeping the CD player spinning. But this year, I fired up the iPod playlist and spent all that extra non-dj-ing time breaking into the sacred realm of the kitchen. I stuck with my old stand-bys like sundried tomato-and-artichoke dip, plus the perpetually crowd-pleasing gouda ball. But then I also decided to branch out and try one of our traditional family recipes for the very first time. And, well, that was an error. I so wanted the stromboli to work out, since it's one of my favorites from my own childhood holidays, but it just didn't quite come together. Literally. The damn things exploded on me, and I panicked and took them out before the bread dough was fully cooked and ended up serving our guests some pretty sad, gooey versions of my mother's prize recipe.
But oh well. I think the artichoke dip and gouda ball and parmesan toast and crab dip and black-eyed pea soup and clams and beef tenderloin and homemade ice cream made up for it. And even if they didn't, the edibles are just accessories. The real point of the day is to pull all these people together, all the friends who have shared the last year with us and with whom we plan to spend many days to come, and to show them, in our own quiet Midwestern food-forcing way, how much they mean to us. It's a chance for us (okay, me) to come out of our shells a teence and show appreciation for the support and kindness that have been shown to us all year long. It's an excuse for me to hug my friends. So even with the undercooked stromboli and the mid-party conversion from iPod audio to a kid-friendly movie selection, it was still a roaring success, because every person in our house was someone we love. And hopefully, they all left knowing that. Or at least feeling very, very full. Which, to my people, is the same thing.
That's why it's all the more surprising that, come each January 1st, I freely and enthusiastically invite everyone in our address book to come over and spend the first day of the year in our home, nursing their hangovers on a non-stop conveyor belt of homemade food. It's not even my tradition to perpetuate - The Admiral's been hosting New Year's Day feasts since his college dorm days - but it's one I've gotten very attached to. In the past, I've usually spent the day chasing down dirty dishes, refilling wine glasses, and keeping the CD player spinning. But this year, I fired up the iPod playlist and spent all that extra non-dj-ing time breaking into the sacred realm of the kitchen. I stuck with my old stand-bys like sundried tomato-and-artichoke dip, plus the perpetually crowd-pleasing gouda ball. But then I also decided to branch out and try one of our traditional family recipes for the very first time. And, well, that was an error. I so wanted the stromboli to work out, since it's one of my favorites from my own childhood holidays, but it just didn't quite come together. Literally. The damn things exploded on me, and I panicked and took them out before the bread dough was fully cooked and ended up serving our guests some pretty sad, gooey versions of my mother's prize recipe.
But oh well. I think the artichoke dip and gouda ball and parmesan toast and crab dip and black-eyed pea soup and clams and beef tenderloin and homemade ice cream made up for it. And even if they didn't, the edibles are just accessories. The real point of the day is to pull all these people together, all the friends who have shared the last year with us and with whom we plan to spend many days to come, and to show them, in our own quiet Midwestern food-forcing way, how much they mean to us. It's a chance for us (okay, me) to come out of our shells a teence and show appreciation for the support and kindness that have been shown to us all year long. It's an excuse for me to hug my friends. So even with the undercooked stromboli and the mid-party conversion from iPod audio to a kid-friendly movie selection, it was still a roaring success, because every person in our house was someone we love. And hopefully, they all left knowing that. Or at least feeling very, very full. Which, to my people, is the same thing.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
I Met A Man Who Lives In Tennessee
It's a long time, 13 hours. In a plane, we'd be in Australia by now. But in an overloaded Mitsubishi, containing a barely potty-trained pre-schooler, you can only get to central Michigan. The trip actually went as well as anyone could dare hope. Miss M went through her Bag O' New-Car-Approved Entertainment Devices pretty quickly, but stayed in pretty good spirits throughout the day. I have to thank the good people of Crayola for the truly wonderful Color Wonder collection of mysteriously appearing paint and marker products. I have no idea what sort of chemical magic makes those things work, but they kept M happy and the upholstery mess-free for much longer than any other art product could have done. My best investment, however, was the $2.89 pair of Fiskars for Kids and a $1.59 pad of construction paper. The scissors were sort of like pinking shears, and M spent hours carefully cutting tiny little lettuce-edged squares. I almost sprained something patting myself on the back for that one.
Other highlights of the trip included the vast and astounding array of trailer home Christmas decorating, the completely childish amusement caused by passing Big Bone Lick State Park, and the strangely satisfying sight of Beef Jerky Unlimited. Other than the concept of a full day drive itself, the only real lowlight was the unexpected return of my pregnancy sciatica, which struck about 15 minutes before we got in the car. I had a deep, throbbing pain from hip to knee and spent the entire drive trying to find a position that would allow me to sit without actually using my butt.
We're now at the Admiral's dad's farm, where Miss M is finding entertainment in the horses, tractors and seemingly endless supply of flashlights. We've been eating an unmentionable number of locally produced hot dogs and homemade chocolate malts, although I'm still crediting the fetus for that rapidly growing bump at my waistline. We'll be here tonight and will be expecting Santa's visit before morning, although we hear that he'll also be making at stop at Grammy's house, so we'll be heading that way sometime tomorrow afternoon. It's the first year that M is cognizant of the whole holiday, and on top of the usefulness of the Mighty Santa Threat, it's a pretty joyful thing to see her getting into the spirit. And of course, in her world, the spirit of Christmas means behaving just well enough that all her stuff doesn't get taken away. Which I guess is a start. She's got plenty of time to figure out the whole peace, hope and charity thing. Like the 13 hours it'll take to get home.
Other highlights of the trip included the vast and astounding array of trailer home Christmas decorating, the completely childish amusement caused by passing Big Bone Lick State Park, and the strangely satisfying sight of Beef Jerky Unlimited. Other than the concept of a full day drive itself, the only real lowlight was the unexpected return of my pregnancy sciatica, which struck about 15 minutes before we got in the car. I had a deep, throbbing pain from hip to knee and spent the entire drive trying to find a position that would allow me to sit without actually using my butt.
We're now at the Admiral's dad's farm, where Miss M is finding entertainment in the horses, tractors and seemingly endless supply of flashlights. We've been eating an unmentionable number of locally produced hot dogs and homemade chocolate malts, although I'm still crediting the fetus for that rapidly growing bump at my waistline. We'll be here tonight and will be expecting Santa's visit before morning, although we hear that he'll also be making at stop at Grammy's house, so we'll be heading that way sometime tomorrow afternoon. It's the first year that M is cognizant of the whole holiday, and on top of the usefulness of the Mighty Santa Threat, it's a pretty joyful thing to see her getting into the spirit. And of course, in her world, the spirit of Christmas means behaving just well enough that all her stuff doesn't get taken away. Which I guess is a start. She's got plenty of time to figure out the whole peace, hope and charity thing. Like the 13 hours it'll take to get home.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
What A Jagged Little Pill
Hey, look, I have a blog! It was hard to remember that over the screeching, pulsing pain in my sinuses, let alone conjure an original thought worth posting to such a site. The entire SAM household has been felled by one type of crud or the other, with The Admiral and I both succumbing to matching sinus infections. As further proof of the gender disparity of childrearing, my prescription was for antibiotics and a saline sinus rinse. The Admiral's little paper, from the very same doctor, included instructions for antibiotics ... and codeine! With refills! So I'm standing over the sink shooting saltwater and baking soda up my nose and he's off in Narcoticsville, the seat of Happy County. It is all so very, very unfair.
I resisted taking the antibiotics, because I'm not a big fan of mutating superviruses, but after spending three days feeling like my head was in labor, I finally gave in to the magic bacteria-eaters. My midwives did give me some other options, and I'm sure they were very valid, but I didn't have any of the needed oils or balms in the house, and the idea of trekking out to get them with my eyeball threatening imminent explosion just wasn't so feasible. So I'm on the Omnicef, which is making me feel throw-uppy, and I still haven't quite shaken the congestion, so just when I was about to revel in entering the second trimester, I'm back to feeling like it's my 7th week of pregnancy.
I resisted taking the antibiotics, because I'm not a big fan of mutating superviruses, but after spending three days feeling like my head was in labor, I finally gave in to the magic bacteria-eaters. My midwives did give me some other options, and I'm sure they were very valid, but I didn't have any of the needed oils or balms in the house, and the idea of trekking out to get them with my eyeball threatening imminent explosion just wasn't so feasible. So I'm on the Omnicef, which is making me feel throw-uppy, and I still haven't quite shaken the congestion, so just when I was about to revel in entering the second trimester, I'm back to feeling like it's my 7th week of pregnancy.
Monday, December 04, 2006
The Little Things You Haven't Got Could Be A Lot If You Pretend
Something about PTA meetings always makes me feel like I'm in a surreal netherworld. Okay, technically they're MPA, or Montessori Parent Association, meetings, so we're just talking about appropriate snacks and lost jackets rather than debating the cost of a new metal detector, but I still don't quite feel like I belong. It's not that I don't feel old enough, because I'm four months pregnant with a raging head cold and a daily average of 4 hours of sleep. I can't recall ever feeling older. It's more about not feeling parent-y enough, like at any moment someone's going to demand my credentials and politely but firmly declare that having one tiny little 3-year-old barely qualifies me to assume the title of Mother.
Tonight's meeting was about the upcoming holiday program. It's officially called the "holiday" program on all written material, but they're not fooling anyone. It's a Christmas program. There are angels and donkeys and a big visit from Santa. My cherubic blond, blue-eyed daughter is, of course, a donkey. Or at least that's what I'll be telling myself as I go out to buy her required white dress (wings are provided by the school). I was initially kind of squicked out about the amount of Christmasness being espoused by our non-denominational choice of pre-school. But I'm comfortable with the fact that they talk about a lot of cultural and religious traditions, and to the best of my knowledge, don't seem to officially sanction any one philosophy (other than the mighty cult of Dr. Maria). No, upon further reflection, what bothered me was the fact that my daughter was getting the bulk of her Christmas education from her well-meaning, well-rounded instructors and not her supposedly Christian mother. I couldn't even get her to understand what the Advent calendar was for, other than beating the top of the piano.
Hopefully I get some maternal points for taking notes, staying alert despite weepy eyes and fused sinuses, and even mentioning that we failed to receive our school picture proofs. If I'm going to feel like I'm faking it at these things, I may as well try to be convincing.
Tonight's meeting was about the upcoming holiday program. It's officially called the "holiday" program on all written material, but they're not fooling anyone. It's a Christmas program. There are angels and donkeys and a big visit from Santa. My cherubic blond, blue-eyed daughter is, of course, a donkey. Or at least that's what I'll be telling myself as I go out to buy her required white dress (wings are provided by the school). I was initially kind of squicked out about the amount of Christmasness being espoused by our non-denominational choice of pre-school. But I'm comfortable with the fact that they talk about a lot of cultural and religious traditions, and to the best of my knowledge, don't seem to officially sanction any one philosophy (other than the mighty cult of Dr. Maria). No, upon further reflection, what bothered me was the fact that my daughter was getting the bulk of her Christmas education from her well-meaning, well-rounded instructors and not her supposedly Christian mother. I couldn't even get her to understand what the Advent calendar was for, other than beating the top of the piano.
Hopefully I get some maternal points for taking notes, staying alert despite weepy eyes and fused sinuses, and even mentioning that we failed to receive our school picture proofs. If I'm going to feel like I'm faking it at these things, I may as well try to be convincing.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Counting The Ways To Where You Are (100 Things)
I'm trying to get over my inner blog hurdles by revealing more personal (yet totally cyber-safe) info about myself, so I figure the quickest way to do that is by creating my own "100 Things About SAM" list, now conveniently repackaged in one long, easily linkable list. So here we go ...
(Last update: Nov. 28, 2008)
1. I can't fold towels.
2. I'm allergic to Band-Aids.
3. I'd gamble more if I'd ever won anything ever.
4. My parents went to four proms together.
5. I've been baptized. Twice.
6. My favorite apple is Braeburn.
7. I've never been the driver in a car accident.
8. Bumping a parked car in a rental Sebring doesn't count, right?
9. I own every Prince album released between 1976-2001.
10. I have just about given up trying to be cool.
11. I'm slowly working through my avoidance of wearing black.
12. I'm not really sure how tall I am.
13. My 13th birthday was on Friday the 13th.
14. I've been to 25 states.
15. Newt Gingrich quoted me on the floor of Congress. And no, I couldn't stop him.
16. I like my mom.
17. I look like my dad. (And I like him, too.)
18. My childhood/lingering family nickname is Geegan.
19. I'm a great driver and a terrible parker.
20. I have a birthmark.
21. I grew up (in the 1980s) thinking The Supremes and The Temptations were contemporary groups.
22. I'm even less likely to make eye contact if I'm talking about myself.
23. I have learned and forgotten how to knit.
24. I have unusually small hands and peculiarly large pupils.
25. My favorite Christmas carol is "O Holy Night."
26. I know how to shuffle off to Buffalo.
27. I got drunk three times during my 20s.
28. I was my first grade class's student council representative and hated every minute of it.
29. The first movie I saw without a supervising parent was Footloose.
30. I'm uncomfortable starting this many sentences with "I."
31. My face doesn't sweat.
32. I got into 4 of the 5 colleges to which I applied. Stupid Pomona.
33. I've been admitted to the hospital twice: to be born and to have a baby.
34. I didn't start wearing pigtails until I was over 25.
35. I physically recoil from playing charades and most demonstrative group games.
36. Most of the DVDs I own are unopened.
37. It's safe to assume that my belt matches my shoes, my earrings match my buttons, and my bra matches my underwear.
38. My best dish is lasagna.
39. I wasn't a very good roommate.
40. My feet are always cold.
41. I never had an imaginary friend, unless you count Rick Springfield.
42. My two biggest fears are knives and fire.
43. I don't like cooking (see above).
44. I have two chicken pox scars on my face because I just wouldn't stop scratching (sorry, mom).
45. I get strangely depressed by the ocean but have a growing tolerance for the beach.
46. I gave birth without any pain medication. Twice. Once in my house.
47. I have a hard time making phone calls.
48. My senior prom dress cost less than $4.
49. My ACT score qualifies me for MENSA.
50. I took linguistics to get out of my college math requirement.
51. I dated my linguistics study partner for a year.
52. My favorite flower is lily of the valley.
53. I can draw just well enough to wish I could really draw well.
54. I went to three elementary schools in three states.
55. I write and bat left-handed; I throw and bowl right-handed.
56. I absolutely, positively cannot read in a moving car without getting ill.
57. Starting in 8th grade, I've gone through several cycles of severe anxiety attacks.
58. I'm better at leaving churches than attending them.
59. I regret that I don't write letters anymore.
60. I can't eat anything that has been in the vicinity of a bell pepper.
61. I have unplugged the toaster after every use ever since seeing The Bourne Identity.
62. I've climbed to a peak in the Rockies.
63. My 10th grade English teacher set me up with my first kiss.
64. I can recite the entire roll call of my 4th grade class by memory. (Baressi, Bohlander, Brown, Casper, Chou ...)
65. I'm a super-taster.
66. I don't buy anything that's dry clean only.
67. I'm embarrassed by my girly fixation with purses and shoes.
68. I was one of the best singers in my high school's worst choir.
69. I have a dirtier mind than anyone suspects.
70. If I won the lottery, I would have homes in Manhattan, Tuscany, and Summit Avenue in St. Paul.
71. I'm near-sighted with astigmatism.
72. I'm drawn to body products that smell like baked goods.
73. I didn't care to learn how to ride a bike, but now I ask for one at every holiday.
74. The only bone I've ever broken was my big toe.
75. I'm dying for someone to invite me out dancing.
76. I'm a decent poker player.
77. My first job was at a candy store.
78. I refuse to learn how to golf or play bridge.
79. I will instinctively turn down the first offer for something to drink.
80. I would have a hard time liking anyone who didn't enjoy The Commitments.
81. I'm patient. Usually.
82. I can never go back to packaged pancake mix.
83. I've been stung by a bee inside my mouth.
84. I can't be trusted to take care of real silver.
85. My desert island album is Sign O' The Times (Prince) because it covers the entire spectrum of human experience, from birth to death and getting ready for a hot island date in between.
86. I can't change the channel if Pretty In Pink is on.
87. My inner feminist doesn't like admitting how much I like John Irving's novels.
88. My inner intellectual-rebel pretends to have read more Vonnegut than I really have.
89. My inner 14-year-old will quote The Outsiders at any opportunity.
90. I can't get anyone to teach me to play guitar.
91. I hate practical jokes.
91. I don't use religious figures as swear words.
92. Nail files and all similarly abrasive surfaces make me cringe.
93. I seriously considered majoring in theater.
94. I can't remember the topic of my college honors thesis.
95. Perception of my eye color varies to such a degree that I've had two different shades on my driver's license.
96. Having a child made me more scared of dying than aging.
97. I'm extremely proud of my sister and she probably doesn't know it.
98. I think most people would be surprised by my personal system of beliefs.
99. I'm not good at finishing things.
And we'll now close with the 10 questions made famous on "Inside The Actor's Studio," originally featured on the French series, "Bouillon de Culture," hosted by Bernard Pivot.
1. Q: What is your favorite word?
A: Effervescent.
2. Q: What is your least favorite word?
A: Pus.
3. Q: What turns you on?
A: The mix of competence and humility.
4. Q: What turns you off?
A: Smarm.
5. Q: What is your favorite curse word?
A: F%*&king-a.
6. Q: What sound or noise do you love?
A: Mourning doves.
7. Q: What sound or noise do you hate?
A: An unwatched television droning in another room.
8. Q: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A: Talk show host.
9. Q: What profession would you least like to do?
A: Food service.
10. Q: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?
A: Nice kids.
(Last update: Nov. 28, 2008)
1. I can't fold towels.
2. I'm allergic to Band-Aids.
3. I'd gamble more if I'd ever won anything ever.
4. My parents went to four proms together.
5. I've been baptized. Twice.
6. My favorite apple is Braeburn.
7. I've never been the driver in a car accident.
8. Bumping a parked car in a rental Sebring doesn't count, right?
9. I own every Prince album released between 1976-2001.
10. I have just about given up trying to be cool.
11. I'm slowly working through my avoidance of wearing black.
12. I'm not really sure how tall I am.
13. My 13th birthday was on Friday the 13th.
14. I've been to 25 states.
15. Newt Gingrich quoted me on the floor of Congress. And no, I couldn't stop him.
16. I like my mom.
17. I look like my dad. (And I like him, too.)
18. My childhood/lingering family nickname is Geegan.
19. I'm a great driver and a terrible parker.
20. I have a birthmark.
21. I grew up (in the 1980s) thinking The Supremes and The Temptations were contemporary groups.
22. I'm even less likely to make eye contact if I'm talking about myself.
23. I have learned and forgotten how to knit.
24. I have unusually small hands and peculiarly large pupils.
25. My favorite Christmas carol is "O Holy Night."
26. I know how to shuffle off to Buffalo.
27. I got drunk three times during my 20s.
28. I was my first grade class's student council representative and hated every minute of it.
29. The first movie I saw without a supervising parent was Footloose.
30. I'm uncomfortable starting this many sentences with "I."
31. My face doesn't sweat.
32. I got into 4 of the 5 colleges to which I applied. Stupid Pomona.
33. I've been admitted to the hospital twice: to be born and to have a baby.
34. I didn't start wearing pigtails until I was over 25.
35. I physically recoil from playing charades and most demonstrative group games.
36. Most of the DVDs I own are unopened.
37. It's safe to assume that my belt matches my shoes, my earrings match my buttons, and my bra matches my underwear.
38. My best dish is lasagna.
39. I wasn't a very good roommate.
40. My feet are always cold.
41. I never had an imaginary friend, unless you count Rick Springfield.
42. My two biggest fears are knives and fire.
43. I don't like cooking (see above).
44. I have two chicken pox scars on my face because I just wouldn't stop scratching (sorry, mom).
45. I get strangely depressed by the ocean but have a growing tolerance for the beach.
46. I gave birth without any pain medication. Twice. Once in my house.
47. I have a hard time making phone calls.
48. My senior prom dress cost less than $4.
49. My ACT score qualifies me for MENSA.
50. I took linguistics to get out of my college math requirement.
51. I dated my linguistics study partner for a year.
52. My favorite flower is lily of the valley.
53. I can draw just well enough to wish I could really draw well.
54. I went to three elementary schools in three states.
55. I write and bat left-handed; I throw and bowl right-handed.
56. I absolutely, positively cannot read in a moving car without getting ill.
57. Starting in 8th grade, I've gone through several cycles of severe anxiety attacks.
58. I'm better at leaving churches than attending them.
59. I regret that I don't write letters anymore.
60. I can't eat anything that has been in the vicinity of a bell pepper.
61. I have unplugged the toaster after every use ever since seeing The Bourne Identity.
62. I've climbed to a peak in the Rockies.
63. My 10th grade English teacher set me up with my first kiss.
64. I can recite the entire roll call of my 4th grade class by memory. (Baressi, Bohlander, Brown, Casper, Chou ...)
65. I'm a super-taster.
66. I don't buy anything that's dry clean only.
67. I'm embarrassed by my girly fixation with purses and shoes.
68. I was one of the best singers in my high school's worst choir.
69. I have a dirtier mind than anyone suspects.
70. If I won the lottery, I would have homes in Manhattan, Tuscany, and Summit Avenue in St. Paul.
71. I'm near-sighted with astigmatism.
72. I'm drawn to body products that smell like baked goods.
73. I didn't care to learn how to ride a bike, but now I ask for one at every holiday.
74. The only bone I've ever broken was my big toe.
75. I'm dying for someone to invite me out dancing.
76. I'm a decent poker player.
77. My first job was at a candy store.
78. I refuse to learn how to golf or play bridge.
79. I will instinctively turn down the first offer for something to drink.
80. I would have a hard time liking anyone who didn't enjoy The Commitments.
81. I'm patient. Usually.
82. I can never go back to packaged pancake mix.
83. I've been stung by a bee inside my mouth.
84. I can't be trusted to take care of real silver.
85. My desert island album is Sign O' The Times (Prince) because it covers the entire spectrum of human experience, from birth to death and getting ready for a hot island date in between.
86. I can't change the channel if Pretty In Pink is on.
87. My inner feminist doesn't like admitting how much I like John Irving's novels.
88. My inner intellectual-rebel pretends to have read more Vonnegut than I really have.
89. My inner 14-year-old will quote The Outsiders at any opportunity.
90. I can't get anyone to teach me to play guitar.
91. I hate practical jokes.
91. I don't use religious figures as swear words.
92. Nail files and all similarly abrasive surfaces make me cringe.
93. I seriously considered majoring in theater.
94. I can't remember the topic of my college honors thesis.
95. Perception of my eye color varies to such a degree that I've had two different shades on my driver's license.
96. Having a child made me more scared of dying than aging.
97. I'm extremely proud of my sister and she probably doesn't know it.
98. I think most people would be surprised by my personal system of beliefs.
99. I'm not good at finishing things.
And we'll now close with the 10 questions made famous on "Inside The Actor's Studio," originally featured on the French series, "Bouillon de Culture," hosted by Bernard Pivot.
1. Q: What is your favorite word?
A: Effervescent.
2. Q: What is your least favorite word?
A: Pus.
3. Q: What turns you on?
A: The mix of competence and humility.
4. Q: What turns you off?
A: Smarm.
5. Q: What is your favorite curse word?
A: F%*&king-a.
6. Q: What sound or noise do you love?
A: Mourning doves.
7. Q: What sound or noise do you hate?
A: An unwatched television droning in another room.
8. Q: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
A: Talk show host.
9. Q: What profession would you least like to do?
A: Food service.
10. Q: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?
A: Nice kids.
Friday, November 24, 2006
No Matter How Far Away You Roam
Thirty years in, and I feel like I'm in some sort of holiday limbo. My mom (now better known around these parts as Cha Cha, or on formal days, Grandma Cha Cha) called at about 10am on Thanksgiving, while she and my dad (aka Pops) were on their way to Uncle Pete and Aunt Greg's house. Pete has been the host to my family's Thanksgiving dinners for the last two decades, which makes it as close to a family tradition as our nomadic tribe is likely to accomplish. As I was talking to Cha Cha, I could practically smell the turkey, duck and venison laid out in the dining room, and at least four homemade pies waiting in the wings. Even though it's been at least eight years since I spent Thanksgiving in that room, it's still what I think of when the holiday comes around.
But for those last 8 years, The Admiral and I have been working to make our own holiday tradition. Since there are only two of us (who eat like humans, anyway) we came to settle on a Thanksgiving feast that revolves around that most versatile of foods: cheese. We cook up a gouda ball in the afternoon and finish off the day with Triple Cheese Pesto Pizza. Somewhere in between, we watch the parade, flip through edited-for-TV movies, maybe go for a walk. It's not a bad way to spend a day, but I don't think either one of us feels like it's Official.
Christmas is even more complicated, since we alternate between trips to our native homelands in the north. We decorate the house and crank up the Charlie Brown Christmas DVD, but since we're not actually here on the 25th (but our giant gun-toting housesitter is, you nefarious criminal-type blog-readers!) and most of our gift recipients are out of state, we don't even bother putting up a tree. I rarely shop offline because everything has to get shipped anyway, so I don't even get the cheesy peripheral Christmassyness of the mall scene.
Now, now, I'm not trying to make everyone all sad. We have happy holidays and we enjoy the time together, whether it's just our nuclear family or a multi-generational free-for-all. But now that we have a pre-schooler and another baby on the way, we're starting to feel like it's time to pull our ever-shrinking anchor out of the tundra and nurture the roots we're starting to form down here (mixaphorically speaking). We don't have extended family, but our family itself is starting to extend. Soon there will be four of us, but that doesn't take into account the friends who have taken us into their own families. As I was growing up, we lived 2000 miles from my parents' parents, yet I only have rich, happy memories of holidays spent with our close-knit clan of neighbors and the occasional visiting relative. It's hard to think of giving up time with my parents and sister, even thought it's just a week every other year, but I want my children to grow up feeling like their house is enough, that their family is complete, and that anywhere we're loved is home.
But for those last 8 years, The Admiral and I have been working to make our own holiday tradition. Since there are only two of us (who eat like humans, anyway) we came to settle on a Thanksgiving feast that revolves around that most versatile of foods: cheese. We cook up a gouda ball in the afternoon and finish off the day with Triple Cheese Pesto Pizza. Somewhere in between, we watch the parade, flip through edited-for-TV movies, maybe go for a walk. It's not a bad way to spend a day, but I don't think either one of us feels like it's Official.
Christmas is even more complicated, since we alternate between trips to our native homelands in the north. We decorate the house and crank up the Charlie Brown Christmas DVD, but since we're not actually here on the 25th (but our giant gun-toting housesitter is, you nefarious criminal-type blog-readers!) and most of our gift recipients are out of state, we don't even bother putting up a tree. I rarely shop offline because everything has to get shipped anyway, so I don't even get the cheesy peripheral Christmassyness of the mall scene.
Now, now, I'm not trying to make everyone all sad. We have happy holidays and we enjoy the time together, whether it's just our nuclear family or a multi-generational free-for-all. But now that we have a pre-schooler and another baby on the way, we're starting to feel like it's time to pull our ever-shrinking anchor out of the tundra and nurture the roots we're starting to form down here (mixaphorically speaking). We don't have extended family, but our family itself is starting to extend. Soon there will be four of us, but that doesn't take into account the friends who have taken us into their own families. As I was growing up, we lived 2000 miles from my parents' parents, yet I only have rich, happy memories of holidays spent with our close-knit clan of neighbors and the occasional visiting relative. It's hard to think of giving up time with my parents and sister, even thought it's just a week every other year, but I want my children to grow up feeling like their house is enough, that their family is complete, and that anywhere we're loved is home.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Sometimes You've Got To Get The Joke
Wow. That was ... fun. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Unforgettable.
As I mentioned earlier this week, I signed myself up to participate in The Funniest Mom In America search, a national contest put on by Nick At Nite. Last night was the open auditions for the Memphis area, which apparently expands from Little Rock to Nashville. I can't possibly give a more thorough recap than Stacey, especially since I wasn't taking notes all evening, but what I remember is this: I did it. I got up on a stage, I took a mic, and I did what I could to make a whole bunch of people laugh. Which, fortunately, they did.
I was interviewed beforehand and a producer asked me why I signed up for the contest. I said something along the lines of, "The chance was right there, and I figured that if I didn't take it, I'd lose the right to say it was my lifelong dream." Because, as ignoble and narcissistic as it may be, it has been my dream for a long, long time. It's something I've spent 20 years wanting to do, and something that, given an opportunity, I felt I really could do.
I was totally prepared for the fact that I might be wrong about that. But I had to try.
I don't mean to get so serious and reflective about a comedy bit. It was three minutes of silliness. But it was also one of those moments that other people, people not at all like me, tend to seek out. A moment that could end in tremendous glory (on scale with killing at a Memphis comedy club) or deflating embarrassment. I'm the type of person who usually walks the middle ground, which means avoiding both extremes. I think that's why so many of my friends jumped at the chance to come out last night. They wanted to show support, of course, but I think they also couldn't resist the chance to see me jump so completely out of character. Or, more accurately, to see a side of myself that rarely makes a public appearance.
Thank you a fazillion times to Chip, Shiloh, Kristy, Mike, Mark, Mary and of course Stacey for coming to support me on one of the most adventurous nights of my life. Thank you to Jeff for patiently waiting for me to say it was okay for him to come. Thank you to Stephanie and Richard for wrangling the monkeys so everyone else could be there. Thank you to Steve for the indispensable help in preparing my set. And thank you again to Stacey for telling me about the contest in a way that clearly said, "If you don't do this, you're nuts." I don't know what will happen next (and won't find out until late December), but I'm already grateful for the experience.
As I mentioned earlier this week, I signed myself up to participate in The Funniest Mom In America search, a national contest put on by Nick At Nite. Last night was the open auditions for the Memphis area, which apparently expands from Little Rock to Nashville. I can't possibly give a more thorough recap than Stacey, especially since I wasn't taking notes all evening, but what I remember is this: I did it. I got up on a stage, I took a mic, and I did what I could to make a whole bunch of people laugh. Which, fortunately, they did.
I was interviewed beforehand and a producer asked me why I signed up for the contest. I said something along the lines of, "The chance was right there, and I figured that if I didn't take it, I'd lose the right to say it was my lifelong dream." Because, as ignoble and narcissistic as it may be, it has been my dream for a long, long time. It's something I've spent 20 years wanting to do, and something that, given an opportunity, I felt I really could do.
I was totally prepared for the fact that I might be wrong about that. But I had to try.
I don't mean to get so serious and reflective about a comedy bit. It was three minutes of silliness. But it was also one of those moments that other people, people not at all like me, tend to seek out. A moment that could end in tremendous glory (on scale with killing at a Memphis comedy club) or deflating embarrassment. I'm the type of person who usually walks the middle ground, which means avoiding both extremes. I think that's why so many of my friends jumped at the chance to come out last night. They wanted to show support, of course, but I think they also couldn't resist the chance to see me jump so completely out of character. Or, more accurately, to see a side of myself that rarely makes a public appearance.
Thank you a fazillion times to Chip, Shiloh, Kristy, Mike, Mark, Mary and of course Stacey for coming to support me on one of the most adventurous nights of my life. Thank you to Jeff for patiently waiting for me to say it was okay for him to come. Thank you to Stephanie and Richard for wrangling the monkeys so everyone else could be there. Thank you to Steve for the indispensable help in preparing my set. And thank you again to Stacey for telling me about the contest in a way that clearly said, "If you don't do this, you're nuts." I don't know what will happen next (and won't find out until late December), but I'm already grateful for the experience.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Seeing Places That I've Never Seen
I always feel a constant low-grade anxiety whenever one of my folks is out on the road, and this week the feeling is doubled as both CB continues his westward push through Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California while Kim makes her first northern trek to conquer the frozen hearts of Chicago, Madison and Minneapolis. CB's out with a full band, plus his manager, so my only real worries are that the clubs will live up to whatever they promised me three months ago. Kim's out alone, though, and hitting some of these cities for the first time on a professional basis, so I'm feeling very protective and not only hoping that her shows go well, but also that my Midwestern people will unite to assure her a safe journey. I'm really confident that she'll be much appreciated and make a lot of new fans on her way, but that won't make it any easier for a Little Rock girl to navigate freezing rain on I-94. I wonder if there's a Memphian-Minnesotan mom voice program for her GPS unit that can say, "Now, it might not be a bad idea to just pull over in Baraboo and wait for the salt trucks to pass ..."
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
The Guy Said Honey, You're A Funny Girl
I had been hoping to launch an unofficial NaBloPoMo over here, but I've been too busy working on my bit for the The Funniest Mom in America competition. Yes, the agent is stepping out of the green room and onto the stage, thanks to the supportive goading of Stacey and the somewhat unsupportive smirks from certain friends who think I can only be funny in two dimensions (suck it, Cory!). It seemed like an amazingly well-timed chance to follow up on my life-long dream of pursuing stand-up comedy, so in a swift move that surprised everyone who's ever met me, I read about the Memphis auditions and immediately emailed the local comedy club for a spot. And I got one. And now ... I have to show up. With the funny. I secretly slipped some of my bit onto the playgroup moms this morning, and it went very well, but I know that the Wednesday night crowd at Comedy, TN isn't likely to be a bunch of sleep-deprived mamas. But hopefully, it'll be some of you. Did I mention that it's November 15? At 8:15pm? Bring all your hard-drinking, child-humor-loving friends!
Friday, November 03, 2006
Hold On To The Feelin'
Over in my other world, I just posted and mailed a lengthy missive offering up the store for sale. It's something I've been thinking of doing for a long time, and something that seemed imperative once I saw that second line on the EPT, but it was still hard to do. Before I was the owner of Mothersville, I was a devoted patron, and I spent many, many days of pregnancy and new motherhood sunk into the big comfy couch, talking to other moms and trying to figure out just what exactly I'd done to my life. I developed a brand new circle of friends among women brought together by their choices (and sometimes, lack of choices) in parenting. I found a compatible childbirth educator, invaluable doula and doctor recommendations, support with breastfeeding, and most importantly, a place to ask questions or just vent about the daily struggles of baby life. There were a lot of mornings when the support "group" was just Kristy and I, and her friendship and unwavering support got me through what I only now realize were some of the darkest days (and weeks, and months) of my adult life. (Which I've never properly thanked her for, but I'm sure she can read the effusive Nordic praise between the lines.)
When Kristy decided to leave the store, I didn't see how it could go on without her. She wasn't just the owner, she was the Mother of Mothersville. But when another mama bravely jumped in and put herself on the line to keep the store open, I realized that the only thing worse than Kristy leaving would be for the store to go with her. So we partnered up, U and I, and the doors stayed open. The sign went on the front. The mamas kept coming, new groups of them popping up every few months like seasonal bulbs.
When U decided to leave our partnership last winter, I was again uncertain about the future of Mothersville, but I felt more determined than ever to keep providing this resource to the mamas of Memphis, or at least the 5% of them who needed us. I've learned a lot in the last two years, learning that has translated into better sales and lower losses, and I know that if I could hang around longer I'd learn even more. But I can't. I'm at a crossroads where I either need to make a huge plunge or gather up my marbles and go home. And I don't have any more marbles to spare. Thanks to my corporate lay-off four months into motherhood, our family income is 40% less than it was 1.5 kids ago. So it's time. I've put in what I can and now it's up to the next mama, or hopefully mamas, to take the reins. It's been an unconventional business model to this point, but it pretty accurately represents the constant hustling and shuffling most new moms have to do. Doing what works as long as you can, and then figuring out the next thing.
When Kristy decided to leave the store, I didn't see how it could go on without her. She wasn't just the owner, she was the Mother of Mothersville. But when another mama bravely jumped in and put herself on the line to keep the store open, I realized that the only thing worse than Kristy leaving would be for the store to go with her. So we partnered up, U and I, and the doors stayed open. The sign went on the front. The mamas kept coming, new groups of them popping up every few months like seasonal bulbs.
When U decided to leave our partnership last winter, I was again uncertain about the future of Mothersville, but I felt more determined than ever to keep providing this resource to the mamas of Memphis, or at least the 5% of them who needed us. I've learned a lot in the last two years, learning that has translated into better sales and lower losses, and I know that if I could hang around longer I'd learn even more. But I can't. I'm at a crossroads where I either need to make a huge plunge or gather up my marbles and go home. And I don't have any more marbles to spare. Thanks to my corporate lay-off four months into motherhood, our family income is 40% less than it was 1.5 kids ago. So it's time. I've put in what I can and now it's up to the next mama, or hopefully mamas, to take the reins. It's been an unconventional business model to this point, but it pretty accurately represents the constant hustling and shuffling most new moms have to do. Doing what works as long as you can, and then figuring out the next thing.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Hit Me, Baby, One More Time
After a few years of this, I'm used to the idea that parenting means making sacrifices, but it's still jolting to see how those sacrifices manifest themselves. I've spent the last four months putting together a 20-city tour for CB, the first one he's ever done with a full backing band, and last night marked the kick-off date for this auspiscious run. And I missed it. I popped in for sound check but had to excuse myself before the Marlboro haze descended on the Hi-Tone. Not because I didn't want to snuggle up to my three-year-old with cigarette funk in my hair (she's gotten used to that), but because of the tiny little client in my belly. Yep, folks, I'm on my way to being a Secret Agent Mom of Two.
As excited as I am, it's still hard to retreat back into the mode of selflessness that is required of pregnancy and brand-new-parenthood. I'd just started getting used to the fact that I could eat a full meal or read a book or complete a day's work without constant interruption, and now I see all that being pulled away again. It's easier in a way, though, because now I know how quickly it will pass. Those sleep-deprived, half-starved, entertainmentless months seemed endless, but looking back, I realize they weren't as long as they seemed. And I also know that I won't be a shriveled, fun-shunning curmudgeon by the time they're over, which was another one of my fears the first time around. Not unless I want to be, anyway. I have to admit, getting home and into my flannel pajamas by 8:30 didn't seem like such a bad way to spend an evening. Maybe it's not just the babies who grow up.
As excited as I am, it's still hard to retreat back into the mode of selflessness that is required of pregnancy and brand-new-parenthood. I'd just started getting used to the fact that I could eat a full meal or read a book or complete a day's work without constant interruption, and now I see all that being pulled away again. It's easier in a way, though, because now I know how quickly it will pass. Those sleep-deprived, half-starved, entertainmentless months seemed endless, but looking back, I realize they weren't as long as they seemed. And I also know that I won't be a shriveled, fun-shunning curmudgeon by the time they're over, which was another one of my fears the first time around. Not unless I want to be, anyway. I have to admit, getting home and into my flannel pajamas by 8:30 didn't seem like such a bad way to spend an evening. Maybe it's not just the babies who grow up.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Girls Girls Girls
When I was pregnant with M, and for the many years I considered motherhood before that, I hoped for a son. My primary explanation for this feeling was the fact that boys are much less likely to turn rabid on their mothers when they hit adolescence, but now that I have a daughter, I see that I had other, deeper reasons for this preference.
We were out trick or treating with two of M's friends last night, and there they were, three adorable little girls filled with excitement and anxiety and a total sense of wonder. They clung to each other's hands and walked down the dark, muddy sidewalk in an impenetrable line of cuteness. And then, of course, the fighting began. M wanted to hold L's hand. J wanted to hold L's hand. M didn't want to hold J's hand. J wanted to hold L's and M's hands at the same time. (And L pretty much wanted everyone out of her personal space for one freaking minute.) And all I could think was, well, here we go. The first stop on the long line of female tension over friendship, affection and belonging. It's a straight shot from here to awkward middle-school slumber parties and demeaning pledge nights.
Which is, of course, ridiculous. They were just a bunch of pre-schoolers having some normal social tussles. But I can't help my mind from shooting backward and remembering my own struggles to fit in among my female peers. I've had one or two close girlfriends along the way, but for the most part, my childhood, teenage years and most of my twenties were spent feeling well outside the walls of Girl World. I didn't get the rules, I didn't speak the language, and I never had the right shoes.
I've realized that my desire for a son was not caused by my fear of having a daughter so much as my fear of being one. It was hard enough going through it all the first time, I can hardly imagine how it might feel to see looks of rejection and embarrassment reflected in my daughter's eyes. I know that being a boy wouldn't spare her from that, but my empathy wouldn't be quite so deep and raw. But maybe it won't be as hard for her as it was for me ... which brings up my even greater fear: that she'll be the girl doing the ostracizing instead of the innocent ostrich.
We were out trick or treating with two of M's friends last night, and there they were, three adorable little girls filled with excitement and anxiety and a total sense of wonder. They clung to each other's hands and walked down the dark, muddy sidewalk in an impenetrable line of cuteness. And then, of course, the fighting began. M wanted to hold L's hand. J wanted to hold L's hand. M didn't want to hold J's hand. J wanted to hold L's and M's hands at the same time. (And L pretty much wanted everyone out of her personal space for one freaking minute.) And all I could think was, well, here we go. The first stop on the long line of female tension over friendship, affection and belonging. It's a straight shot from here to awkward middle-school slumber parties and demeaning pledge nights.
Which is, of course, ridiculous. They were just a bunch of pre-schoolers having some normal social tussles. But I can't help my mind from shooting backward and remembering my own struggles to fit in among my female peers. I've had one or two close girlfriends along the way, but for the most part, my childhood, teenage years and most of my twenties were spent feeling well outside the walls of Girl World. I didn't get the rules, I didn't speak the language, and I never had the right shoes.
I've realized that my desire for a son was not caused by my fear of having a daughter so much as my fear of being one. It was hard enough going through it all the first time, I can hardly imagine how it might feel to see looks of rejection and embarrassment reflected in my daughter's eyes. I know that being a boy wouldn't spare her from that, but my empathy wouldn't be quite so deep and raw. But maybe it won't be as hard for her as it was for me ... which brings up my even greater fear: that she'll be the girl doing the ostracizing instead of the innocent ostrich.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)