A list of risky items to which I exposed my second child in-utero from which I carefully protected my eldest, or more succinctly:
"Why my son will be a serial killer."
- 20 oz. iced chais
- long, hot baths
- nitrate-soaked processed meats (Camy's knows I need me my Hot Italian)
- multi-weekly Dr. Pepper
- the litter box
- surprise head butts from a 3-year-old
- gas station fumes
- laptop-based (literally) wireless Internet vibes
- antibiotics
- .003 oz. of mojito
- small business ownership
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Sister Psychic Won't You Tell Me
Oh, I should also mention that my OB predicts I'll have this baby between 38-39 weeks. And that the labor will last 4 hours, a 20-hour shave from my current record. Since we're taking guesses, I asked Miss M when she thought the baby would come. "June!" she said. Alright, there are 30 days in June, I explained. Which number? "One!" So there you have it. June 1st, right between weeks 38 and 39.
Anyone else care to weigh in? Official due date, for the record, is June 15.
Anyone else care to weigh in? Official due date, for the record, is June 15.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
It's Alright - Baby's Coming Back
We now interrupt this lengthy child-free recollection to mention that, at what will hopefully be my last visit to the OB (it's all midwife appointments from here on out), I was pronounced two centimeters dilated and 70% effaced. I won't bother explaining that to anyone who doesn't already know what it means, because I'm not sure what Blogger's decency policies are.
As you were ...
As you were ...
Monday, May 21, 2007
They Call Her Mississippi (Parts 1-3)
Whenever Stacey is asked to recount a situation that she's blogged about, she tells people to "read the book." Well, in the case of recounting this past weekend, book reading is what y'all are about to do, should you choose to hang in there and sit through every detail of my weekend abroad, or at least a-state. So here we go, now all packaged together for one cohesive, patience-testing experience ...
Day One
I decided to start my trip by winding through the downtown Barbecue Fest crowd, just to see the throng and remind myself what I was escaping. After a multitude of near-misses with F-150s, I made my way to the open end of Riverside Drive and onto I-55. Traffic got lighter and lighter as I got further south, and by the time I passed Olive Branch I was able to set the cruise control to 72 (speed limit: 70mph) and leave it there until my eastward turn toward Oxford, David Sedaris reading to me and an assembled audience in Carnegie Hall the entire way.
I was still a good bit early for check-in, and I’d deliberately left the house without eating so that I wouldn’t chicken out on going to lunch by myself. I pulled into Oxford’s courthouse square and magically caught a parking spot right in front of Ajax Diner. As I disconnected my iPod from the radio and rearranged my bags so that they weren’t so openly begging to be stolen, I was struck once again by the unsettling put-togetherness of Oxford girls. Or women, really. It wasn’t just the clusters of perfectly dressed, coiffed and made-up sorority sisters and their cowlicked, pastel-Polo-shirted companions. Every woman on the sidewalk looked like she’d just stepped out of Southern Living, or some special Mississippi edition of Marie Claire. A woman of indeterminate age – lustrous, flawlessly bobbed white hair on the body of a 30-year-old, if 30-year-olds wore fiercely tailored Donna Karan linen suits – floated by my windshield and I nearly gasped, she was so lovely. I took a look in the rear-view mirror and was glad I’d decided on a dress as a comfortable driving outfit. I’m not sure I could have stepped outside the car in anything less formal.
Stepping creakily into Ajax, I got quite a few lingering but not nearly as admiring looks from the frat boys at the bar. I of course went straight to the bathroom before finding a two-top table facing the kitchen. Something about dining alone makes me feel like I need to be in direct sight of the wait staff, plus it gave me something to look at. The aggressively conventional nature of Oxford made me even more self-conscious about being alone, particularly because I’m pregnant. As if the other patrons were thinking, “Oh, that poor girl. Someone got her in trouble and doesn’t even have the decency to share a meat and two with her.” But perhaps I was letting my Memphis inferiority complex get the better of me.
I got my giant fountain Dr. Pepper almost immediately and my lunch soon after that. I’d been hankering for chicken and dumplings for weeks, and I decided to go with the least heartburn-inducing sides I could find, which resulted in the meal you see pictured over there (in homage to Stacey). Ladies and gentleman, I present to you: The Beigest Meal Ever! It was just as good as I’d expected, though, and the lunch I was hoping would kill an hour of my afternoon was complete in about 20 minutes. I wandered back onto the square and decided to do a quick reconnaissance mission. I grazed through several outdoor clothing racks before turning the corner and reaching my real destination: Bottletree Bakery. Mercifully, they had just closed for the day half an hour before, but I noted the Sunday hours and worked out how I could fit a slice of pie into my next day’s plans.
I continued my walk, blissfully aware that there wasn’t anywhere I could go that would cause me any trouble. The weather was almost disturbingly perfect, and even with a full belly (on top of another full belly), I felt buoyant as I re-entered the square and headed over to Square Books Jr. for some book-fondling. And a pee.
That mission complete, I got back in the car and re-read the directions to the cabin for the 48th time. The navigation was pretty simple, though, and except for missing the driveway on the first pass because of the very impatient Buick behind me, I got there without a problem. I pulled into the long gravel driveway and up to a house that looked like it had been lifted from a Cordova subdivision and dropped in the middle of 50 acres. Which is to say, it looked much happier here. I didn’t see any signs or indications of an office as I rounded the circular driveway, but my tires spinning in the rocks must have alerted my hostess to my arrival. I parked in the least obstructive portion of the driveway and was met by Lee Ann just as I got out of the car.
Sweet, adorable and still very Oxfordian in a t-shirt and shorts, Lee Ann eagerly showed me into the cabin, which was situated about 30 yards from the garage. I was a little surprised by the proximity to the house, although in my current state, reassured by the idea that it wasn’t too far to stagger if I had to get any sort of help, especially after I realized that I wasn’t getting any cell phone signal. The cabin was even more inviting than I’d imagined, with much of the slightly overdone themeyness I detected in the pictures either redecorated away or blown out the door on the perfect spring breeze. Lee Ann and I chatted for a few minutes about my store and my pregnancy, and then she left me to look around and inhale all the loggy goodness on my own.
The full force of my solitude hit me right about then, and I’m sure I had a very silly smile on my face as I walked through each room, opening cabinets and looking out windows. It was a little dizzying to realize that I could do whatever I wanted, and I had to stop and think about what that might be. It didn’t take much thought, though. I put up my hair, changed into flip-flops, grabbed a book and headed out to the porch, where I settled into the swing on the western, non-house-facing side of the cabin.
I read and swung and occasionally paused just to look out onto the field in front of me, trying to decide if I was comfortable enough to nap right there or if I should relocate to the new leather couch inside. I didn’t think my hips would be happy about a swing snooze, so I gathered myself up to go in, first making a lap around the porch and a visit to the horses inhabiting the pasture behind the cabin.
I left the front door open as I settled onto the couch, fully prepared for the fresh air and warm sun to put me right to sleep, but I couldn’t put my book down. It’s amazing how fast I can finish a book when I actually have a chance to sit and read it. After about an hour, I was turning the last page of a novel I’d been nursing for weeks. The only distraction I had was a quiet visitor who snuck in the open door. I heard tiny footsteps on the wood floor and looked up to see a sleek gray cat gliding into the room. This made me inordinately happy. I don’t know why it is, but I love a gray cat. I watched as he stalked his way through what is usually a forbidden area, only giving passing attention to me with a glance of his dark amber eyes. He slid back out shortly afterward, probably to get on with more pressing matters like chasing the birds from the feeders or the butterflies from the wildflower garden.
My book finished and my stomach still full from my giant carb-ridden lunch, I could no longer resist the siren call of the copper tub. I obliged myself to the complimentary bubble bath, which was apparently made of some space-age, non-popping polymer, put a CD in the laptop and sunk into the deep, perfectly angled tub. As I soaked, I realized that listening to music whenever I want to is something I’ve unconsciously given up with motherhood. I used to have music playing when I showered, when I cleaned the house, when I was falling asleep, but now my life is so full of background noise that I don’t usually want to add to the din. But there, in that intensely quiet Mississippi evening, it was perfect.
I could see the sun setting through the window when I finally emerged from the tub. After considering several appealing options, I settled back onto the couch to explore the depths of DirecTV programming. I was slightly let-down to discover that, despite a no-kids-under-10 policy, the channel options were decidedly family-friendly. After deducing that I had no premium cable choices, and that it would be insulting to the true Southerness of this experience to sit through either Sweet Home Alabama or Cold Mountain, I put in the first season of “The Office” and tore into my dinner of Cool Ranch Doritos and Mini Oreos. Oh, the ranchy-sweet comedic bliss.
Barely awake after the sixth episode, I got ready for bed (peed, brushed my teeth, took my contacts out, peed again), observed that there were still bubbles in the tub, and then gleefully (but carefully) went up the uneven stairs to my loft bedroom. The only minor disappointment about the cabin was that the windows didn’t open, as I’d imagined falling asleep with the night noises and May breeze drifting in under the gable, but it was so intensely comfortable up there that I couldn’t focus on that one minor loss. They had redone the room since taking the pictures posted on the cabin website, and the kooky mix of Southwest, mountain-man and North Woods was streamlined into a much more cohesive décor, with my favorite change being the replacement of a moose-stencil lamp with a unique biographical lighting piece depicting the major points of Abraham Lincoln’s life. I felt positively Ingalls-esque as I pulled up the hand-made quilt, set Windows Media Player to play, and fell into a deep, tranquil sleep.
Day Two
As peaceful and pre-schooler-free as my night was, I still woke up a few times. Even then, though, I noticed how calm and comfortable I felt – you know, except for the heartburn. The mattress was firm but forgiving, and with a giant, extra-thick feather pillow tucked between my knees and under my belly, I didn’t have a twinge of achiness. I’d expected to sleep until noon, or at least until my breakfast arrived at 8:45, but I was wide awake at 7:30. I opened the shutters to the eastern sun, sat listening to various critters scurry along the tin roof, and wrote most of that Day One tome you see down there.
Lee Ann rolled up with the breakfast cart right on time, noting again how happy her son was that someone had requested a sweet breakfast (it’s great to be the only guest at a B&B and get to choose the menu yourself) and thanking me for not going into labor in the middle of the night. She set my meal up at a wooden table on the shady side of the porch and left me to enjoy the waffles, muffins, hot raspberry cobbler and whipped cream with strawberries. The side of sausage patties was the only part of the spread that was not obviously and perfectly home-made, but even those went down just fine when followed by a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. I ate in near-silence, the only noise coming from the birds, bugs and occasional Wal-Mart truck heading down the state highway in front of the property. After meeting the resident dog, getting another once-over by Nickel the cat, and scaring the heck out of Lee Ann as she came to retrieve the dishes, I dragged myself out of the porch swing and got myself ready to face Town Folk again.
Opening a bathroom cabinet to discover a normal, modern shower inside was a pleasant surprise, as were all the included amenities (soap, shampoo, lotion and even a hair dryer). I leisurely showered and dressed and then packed up to head back into Oxford proper. Once I got to the car, though, my phone started making all sorts of noises at me. Apparently I only needed to walk 20 more feet to get a signal. Good to know, although also sort of strangely jarring. I realized I was actually enjoying being completely out of touch.
I drove into town and came upon a square much less bustling than the day before. That’s when all of Oxford’s quirky little bylaws came back to me. Oh right, I thought, this is the town where I can’t book shows on Saturday night because there’s a midnight curfew. Most of the shops I’d planned to browse through today were locked up tight. I pulled into a parking spot to call home and assure all interested parties that I survived the night. Then I circled the courthouse and veered off the square, hoping to find the coffee shop where I’d had the world’s best hot chocolate a few Double Decker Festivals ago, but all that I found was a big gaping hole where I thought it should be (much like the hole mysteriously left in my Mini Cooper’s windshield during that same festival). I swung around and drifted toward the highest concentration of parked cars, which fortunately happened to be in front of a coffee shop. I indulged in an iced chai and recharged my laptop, but unfortunately was stymied in my effort to get online, so this blog entry just got longer instead of being posted. (I am, at the moment, being stared at by a young man named William, who appears to be visiting Oxford from a country afar with his parents and older sister. I’d guess that the age range between the two children is the same as between Miss M and Baby SAM, and I got a little twinge watching the sister shepherd her sibling around.)
Still in search of the interweb, I moved my car into the square and returned to Bottletree Bakery. At noon on a Sunday, however, I discovered that the place was packed with Ole Miss students, and not seeing anything appealing in the display cases, I backed out the door and headed toward the literary triple threat of Square Books, Square Books Jr. and Off Square Books. When faced with this overwhelming bounty, I try to restrict myself by only buying books by Mississippi, or at least Southern, authors. I did alright at my first stop, picking up Letters to a New Mother (which looks a little remedial to me but is by an Oxford-based writer, and I thought it would make a nice addition to the store’s library) and Mockingbird, a biography of Harper Lee which I’m sure will be even more interesting once we get through the copy of Capote that Netflix sent us during the first Bush administration. Next came Square Books Jr., where the helpful bookseller was sadly unable to provide me with a copy of The Princess Knight (we’re trying to do some deprogramming at SAM HQ), although I did pick up Pirate Girl, plus a sea creature puzzle for Miss M and a relentlessly cute monkey grab-toy for Baby SAM. Off Square Books was an afterthought and I nearly passed it by as I was gazing at all the other shops nearby, but it turned out to be my best stop. I got a $6 hardback copy of Eudora Welty’s Optimist’s Daughter, a $4 collection of Richard Ford stories, and then I broke my streak by grabbing a worn Roddy Doyle paperback. Weighed down by books but feeling the joy of mass literature consumption, I got back in the car and made my way south to the most famous house on Old Taylor Road.
It’s really dang easy to miss the turn to Rowan Oak, since it’s just marked with a tiny plaque smaller than the standard green street sign. But since I’d been by that way a dozen times or more, I knew where I was headed. I’d visited the grounds several times but was determined to actually make it inside the house today. Unfortunately, the Square Book trifecta took all but $3 of my cash and it was $5 to get into the home itself. Damn you, Roddy Doyle! The day was gorgeous, though, so it was still a pleasant and reflective experience to walk around the property, smelling the centurian pine trees that line the path to the front door, winding through labrynthine hedges and discovering hidden alcoves and benches. Mostly I reflected on how I’d never really clicked with Faulkner, and how they’d probably take a debit card if I really wanted to go in, but that it wouldn’t really have all that much meaning to me, unlike the pilgrimages I’d taken to Fitzgerald’s St. Paul haunts or Hemingway’s Key West retreat. My reflection came to an end as the industrial air conditioner behind me roared to life, and I decided it was time to go back to my own Mississippi estate.
I got back to the cabin, which I mentally caught myself referring to as “home,” and immediately got to the important business of doing nothing. I put on my maternity swimsuit, laughed out loud at my reflection, and then dragged a blanket, my iPod and a month-old New Yorker out to the side yard. And try as I might to say more about that, there’s really nothing else to add. After about an hour, the shade and my sleepiness caught up with me, so I went up to the loft, accepted the non-historical but nonetheless courteous provision of the window A/C unit, and took a light but thoroughly refreshing nap.
I woke up both hungry and sticky, so I made the decision to bathe first and then get onto cooking my elaborate last-night-in-the-wilderness dinner. I soaked until I could sense dusk approaching, then got out of the tub and began work on my meal. This involved a number of important steps: 1) place 6 Totino’s Pizza Rolls on a microwave-safe plate, 2) microwave on high for 60 seconds, 3) move cooked pizza rolls to larger plate, 4) repeat steps 1-3 with next group of 6 until all pizza rolls were complete. During the final step (#5: let rest so that the pizza rolls cool to a sub-nuclear temperature), I went outside to try to catch a cell signal and call home. I had to go all the way to the car, so I opened the hatchback and sat in the trunk while The Admiral summed up what I’d missed over the last 30 hours (mostly, numerous viewings of Alice in Wonderland and a narrowly averted poop crisis).
The sun was nearly down as we said good-night, and I went to take a few pictures of the cabin before the light was completely gone. Nickel emerged from under the porch and I tried to get him to stand still long enough for me to photograph him. I guess he found this insulting because what had seemed so far like a friendly relationship quickly soured into a more primal arrangement, wherein Nickel was the sly cheetah and I was the gimpy zebra. After repeatedly detaching him from my limbs, I hustled back inside, locked the door, and decided that was probably enough country living for one day.
After another unsuccessful trip through the DirecTV offerings (with a brief stop at Searching for Bobby Fischer, being broadcast in very poor quality by ESPN Classic), I dove back into “The Office” and made it through the first 6 episodes of season two before my Doritos, Oreos, Vitamin Water and general alertness gave out. I shuffled back upstairs, tried to think of at least three reasonable, non-boogieman-related reasons for the mysterious noises outdoors, wrote all the way up to this point here and then, I suspect, read a little and went to sleep.
Day Three
I had another surprisingly restless night, with several unplanned wake-ups (yet none motivating enough to get me to navigate the bumpy wooden stairs in the dark to get to the bathroom). My last stretch of sleep managed to last all the way until 7:45, at which point I remembered how much I've missed being able to just lie in bed and read. So that's what I did, all propped up on my four giant feather pillows, bird calls and squirrel feet echoing over my head.
As breakfast time approached, I spent a few minutes doing some pre-packing but then stopped when it got too depressing. I took my New Yorker out to a rocking chair on the front porch and basked in the gorgeous morning as I waited for Lee Ann to roll up. When she arrived, we had a comfortable discussion about the joys and pitfalls of business ownership (she'd owned an antique store in Oxford before opening the cabin to guests, which explained a lot of the decorating decisions; except, perhaps, the empty shotgun casings that bordered the kitchen countertops, which I had started thinking about more intently while listening to all the clunky noises on the front porch the night before). She set my breakfast up on the porch again, and I got a little giddy with anticipation as she set out all the covered dishes. Just as my brain began to form the thought, "That breakfast yesterday was good, but maybe just, if it's even possible, a little too much sweetness for me," I lifted the plate cover to reveal scrambled eggs reveling in a bed of bacon, supported by an oven-hot peach cobbler. The basket that had contained yesterday's muffins now held wee little biscuits and jelly. So perfect I had to fight a fleeting urge to cry.
I ate my wondrous breakfast, read a New Yorker profile on Barack Obama and snuck what little bits of food I could spare to my canine dining companion. After I put down as much as I could stuff, I just sat very still in my chair, watching Lee Ann make the long walk to her mailbox and back, listening to the buzzing and singing and croaking in the air, relishing the mercifully cool, cloudless sky. But I had to shake out of my reverie and get myself going if I was going to make check-out.
Not really much else to report on the last hour of my trip. I showered and dressed, packed up my tiny bag of clothes and now even huger bag of books and collected the neglected fruit from the fridge. I sat down at the dining room table to record a message in the guest book, but had trouble expressing how deeply I'd enjoyed my stay on just one little page (obviously). I felt a knot forming in my throat as I carried out my bags and closed the cabin door behind me.
For me, Oxford was a perfect pick for a getaway, because I was familiar enough with the area that I could move around comfortably. I knew where things were, I had a few destinations chosen in advance, and if I did decide to just hang out and do nothing, it was by choice and not geographical intimidation. And by very happy luck, the cabin was an absolutely perfect fit for what I wanted out of the weekend. I'd originally thought I wanted to be way out by myself somewhere, but once the reality of being 36 weeks pregnant truly hit me, I realized that being in what was essentially a detached bed & breakfast was exactly what I needed.
I don't feel like I need to explain how I felt about this weekend by qualifying it with, "As much as I missed my family ..." Yes, I of course felt the tug on our intense mother-daughter bond when I heard Miss M's voice over the phone, but did I wish I were back home, or that she were with me? No, no I did not. Not even a little. I needed those two days as much as I've needed pre-natal vitamins or an unlimited supply of Honey Nut Cheerios. And I'll proclaim the universal maternal need for weekends like that to any mom who will listen. Even in almost 4000 words, I can't explain how good it felt to get away and breathe my own air for a little while. It's something every mother needs to do, the minute she feels ready to do it.
Day One
I decided to start my trip by winding through the downtown Barbecue Fest crowd, just to see the throng and remind myself what I was escaping. After a multitude of near-misses with F-150s, I made my way to the open end of Riverside Drive and onto I-55. Traffic got lighter and lighter as I got further south, and by the time I passed Olive Branch I was able to set the cruise control to 72 (speed limit: 70mph) and leave it there until my eastward turn toward Oxford, David Sedaris reading to me and an assembled audience in Carnegie Hall the entire way.
I was still a good bit early for check-in, and I’d deliberately left the house without eating so that I wouldn’t chicken out on going to lunch by myself. I pulled into Oxford’s courthouse square and magically caught a parking spot right in front of Ajax Diner. As I disconnected my iPod from the radio and rearranged my bags so that they weren’t so openly begging to be stolen, I was struck once again by the unsettling put-togetherness of Oxford girls. Or women, really. It wasn’t just the clusters of perfectly dressed, coiffed and made-up sorority sisters and their cowlicked, pastel-Polo-shirted companions. Every woman on the sidewalk looked like she’d just stepped out of Southern Living, or some special Mississippi edition of Marie Claire. A woman of indeterminate age – lustrous, flawlessly bobbed white hair on the body of a 30-year-old, if 30-year-olds wore fiercely tailored Donna Karan linen suits – floated by my windshield and I nearly gasped, she was so lovely. I took a look in the rear-view mirror and was glad I’d decided on a dress as a comfortable driving outfit. I’m not sure I could have stepped outside the car in anything less formal.
Stepping creakily into Ajax, I got quite a few lingering but not nearly as admiring looks from the frat boys at the bar. I of course went straight to the bathroom before finding a two-top table facing the kitchen. Something about dining alone makes me feel like I need to be in direct sight of the wait staff, plus it gave me something to look at. The aggressively conventional nature of Oxford made me even more self-conscious about being alone, particularly because I’m pregnant. As if the other patrons were thinking, “Oh, that poor girl. Someone got her in trouble and doesn’t even have the decency to share a meat and two with her.” But perhaps I was letting my Memphis inferiority complex get the better of me.
I got my giant fountain Dr. Pepper almost immediately and my lunch soon after that. I’d been hankering for chicken and dumplings for weeks, and I decided to go with the least heartburn-inducing sides I could find, which resulted in the meal you see pictured over there (in homage to Stacey). Ladies and gentleman, I present to you: The Beigest Meal Ever! It was just as good as I’d expected, though, and the lunch I was hoping would kill an hour of my afternoon was complete in about 20 minutes. I wandered back onto the square and decided to do a quick reconnaissance mission. I grazed through several outdoor clothing racks before turning the corner and reaching my real destination: Bottletree Bakery. Mercifully, they had just closed for the day half an hour before, but I noted the Sunday hours and worked out how I could fit a slice of pie into my next day’s plans.
I continued my walk, blissfully aware that there wasn’t anywhere I could go that would cause me any trouble. The weather was almost disturbingly perfect, and even with a full belly (on top of another full belly), I felt buoyant as I re-entered the square and headed over to Square Books Jr. for some book-fondling. And a pee.
That mission complete, I got back in the car and re-read the directions to the cabin for the 48th time. The navigation was pretty simple, though, and except for missing the driveway on the first pass because of the very impatient Buick behind me, I got there without a problem. I pulled into the long gravel driveway and up to a house that looked like it had been lifted from a Cordova subdivision and dropped in the middle of 50 acres. Which is to say, it looked much happier here. I didn’t see any signs or indications of an office as I rounded the circular driveway, but my tires spinning in the rocks must have alerted my hostess to my arrival. I parked in the least obstructive portion of the driveway and was met by Lee Ann just as I got out of the car.
Sweet, adorable and still very Oxfordian in a t-shirt and shorts, Lee Ann eagerly showed me into the cabin, which was situated about 30 yards from the garage. I was a little surprised by the proximity to the house, although in my current state, reassured by the idea that it wasn’t too far to stagger if I had to get any sort of help, especially after I realized that I wasn’t getting any cell phone signal. The cabin was even more inviting than I’d imagined, with much of the slightly overdone themeyness I detected in the pictures either redecorated away or blown out the door on the perfect spring breeze. Lee Ann and I chatted for a few minutes about my store and my pregnancy, and then she left me to look around and inhale all the loggy goodness on my own.
The full force of my solitude hit me right about then, and I’m sure I had a very silly smile on my face as I walked through each room, opening cabinets and looking out windows. It was a little dizzying to realize that I could do whatever I wanted, and I had to stop and think about what that might be. It didn’t take much thought, though. I put up my hair, changed into flip-flops, grabbed a book and headed out to the porch, where I settled into the swing on the western, non-house-facing side of the cabin.
I read and swung and occasionally paused just to look out onto the field in front of me, trying to decide if I was comfortable enough to nap right there or if I should relocate to the new leather couch inside. I didn’t think my hips would be happy about a swing snooze, so I gathered myself up to go in, first making a lap around the porch and a visit to the horses inhabiting the pasture behind the cabin.
I left the front door open as I settled onto the couch, fully prepared for the fresh air and warm sun to put me right to sleep, but I couldn’t put my book down. It’s amazing how fast I can finish a book when I actually have a chance to sit and read it. After about an hour, I was turning the last page of a novel I’d been nursing for weeks. The only distraction I had was a quiet visitor who snuck in the open door. I heard tiny footsteps on the wood floor and looked up to see a sleek gray cat gliding into the room. This made me inordinately happy. I don’t know why it is, but I love a gray cat. I watched as he stalked his way through what is usually a forbidden area, only giving passing attention to me with a glance of his dark amber eyes. He slid back out shortly afterward, probably to get on with more pressing matters like chasing the birds from the feeders or the butterflies from the wildflower garden.
My book finished and my stomach still full from my giant carb-ridden lunch, I could no longer resist the siren call of the copper tub. I obliged myself to the complimentary bubble bath, which was apparently made of some space-age, non-popping polymer, put a CD in the laptop and sunk into the deep, perfectly angled tub. As I soaked, I realized that listening to music whenever I want to is something I’ve unconsciously given up with motherhood. I used to have music playing when I showered, when I cleaned the house, when I was falling asleep, but now my life is so full of background noise that I don’t usually want to add to the din. But there, in that intensely quiet Mississippi evening, it was perfect.
I could see the sun setting through the window when I finally emerged from the tub. After considering several appealing options, I settled back onto the couch to explore the depths of DirecTV programming. I was slightly let-down to discover that, despite a no-kids-under-10 policy, the channel options were decidedly family-friendly. After deducing that I had no premium cable choices, and that it would be insulting to the true Southerness of this experience to sit through either Sweet Home Alabama or Cold Mountain, I put in the first season of “The Office” and tore into my dinner of Cool Ranch Doritos and Mini Oreos. Oh, the ranchy-sweet comedic bliss.
Barely awake after the sixth episode, I got ready for bed (peed, brushed my teeth, took my contacts out, peed again), observed that there were still bubbles in the tub, and then gleefully (but carefully) went up the uneven stairs to my loft bedroom. The only minor disappointment about the cabin was that the windows didn’t open, as I’d imagined falling asleep with the night noises and May breeze drifting in under the gable, but it was so intensely comfortable up there that I couldn’t focus on that one minor loss. They had redone the room since taking the pictures posted on the cabin website, and the kooky mix of Southwest, mountain-man and North Woods was streamlined into a much more cohesive décor, with my favorite change being the replacement of a moose-stencil lamp with a unique biographical lighting piece depicting the major points of Abraham Lincoln’s life. I felt positively Ingalls-esque as I pulled up the hand-made quilt, set Windows Media Player to play, and fell into a deep, tranquil sleep.
Day Two
As peaceful and pre-schooler-free as my night was, I still woke up a few times. Even then, though, I noticed how calm and comfortable I felt – you know, except for the heartburn. The mattress was firm but forgiving, and with a giant, extra-thick feather pillow tucked between my knees and under my belly, I didn’t have a twinge of achiness. I’d expected to sleep until noon, or at least until my breakfast arrived at 8:45, but I was wide awake at 7:30. I opened the shutters to the eastern sun, sat listening to various critters scurry along the tin roof, and wrote most of that Day One tome you see down there.
Lee Ann rolled up with the breakfast cart right on time, noting again how happy her son was that someone had requested a sweet breakfast (it’s great to be the only guest at a B&B and get to choose the menu yourself) and thanking me for not going into labor in the middle of the night. She set my meal up at a wooden table on the shady side of the porch and left me to enjoy the waffles, muffins, hot raspberry cobbler and whipped cream with strawberries. The side of sausage patties was the only part of the spread that was not obviously and perfectly home-made, but even those went down just fine when followed by a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. I ate in near-silence, the only noise coming from the birds, bugs and occasional Wal-Mart truck heading down the state highway in front of the property. After meeting the resident dog, getting another once-over by Nickel the cat, and scaring the heck out of Lee Ann as she came to retrieve the dishes, I dragged myself out of the porch swing and got myself ready to face Town Folk again.
Opening a bathroom cabinet to discover a normal, modern shower inside was a pleasant surprise, as were all the included amenities (soap, shampoo, lotion and even a hair dryer). I leisurely showered and dressed and then packed up to head back into Oxford proper. Once I got to the car, though, my phone started making all sorts of noises at me. Apparently I only needed to walk 20 more feet to get a signal. Good to know, although also sort of strangely jarring. I realized I was actually enjoying being completely out of touch.
I drove into town and came upon a square much less bustling than the day before. That’s when all of Oxford’s quirky little bylaws came back to me. Oh right, I thought, this is the town where I can’t book shows on Saturday night because there’s a midnight curfew. Most of the shops I’d planned to browse through today were locked up tight. I pulled into a parking spot to call home and assure all interested parties that I survived the night. Then I circled the courthouse and veered off the square, hoping to find the coffee shop where I’d had the world’s best hot chocolate a few Double Decker Festivals ago, but all that I found was a big gaping hole where I thought it should be (much like the hole mysteriously left in my Mini Cooper’s windshield during that same festival). I swung around and drifted toward the highest concentration of parked cars, which fortunately happened to be in front of a coffee shop. I indulged in an iced chai and recharged my laptop, but unfortunately was stymied in my effort to get online, so this blog entry just got longer instead of being posted. (I am, at the moment, being stared at by a young man named William, who appears to be visiting Oxford from a country afar with his parents and older sister. I’d guess that the age range between the two children is the same as between Miss M and Baby SAM, and I got a little twinge watching the sister shepherd her sibling around.)
Still in search of the interweb, I moved my car into the square and returned to Bottletree Bakery. At noon on a Sunday, however, I discovered that the place was packed with Ole Miss students, and not seeing anything appealing in the display cases, I backed out the door and headed toward the literary triple threat of Square Books, Square Books Jr. and Off Square Books. When faced with this overwhelming bounty, I try to restrict myself by only buying books by Mississippi, or at least Southern, authors. I did alright at my first stop, picking up Letters to a New Mother (which looks a little remedial to me but is by an Oxford-based writer, and I thought it would make a nice addition to the store’s library) and Mockingbird, a biography of Harper Lee which I’m sure will be even more interesting once we get through the copy of Capote that Netflix sent us during the first Bush administration. Next came Square Books Jr., where the helpful bookseller was sadly unable to provide me with a copy of The Princess Knight (we’re trying to do some deprogramming at SAM HQ), although I did pick up Pirate Girl, plus a sea creature puzzle for Miss M and a relentlessly cute monkey grab-toy for Baby SAM. Off Square Books was an afterthought and I nearly passed it by as I was gazing at all the other shops nearby, but it turned out to be my best stop. I got a $6 hardback copy of Eudora Welty’s Optimist’s Daughter, a $4 collection of Richard Ford stories, and then I broke my streak by grabbing a worn Roddy Doyle paperback. Weighed down by books but feeling the joy of mass literature consumption, I got back in the car and made my way south to the most famous house on Old Taylor Road.
It’s really dang easy to miss the turn to Rowan Oak, since it’s just marked with a tiny plaque smaller than the standard green street sign. But since I’d been by that way a dozen times or more, I knew where I was headed. I’d visited the grounds several times but was determined to actually make it inside the house today. Unfortunately, the Square Book trifecta took all but $3 of my cash and it was $5 to get into the home itself. Damn you, Roddy Doyle! The day was gorgeous, though, so it was still a pleasant and reflective experience to walk around the property, smelling the centurian pine trees that line the path to the front door, winding through labrynthine hedges and discovering hidden alcoves and benches. Mostly I reflected on how I’d never really clicked with Faulkner, and how they’d probably take a debit card if I really wanted to go in, but that it wouldn’t really have all that much meaning to me, unlike the pilgrimages I’d taken to Fitzgerald’s St. Paul haunts or Hemingway’s Key West retreat. My reflection came to an end as the industrial air conditioner behind me roared to life, and I decided it was time to go back to my own Mississippi estate.
I got back to the cabin, which I mentally caught myself referring to as “home,” and immediately got to the important business of doing nothing. I put on my maternity swimsuit, laughed out loud at my reflection, and then dragged a blanket, my iPod and a month-old New Yorker out to the side yard. And try as I might to say more about that, there’s really nothing else to add. After about an hour, the shade and my sleepiness caught up with me, so I went up to the loft, accepted the non-historical but nonetheless courteous provision of the window A/C unit, and took a light but thoroughly refreshing nap.
I woke up both hungry and sticky, so I made the decision to bathe first and then get onto cooking my elaborate last-night-in-the-wilderness dinner. I soaked until I could sense dusk approaching, then got out of the tub and began work on my meal. This involved a number of important steps: 1) place 6 Totino’s Pizza Rolls on a microwave-safe plate, 2) microwave on high for 60 seconds, 3) move cooked pizza rolls to larger plate, 4) repeat steps 1-3 with next group of 6 until all pizza rolls were complete. During the final step (#5: let rest so that the pizza rolls cool to a sub-nuclear temperature), I went outside to try to catch a cell signal and call home. I had to go all the way to the car, so I opened the hatchback and sat in the trunk while The Admiral summed up what I’d missed over the last 30 hours (mostly, numerous viewings of Alice in Wonderland and a narrowly averted poop crisis).
The sun was nearly down as we said good-night, and I went to take a few pictures of the cabin before the light was completely gone. Nickel emerged from under the porch and I tried to get him to stand still long enough for me to photograph him. I guess he found this insulting because what had seemed so far like a friendly relationship quickly soured into a more primal arrangement, wherein Nickel was the sly cheetah and I was the gimpy zebra. After repeatedly detaching him from my limbs, I hustled back inside, locked the door, and decided that was probably enough country living for one day. After another unsuccessful trip through the DirecTV offerings (with a brief stop at Searching for Bobby Fischer, being broadcast in very poor quality by ESPN Classic), I dove back into “The Office” and made it through the first 6 episodes of season two before my Doritos, Oreos, Vitamin Water and general alertness gave out. I shuffled back upstairs, tried to think of at least three reasonable, non-boogieman-related reasons for the mysterious noises outdoors, wrote all the way up to this point here and then, I suspect, read a little and went to sleep.
Day Three
I had another surprisingly restless night, with several unplanned wake-ups (yet none motivating enough to get me to navigate the bumpy wooden stairs in the dark to get to the bathroom). My last stretch of sleep managed to last all the way until 7:45, at which point I remembered how much I've missed being able to just lie in bed and read. So that's what I did, all propped up on my four giant feather pillows, bird calls and squirrel feet echoing over my head.
As breakfast time approached, I spent a few minutes doing some pre-packing but then stopped when it got too depressing. I took my New Yorker out to a rocking chair on the front porch and basked in the gorgeous morning as I waited for Lee Ann to roll up. When she arrived, we had a comfortable discussion about the joys and pitfalls of business ownership (she'd owned an antique store in Oxford before opening the cabin to guests, which explained a lot of the decorating decisions; except, perhaps, the empty shotgun casings that bordered the kitchen countertops, which I had started thinking about more intently while listening to all the clunky noises on the front porch the night before). She set my breakfast up on the porch again, and I got a little giddy with anticipation as she set out all the covered dishes. Just as my brain began to form the thought, "That breakfast yesterday was good, but maybe just, if it's even possible, a little too much sweetness for me," I lifted the plate cover to reveal scrambled eggs reveling in a bed of bacon, supported by an oven-hot peach cobbler. The basket that had contained yesterday's muffins now held wee little biscuits and jelly. So perfect I had to fight a fleeting urge to cry.
I ate my wondrous breakfast, read a New Yorker profile on Barack Obama and snuck what little bits of food I could spare to my canine dining companion. After I put down as much as I could stuff, I just sat very still in my chair, watching Lee Ann make the long walk to her mailbox and back, listening to the buzzing and singing and croaking in the air, relishing the mercifully cool, cloudless sky. But I had to shake out of my reverie and get myself going if I was going to make check-out.
Not really much else to report on the last hour of my trip. I showered and dressed, packed up my tiny bag of clothes and now even huger bag of books and collected the neglected fruit from the fridge. I sat down at the dining room table to record a message in the guest book, but had trouble expressing how deeply I'd enjoyed my stay on just one little page (obviously). I felt a knot forming in my throat as I carried out my bags and closed the cabin door behind me.
For me, Oxford was a perfect pick for a getaway, because I was familiar enough with the area that I could move around comfortably. I knew where things were, I had a few destinations chosen in advance, and if I did decide to just hang out and do nothing, it was by choice and not geographical intimidation. And by very happy luck, the cabin was an absolutely perfect fit for what I wanted out of the weekend. I'd originally thought I wanted to be way out by myself somewhere, but once the reality of being 36 weeks pregnant truly hit me, I realized that being in what was essentially a detached bed & breakfast was exactly what I needed.
I don't feel like I need to explain how I felt about this weekend by qualifying it with, "As much as I missed my family ..." Yes, I of course felt the tug on our intense mother-daughter bond when I heard Miss M's voice over the phone, but did I wish I were back home, or that she were with me? No, no I did not. Not even a little. I needed those two days as much as I've needed pre-natal vitamins or an unlimited supply of Honey Nut Cheerios. And I'll proclaim the universal maternal need for weekends like that to any mom who will listen. Even in almost 4000 words, I can't explain how good it felt to get away and breathe my own air for a little while. It's something every mother needs to do, the minute she feels ready to do it.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Time Out Of Mind
I'm doing something this weekend, something I've been dreaming about for quite some time. It seems almost grotesquely decadent, and when I tell other moms about it, they gasp and clutch their nursing tanks and stare at me with a combination of awe, envy and maybe even a little disgust, as if I were planning to meet up with George Clooney in his chocolate pudding hot tub.
But no, it's even more thrilling than that. I'm going to Mississippi. For two nights. All. By. Myself. As I mentioned in March, I'd been trying to come up with a way to get some pre-baby time alone, but as the weeks passed, the work stress increased and the airfares crept ever higher, I realized the likelihood of me doing any major travel was slim to nil. But based on the brilliant suggestion of one of my mama friends, I started looking into minor travel - B&Bs and small hotels within a day's drive of home. I soon discovered a semi-rustic, 2-bedroom cabin up in the hills. The "semi," by my interpretation, means that there's no phone line, but they have DirecTV, which is exactly my kind of roughing it.
And most importantly, they're willing to give me the entire place to myself. The 1800's log cabin, the 50 acres of hills and flowers, the wrap-around porch, the cozy lofted bedroom - all mine for two peaceful nights.
I keep focusing on the nights rather than the days because it's been, well, three and a half years since I got a solid night's sleep. I did get away for the weekend last Mother's Day, but it was to visit my sister and attend her baby shower, and since it was also Weaning Weekend, it wasn't exactly conducive to comfortable sleep. The only other time I've had away since Miss M's birth was to attend my grandmother's funeral last summer, which involved sleeping on a 40-year-old couch surrounded by my enormous-yet-septum-compromised cousins. And since the insomnia and nocturnal discomfort of this pregnancy began, I've been aching for a good night's rest, especially since all the usual pregnancy stuff is combined with Miss M's continued desire to creep into our room every night ... and then ask to go to the bathroom ... and then ask for something to drink ... and then ask for more covers ... And lately, just to add to the fun, she's been waking up at 6:40 and demanding breakfast, which despite The Admiral's general role as family chef, seems to be a job only I can accomplish.
So yes, I need a solid 10-14 hours of sleep. And then a nap. The other daylight hours I'm still trying to coordinate, but not overly so. The Admiral keeps asking what I'm going to do, and my first response was, "I don't know, whatever you did in Amsterdam," but that's probably not a good idea at this point in my pregnancy. You know, all that gallery walking and all. The subtle point I was trying to convey, however, is that he's taken two trips to Europe, two trips to San Francisco, two trips to New York and various visits to locales like Portland and Austin, all since becoming a dad. Yes, they were all work-related, but I think it would be tough to argue that he's had less than 48 hours of purely recreational time during any of those excursions, let alone the combination of them all. And really, anything as ambitious as "having fun" is secondary to this trip. My goals are to relax and to gather up my resources for what's to come. To enjoy the last little bit of having my body (sort of) to myself before jumping back into the nursing pool. To reflect on my mothering experience so far and prepare for all the changes to come.
And, quite possibly, to fill that hand-made copper tub with chocolate Jell-O pudding mix and fire up Out of Sight.
But no, it's even more thrilling than that. I'm going to Mississippi. For two nights. All. By. Myself. As I mentioned in March, I'd been trying to come up with a way to get some pre-baby time alone, but as the weeks passed, the work stress increased and the airfares crept ever higher, I realized the likelihood of me doing any major travel was slim to nil. But based on the brilliant suggestion of one of my mama friends, I started looking into minor travel - B&Bs and small hotels within a day's drive of home. I soon discovered a semi-rustic, 2-bedroom cabin up in the hills. The "semi," by my interpretation, means that there's no phone line, but they have DirecTV, which is exactly my kind of roughing it.
And most importantly, they're willing to give me the entire place to myself. The 1800's log cabin, the 50 acres of hills and flowers, the wrap-around porch, the cozy lofted bedroom - all mine for two peaceful nights.
I keep focusing on the nights rather than the days because it's been, well, three and a half years since I got a solid night's sleep. I did get away for the weekend last Mother's Day, but it was to visit my sister and attend her baby shower, and since it was also Weaning Weekend, it wasn't exactly conducive to comfortable sleep. The only other time I've had away since Miss M's birth was to attend my grandmother's funeral last summer, which involved sleeping on a 40-year-old couch surrounded by my enormous-yet-septum-compromised cousins. And since the insomnia and nocturnal discomfort of this pregnancy began, I've been aching for a good night's rest, especially since all the usual pregnancy stuff is combined with Miss M's continued desire to creep into our room every night ... and then ask to go to the bathroom ... and then ask for something to drink ... and then ask for more covers ... And lately, just to add to the fun, she's been waking up at 6:40 and demanding breakfast, which despite The Admiral's general role as family chef, seems to be a job only I can accomplish.
So yes, I need a solid 10-14 hours of sleep. And then a nap. The other daylight hours I'm still trying to coordinate, but not overly so. The Admiral keeps asking what I'm going to do, and my first response was, "I don't know, whatever you did in Amsterdam," but that's probably not a good idea at this point in my pregnancy. You know, all that gallery walking and all. The subtle point I was trying to convey, however, is that he's taken two trips to Europe, two trips to San Francisco, two trips to New York and various visits to locales like Portland and Austin, all since becoming a dad. Yes, they were all work-related, but I think it would be tough to argue that he's had less than 48 hours of purely recreational time during any of those excursions, let alone the combination of them all. And really, anything as ambitious as "having fun" is secondary to this trip. My goals are to relax and to gather up my resources for what's to come. To enjoy the last little bit of having my body (sort of) to myself before jumping back into the nursing pool. To reflect on my mothering experience so far and prepare for all the changes to come.
And, quite possibly, to fill that hand-made copper tub with chocolate Jell-O pudding mix and fire up Out of Sight.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Ooh That Smell
This just came in my weekly "what your baby's doing" email from BabyCenter:
He's shedding most of the downy covering of hair that covered his body as well as the vernix caseosa, the creamy substance that covered and protected his skin during its submersion in amniotic fluid. Your baby swallows both of these substances, along with other secretions, which will stay in his bowels until birth. This blackish mixture, called meconium, will become his first bowel movement.
Okay, I knew that those first poops were nasty, but I went this long without knowing that it was made up of old skin and hair.
Babies are gross.
He's shedding most of the downy covering of hair that covered his body as well as the vernix caseosa, the creamy substance that covered and protected his skin during its submersion in amniotic fluid. Your baby swallows both of these substances, along with other secretions, which will stay in his bowels until birth. This blackish mixture, called meconium, will become his first bowel movement.
Okay, I knew that those first poops were nasty, but I went this long without knowing that it was made up of old skin and hair.
Babies are gross.
Monday, May 14, 2007
You And I'll Just Use A Little Patience
When I was pregnant with Miss M, I mentally set my due date a week past the official 40-week count. Everything I read said that the average gestation for first-time moms was 41 weeks, so I tried not to expect anything to happen before that. Even when we hit the point where my OB kept saying, "Might not see you next week!" at every weekly appointment, I stuck to the idea that the arbitrary 40-week mark was just a frame of reference. And sure enough, Miss M arrived at 40 weeks and 5 days, in perfect health and ready for the world (as indicated by the picture over there, where she seems about ready to take out a nurse). 
So this time around, I've been operating under the idea that second babies usually come a little sooner. But not too soon. Since one of my midwives will be out of town the weekend before my due date, and my mom can't get down here until a few days before, I've made an agreement with this baby that he is to stay where he is until at least June 12th. Which seemed like a reasonable plan; I mean, it's got to be easier to keep them in than to get them out, right? Horses do it all the time. Spook a mare in labor and she'll hold that foal for another three days if she has to.
It seemed like a breech of contract, then, when I started getting the feeling that this baby might not be so willing to stay put. It began at about 2:40 Saturday morning, when I got hit with The Stomach Crud that has been making its cruel rounds through our social circle. After twelve hours of nutritional evacuation, the general ooginess of the illness started to be countered by a growing unease about the stability of Baby SAM's habitat. The dehydration and low blood sugar were getting to me, both physically and mentally, and the Braxton-Hicks contractions started kicking up. By Saturday night, I was fairly convinced that this baby was on his way. The back pain that came with the bug was causing me to instinctively fold up into shapes I hadn't been in since my last labor. The tightness in my abdomen kept coming, although I was afraid to watch the clock to check if the intervals were regular.
I went to bed at 9:30, hoping that sleep and complete stillness would stop everything, or if not, that I would at least get a little rest before things got more intense. I was also already half in mourning for the homebirth that wouldn't be. Even though I'm on the cusp of the full-term window, the midwives don't deliver at less than 37 weeks. I'm just shy of 36. So on top of any fear about prematurity, I was running down the list of hospital procedures and interventions that I'd now be forced to endure. All the plans and preparations I'd made over the last nine months, out the window. And, crap! I hadn't even washed the baby's clothes yet!
Fortunately, after a solid night of sleep and a little real food, I was feeling much better and less prone to pop at any moment. I still had a moment of panic on Sunday afternoon when I thought my water was about to break at the grocery store, but after that, things pretty much returned to normal. So now I'm back to just feeling awkward, uncomfortable, achey, but, still, patient. This baby will come when it's his time to be here. I can't wait to meet him, but his body will let mine know when he's ready.
So this time around, I've been operating under the idea that second babies usually come a little sooner. But not too soon. Since one of my midwives will be out of town the weekend before my due date, and my mom can't get down here until a few days before, I've made an agreement with this baby that he is to stay where he is until at least June 12th. Which seemed like a reasonable plan; I mean, it's got to be easier to keep them in than to get them out, right? Horses do it all the time. Spook a mare in labor and she'll hold that foal for another three days if she has to.
It seemed like a breech of contract, then, when I started getting the feeling that this baby might not be so willing to stay put. It began at about 2:40 Saturday morning, when I got hit with The Stomach Crud that has been making its cruel rounds through our social circle. After twelve hours of nutritional evacuation, the general ooginess of the illness started to be countered by a growing unease about the stability of Baby SAM's habitat. The dehydration and low blood sugar were getting to me, both physically and mentally, and the Braxton-Hicks contractions started kicking up. By Saturday night, I was fairly convinced that this baby was on his way. The back pain that came with the bug was causing me to instinctively fold up into shapes I hadn't been in since my last labor. The tightness in my abdomen kept coming, although I was afraid to watch the clock to check if the intervals were regular.
I went to bed at 9:30, hoping that sleep and complete stillness would stop everything, or if not, that I would at least get a little rest before things got more intense. I was also already half in mourning for the homebirth that wouldn't be. Even though I'm on the cusp of the full-term window, the midwives don't deliver at less than 37 weeks. I'm just shy of 36. So on top of any fear about prematurity, I was running down the list of hospital procedures and interventions that I'd now be forced to endure. All the plans and preparations I'd made over the last nine months, out the window. And, crap! I hadn't even washed the baby's clothes yet!
Fortunately, after a solid night of sleep and a little real food, I was feeling much better and less prone to pop at any moment. I still had a moment of panic on Sunday afternoon when I thought my water was about to break at the grocery store, but after that, things pretty much returned to normal. So now I'm back to just feeling awkward, uncomfortable, achey, but, still, patient. This baby will come when it's his time to be here. I can't wait to meet him, but his body will let mine know when he's ready.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Dirty Mind
I've told this story 138 times, but I feel I should engrave it on the Interweb before it escapes my feeble memory.
Miss M and I were in bed one Sunday morning, talking about the upcoming arrival of Baby SAM. We've already decided what we'll be naming him, but since we hope to keep it a secret just a little while longer, we haven't told the chattiest member of the family what our plans are. We're always trying to look for ways to ease her into the idea that it won't be Jack, despite what she's been telling people for the last few months. And so we now join our conversation already in progress ...
SAM: So, what do you think we should name the baby?
MISS M: Jack!
SAM: Okay, well, you can call him that if you'd like, but mommy and daddy might call him something else.
MISS M: No! His name is Jack!
SAM: Okay, okay, what about a middle name? What should his middle name be?
MISS M (ponders): Cass.
SAM: Yeah? Cass? Hmm. Jack Cass. Jack Cass. Jacka ... Miss M!
And then, despite our ongoing efforts not to give too much notice to her less than polite phraseology, I absolutely dissolved in giggles. And then swore she wasn't allowed to ride in the car with her dad anymore.
Miss M and I were in bed one Sunday morning, talking about the upcoming arrival of Baby SAM. We've already decided what we'll be naming him, but since we hope to keep it a secret just a little while longer, we haven't told the chattiest member of the family what our plans are. We're always trying to look for ways to ease her into the idea that it won't be Jack, despite what she's been telling people for the last few months. And so we now join our conversation already in progress ...
SAM: So, what do you think we should name the baby?
MISS M: Jack!
SAM: Okay, well, you can call him that if you'd like, but mommy and daddy might call him something else.
MISS M: No! His name is Jack!
SAM: Okay, okay, what about a middle name? What should his middle name be?
MISS M (ponders): Cass.
SAM: Yeah? Cass? Hmm. Jack Cass. Jack Cass. Jacka ... Miss M!
And then, despite our ongoing efforts not to give too much notice to her less than polite phraseology, I absolutely dissolved in giggles. And then swore she wasn't allowed to ride in the car with her dad anymore.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
I Know I'm Gonna Love You Any Old Way
Last night was our home visit with the midwives, which basically meant that they got familiar with the drive to our house, the location of our bedroom and where they should soak the towels. When we told Miss M that they would be coming over, she asked, "Are they coming to take the baby out or just checking him?" We assured her it was the latter. Thanks to a very sweet and fairly detailed picture book about homebirth, M has a pretty solid idea of what midwives are and what they do, but apparently she's a little overconfident in their actual baby-bringing abilities.
I try not to focus attention on Miss M's bashfulness and I avoid using the word "shy" when she's hiding behind me and refusing to acknowledge a single word spoken by anyone she's known less than 10% of her life, so after they arrived I just let the midwives talk to her and ask her questions without stepping in to explain that she probably wouldn't answer. And I'm glad I resisted that urge, because I would have felt pretty foolish when she engaged in conversation with these two strangers as if they'd been visiting for months. I'm sure it helped that they showed up with a bag of interesting and mysterious medical devices that she was dying to get into, but mostly she just seemed at ease with these naturally calm, comforting women.
Part of the visit included a basic stat check, and Miss M was thrilled to be asked to help as they checked my blood pressure, measured my belly and listened to the baby's heartbeat. I wish I had a picture of her eagerly handing paper towels to Andrea (with anyone else, I'd have expected her to hand me the towels and pull on my arm until I gave them over) and then helping her wipe the doppler goop off my stomach. Or the focused look on her face as she followed Andrea's hands around the outline of the baby's body. It was truly one of the sweetest moments of this pregnancy. I have a lot of anxiety about the sibling transition, but seeing her bond with her baby brother and doing her best to care for us both gave me a new, albeit tenuous, confidence that we'll all make it through okay. I knew that having a homebirth would allow me a closer connection to my birthing body, but I didn't expect it to connect us all.
I try not to focus attention on Miss M's bashfulness and I avoid using the word "shy" when she's hiding behind me and refusing to acknowledge a single word spoken by anyone she's known less than 10% of her life, so after they arrived I just let the midwives talk to her and ask her questions without stepping in to explain that she probably wouldn't answer. And I'm glad I resisted that urge, because I would have felt pretty foolish when she engaged in conversation with these two strangers as if they'd been visiting for months. I'm sure it helped that they showed up with a bag of interesting and mysterious medical devices that she was dying to get into, but mostly she just seemed at ease with these naturally calm, comforting women.
Part of the visit included a basic stat check, and Miss M was thrilled to be asked to help as they checked my blood pressure, measured my belly and listened to the baby's heartbeat. I wish I had a picture of her eagerly handing paper towels to Andrea (with anyone else, I'd have expected her to hand me the towels and pull on my arm until I gave them over) and then helping her wipe the doppler goop off my stomach. Or the focused look on her face as she followed Andrea's hands around the outline of the baby's body. It was truly one of the sweetest moments of this pregnancy. I have a lot of anxiety about the sibling transition, but seeing her bond with her baby brother and doing her best to care for us both gave me a new, albeit tenuous, confidence that we'll all make it through okay. I knew that having a homebirth would allow me a closer connection to my birthing body, but I didn't expect it to connect us all.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Why D'You Do Me Like You Do?
I've officially hit the point in this pregnancy when the blessings of gestation just keep coming: aching joints, insomnia, tendency to forget one's brilliant blog ideas, and of course, the constant questioning of strangers as to my dwindling tolerance for fetus-toting. "Are you just over the whole pregnancy thing?" they ask. Or, "Bet you're ready for this to be over, huh?" Or, "Are you totally miserable yet?"
But the thing is, I'm not. Part of it is from having the good luck to have a relatively hassle-free pregnancy, but mostly it's because, as a second-time mom, I know what happens next. And this, right now? Is way, way easier.
It also helps (or not) that my every working day is filled with brand-new babies. I've never had the time to develop maternity amnesia. I see the squalling newborns, the fussy infants, the irascible toddlers. And perhaps more significantly, I see the brand-new moms and I can easily recall all the exhausted, tearful, swollen, puke-stained days of early motherhood. And the nights. Oh, the nights. We've only recently gotten to a point where Miss M stays in her own bed for most of the night, and now we're starting all over again. We've also, just in the last two weeks, hit a major bathroom milestone: Miss M has been using the bathroom just fine for quite some time, but it wasn't until this month that she started actually going by herself. I noted this to The Admiral the other day and he replied, "Yep, and just five more weeks until we start diapers again!"
Of course, I also have the benefit of hindsight, and the gift of knowing that, as impossibly long as the hours seem at 3am, a year or two really does go by quickly. I frequently tell new moms "The days are slow, but the months are fast," and it really is true. I'm trying to remind myself of that before those slow days arrive, so that I can do a better job of appreciating the positives of the baby time - the firsts, the snuggles, the complete symbiosis between mama and child - and less time frustrated about how long it will be until I can read an entire book or shower with the door closed.
But the thing is, I'm not. Part of it is from having the good luck to have a relatively hassle-free pregnancy, but mostly it's because, as a second-time mom, I know what happens next. And this, right now? Is way, way easier.
It also helps (or not) that my every working day is filled with brand-new babies. I've never had the time to develop maternity amnesia. I see the squalling newborns, the fussy infants, the irascible toddlers. And perhaps more significantly, I see the brand-new moms and I can easily recall all the exhausted, tearful, swollen, puke-stained days of early motherhood. And the nights. Oh, the nights. We've only recently gotten to a point where Miss M stays in her own bed for most of the night, and now we're starting all over again. We've also, just in the last two weeks, hit a major bathroom milestone: Miss M has been using the bathroom just fine for quite some time, but it wasn't until this month that she started actually going by herself. I noted this to The Admiral the other day and he replied, "Yep, and just five more weeks until we start diapers again!"
Of course, I also have the benefit of hindsight, and the gift of knowing that, as impossibly long as the hours seem at 3am, a year or two really does go by quickly. I frequently tell new moms "The days are slow, but the months are fast," and it really is true. I'm trying to remind myself of that before those slow days arrive, so that I can do a better job of appreciating the positives of the baby time - the firsts, the snuggles, the complete symbiosis between mama and child - and less time frustrated about how long it will be until I can read an entire book or shower with the door closed.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Kids Are Alright
As I was watching the news (meaning, of course, The Today Show - I prefer that all my current events be interspersed with cooking demos) this morning, I got pulled into a "report" about a growing trend among new parents. They called these parents "grupsters," which I suppose is some combination of hipster and ... I don't know. Grown-up, maybe, except the point of the label was that it identified parents who were doing their best to avoid the irrevocably adult duties of child-rearing. Although really, it just seemed like they were talking about people who were trying to interlace parenting with their own identities, which in most cases appeared to be "aging college radio DJ."
The pictures painted of these parents were mixed. Some looked like regular yet enviably hip folks who just wanted to expose their kids to a wider variety of cultural (and pop cultural) experiences. Others, however, seemed so determined to avoid the faintest whiff of mainstream babyness that their goals were on the polar opposite but nonetheless extreme side of the stage mother/sports dad spectrum. Although funnier, because they didn't seem to see the irony of trying to force their toddlers to be punk.
There was an all-around rabid opinion against big purple dinosaurs and Australian pseudo-bands, with these parents preferring disco dance parties to Saturday morning cartoons. And while I relate to that leaning, it did get me to thinking about whether or not it's a great idea to push small children completely away from kid-friendly culture and into our own. Maybe all that stuff is intolerably bland for good reason. In a world that's got to be completely overwhelming about 90% of the time, what would best refresh a tiny brain - a plinky little ditty about tying your shoes or, I don't know, Lou Reed? I'm not at all opposed to little kids listening to music that wasn't specifically packaged for them, but it seems a bit rigid to completely shun anything that was designed to appeal to their developing artistic sweet spots. (Full disclosure: Miss M's current favorite album is Bob Dylan's Modern Times, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't understand the metaphors about Hurricane Katrina and economic discrimination.)
The story was summed up by two dads, one of whom said, "The baby has entered our world, we haven't entered his," and another who said (essentially; give me a break, I already remembered one quote), "There's no way around the fact that having a child changes your life." Although I've had my own grupster tendencies, I have to admit that Second Dad is right. Or righter, anyway. Yeah, I'd rather take my baby to Music For Aardvarks than Kindermusik, or better yet, to a real show like Rock n'Romp, but when Friday night rolls around and I have to choose between dragging a cranky pre-schooler out to a coffeehouse concert or cuddling up on the couch to watch Cinderella for the 119th time, my hipmama cred gets put on hold.
The pictures painted of these parents were mixed. Some looked like regular yet enviably hip folks who just wanted to expose their kids to a wider variety of cultural (and pop cultural) experiences. Others, however, seemed so determined to avoid the faintest whiff of mainstream babyness that their goals were on the polar opposite but nonetheless extreme side of the stage mother/sports dad spectrum. Although funnier, because they didn't seem to see the irony of trying to force their toddlers to be punk.
There was an all-around rabid opinion against big purple dinosaurs and Australian pseudo-bands, with these parents preferring disco dance parties to Saturday morning cartoons. And while I relate to that leaning, it did get me to thinking about whether or not it's a great idea to push small children completely away from kid-friendly culture and into our own. Maybe all that stuff is intolerably bland for good reason. In a world that's got to be completely overwhelming about 90% of the time, what would best refresh a tiny brain - a plinky little ditty about tying your shoes or, I don't know, Lou Reed? I'm not at all opposed to little kids listening to music that wasn't specifically packaged for them, but it seems a bit rigid to completely shun anything that was designed to appeal to their developing artistic sweet spots. (Full disclosure: Miss M's current favorite album is Bob Dylan's Modern Times, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't understand the metaphors about Hurricane Katrina and economic discrimination.)
The story was summed up by two dads, one of whom said, "The baby has entered our world, we haven't entered his," and another who said (essentially; give me a break, I already remembered one quote), "There's no way around the fact that having a child changes your life." Although I've had my own grupster tendencies, I have to admit that Second Dad is right. Or righter, anyway. Yeah, I'd rather take my baby to Music For Aardvarks than Kindermusik, or better yet, to a real show like Rock n'Romp, but when Friday night rolls around and I have to choose between dragging a cranky pre-schooler out to a coffeehouse concert or cuddling up on the couch to watch Cinderella for the 119th time, my hipmama cred gets put on hold.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Here Comes My Girl
Uttered by Miss M today, and in inadvertent summary of our entire 30-year-old-to-3-year-old relationship:
"I want you! I want you! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!"
"I want you! I want you! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!"
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Getting To Feel Free And Easy
We now continue the Getting To Know Your Blogger series with my inaugural but sure to be repeated IM conversation with Stephanie of One Of Each, who I've just cyber-cornered at her desk during her mid-day break.
SAM: What's for lunch?
Stephanie: A turkey sandwich and a 100-calorie bag of microwave popcorn. That is my standard meal if I'm not at a restaurant for lunch.
SAM: Every dang day?
Stephanie: Pretty much.
SAM: Sounds sort of chillingly efficient. Is that why you drink so heavily in the evenings?
Stephanie: When I was doing Weight Watchers, I ate a light lunch so that there would be points left over for that evening's wine, so I guess they're related. But the kids are the main reason I drink.
SAM: Of course. With kids like yours, I'm not sure I’d have anything in the pantry but bourbon.
Stephanie: It's easier to ignore the size of Chloe's head if I have a good buzz.
SAM: That explains why you always bring wine to monkey gatherings.
Stephanie: We bring wine to every gathering. We love wine! We went to Napa and Sonoma on our honeymoon.
SAM: Okay, we can explore that more deeply in the Cry For Help section of the interview.
Stephanie: I thought this was supposed to be uplifting. I guess painting me as a lush is funny?
SAM: Well, your attorney asked me not to talk about the crack.
Stephanie: My attorney earns his retainer.
SAM: We can explore that more deeply in the Way, Way Too Personal Information About the Chockleyblogs section of the interview. Or not.
Stephanie: It's helpful to have an attorney on staff. Especially to fight the credit card companies when I keep getting my wallet stolen.
SAM: So let's get right to what the people really want to know: what is it, exactly and in as specific detail as possible, that makes you such an avid admirer and appreciator of SAM?
Stephanie: First of all, she's beautiful. Secondly, she's super-smart and a fantastic writer. But mostly she doesn't say much, so she almost never interrupts me when I'm talking.
SAM: This is the best interview ever. Microwave popcorn's on me for the next month.
Stephanie: I just bought a box of 42 at Costco! I got a tear in my eye when I saw the box- it's a new addition at Costco.
SAM: Costco makes me weep a little, but not really for the same reason.
Stephanie: Am I about to receive a lecture about its evils? Because I've got a box of Easy Mac at home that says you're wrong.
SAM: Oh, no, no. I don't necessarily equate soul-sucking with evil. Speaking of, what's your favorite reality TV show?
Stephanie: If buying in bulk makes me soul-less, I can probably live with that.
American Idol, of course.
SAM: I usually keep at least passing attention on it, but I've completely ignored it this season. I just can't stand that they've let Simon's haircut go on this long.
Stephanie: I think Simon is hot.
SAM: So does Simon.
Stephanie: True. That's part of his charm. Last night was their big charity/telethon thing. It has inspired much email debate about fundraising between me and my brother.
SAM: Your side being?
Stephanie: We were just questioning how much of a profit Fox made from advertising on last night's show, for one thing. Also, I thought their fundraising lacked focus. It was like they couldn't agree on one charity to support, so they just said "Poor kids!" and left it at that.
Plus Celine Dion did a duet with Elvis, and we were debating which level of hell the people who put that together will end up.
SAM: Handy segue: In my extensive research (i.e., reading the comments on my own blog), I uncovered that you have a background in fundraising. Tell the good people about that, please.
Stephanie: This will easily be the most embarrassing part of the interview.
I work at Rhodes College, my alma mater, in the Development Department. Development is a fancy word for fundraising, for those of you not in a non-profit. My job is to research potential prospects.
SAM: Dig up rich people?
Stephanie: Yes, it's as crass as it sounds. Part of the job is to dig them up, but a lot of my job is to prepare those who are going to do the asking before they go visit someone. Rich people know you are going to ask them for money, and they expect you to have a proposal geared towards their interests.
SAM: And teaching them the Secret Rich People Handshake?
Stephanie: Oh, the fundraisers never actually learn that. We don't make enough money.
A lot of my friends think I'm a stalker, but it's really about doing the ego dance with these people. Ask them for the right thing, ask for the right amount- they get insulted if you ask for too much or too little. Rich people know I exist. It's poor people who find my job repulsive.
SAM: In your extremely entertaining and informative interview with RJA, you made a comment about having "a mindless job that would leave you free to pursue your true passions." Or something like that. I'm too tired to look it up. Is that how you would describe your current job situation? Except not, you know, in front of your boss?
Stephanie: I wouldn't describe my job as mindless - I was really suggesting that for him. But I do have a job that I can leave behind at 5:00. I don't have so much work that I have to bring it home, or so much responsibility that I end up thinking about work when I'm not there.
My true passions are being a wife and mother. I realized too late that I was meant to be June Cleaver.
SAM: You do rock the heels.
Stephanie: I don't want anyone to know that I'm only 5'4''
But I was smart, went to college- I thought I was supposed to have a big career. I realized later on that my calling was more domestic than I had hoped, and I quit trying to satisfy my ego through my work.
SAM: So where do you see yourself in 15-20 years, when the kids are out of the house? Finishing that Masters?
Stephanie: Whatever for? In 15-20 years I have to still be working here so that the kids get a discount on college!
SAM: Yeah, that's our college savings plan, too. We figure the best way to get a kid to want to go to a specific college is to tell them they HAVE to.
Stephanie: I have a variety of options for my kids. Rhodes is free, but other colleges give a big discount. Associated Colleges of the South.
SAM: So no pressure at all for them to hang around home?
Stephanie: No. I sometimes regret not leaving Memphis when that perfect opportunity presented itself. I'm happy I stayed here and met Chip, but otherwise I should have taken the chance to leave when it was staring me in the face. It would have been easier to leave town at 18 than it would, say, now.
SAM: Because you're more established in your career and homelife or because of your irreplaceable, relentlessly cool social circle?
Stephanie: A lot more to uproot at this point than just myself, I guess. Everything from not having my mom right around the corner to Chip having to study for and pass another state's bar exam. But I'm not exactly pining to leave town right now. I just think I missed that easy opportunity to experience something else.
Right now I'm anxious to leave East Memphis. All the cool people are in Midtown.
SAM: And it's way safer.
Stephanie: I imagine my new cool neighbors would notice if someone walked out of my house with a TV.
SAM: We tend to be more alert to stuff like that. And we can try to block their escape cars with our hybrids.
Stephanie: Of course. Or run them down on your bikes.
SAM: Well, that would risk tipping over and crushing a basket full of organic papayas.
Stephanie: Well, I hope to get there soon.
SAM: We'd be lucky to have you.
Stephanie: Yes. Then we could have conversations like this in person, and perhaps they would make more sense. Of course, we're both in Midtown right now, but we can pretend like I was at home when you IM'd me.
SAM: Feel free to query any midtowner to see if they've ever had a conversation this long with me in person.
Stephanie: In person my answers would have been longer.
SAM: Ready for the Lightning Round?
Stephanie: Yes.
SAM: Alright. Here we go.
Who plays Stephanie in Chockleyblogs: The Movie?
Stephanie: Chip has long maintained that I look like Elisabeth Shue, but I'm not sure she has the chops to pull it off. I'm a complicated character.
SAM: Okay, Chip's insane. But moving on.
Farmer's market or grocery store?
Stephanie: Grocery store. We're not much for fresh vegetables in my family. And with that answer, Midtown will be rejecting my passport.
SAM: Yeah, you're lucky you got a work visa.
Paris or London?
Stephanie: Paris. (I've decided to embrace the spirit of the lightning round and quit explaining my answers.)
SAM: There we go.
Connery or Brosnan?
Stephanie: Connery
SAM: Paper or plastic?
Stephanie: Paper
SAM: White or red?
Stephanie: White
SAM: Movie theater or DVD?
Stephanie: DVD
SAM: Dining With Monkeys or Fertile Ground?
Stephanie: Fertile Ground
SAM: January or July?
Stephanie: Ugh. July
SAM: Back yard or front yard?
Stephanie: Front
SAM: Pro or NCAA?
Stephanie: Pro
They're all pros, though.
SAM: I'm still trying to explain to my dad why college athletes shouldn't get paid to play.
Stephanie: But they should!
SAM: They do. It's called a scholarship. To college.
Stephanie: So many people making so much money off of them. Pay them market value, and maybe they'd stay in school and finish their degrees.
A scholarship to college is valuable to someone who is going to use their education to earn a living. College athletes do not fall into that category.
SAM: Sigh. You're drunk right now, aren't you?
Stephanie: I wish!
SAM: I'll let you get back to soliciting the Howells in a moment, but because I think everyone should get a chance to publicly answer them, we'll close with the the Ten Questions from Inside the Actor's Studio and ... that French show about boullion.
What is your favorite word?
Stephanie: It's a tie between cocktail and kumquat
By the way, I hate these questions.
SAM: Angelina Jolie would never say that.
Stephanie: We can't all be Angie.
SAM: Okay, I'll just make up the other nine.
Stephanie: No! I'll answer them.
SAM: No, no, I don't want to end on a grudging note.
Stephanie: Well then, don't print the part where I say I hate these. I'll honestly answer. I just always feel I have the wrong answers!
SAM: How can it be wrong? Just don't do that actor thing where you pretend to stop and think about it when they've already got their responses all prepared.
Stephanie: Cocktail and kumquat were definitely prepared. I debated which one I would say, but had to go with the tie.
SAM: What is your least favorite ... American Idol theme night?
Stephanie: This season it was Latin night.
SAM: What turns you on?
Stephanie: Instant messaging, of course.
SAM: (flipping hair over my shoulder) Well.
What makes you turn the TV off?
Stephanie: When the electricity goes out.
SAM: What is your favorite curse word?
Stephanie: Douchebag
SAM: What sound or noise do you love?
Stephanie: Such a cliche, but my kids' voices
SAM: What sounds or noise do your children love making in public places?
Stephanie: Burps and farts. An occasional screech.
SAM: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? (I love how they say, "attempt," because James Lipton knows you're never going to make it without the proper job training.)
Stephanie: Sideline reporter on Monday Night Football.
SAM: What do you think is really the World's Oldest Profession?
Stephanie: Blogger
SAM: If Heaven exists beyond the lobby of Sakura, what would you like to hear The Great Sushi Master say when you arrive?
Stephanie: It's okay- we'll let you in anyway.
SAM: What's for lunch?
Stephanie: A turkey sandwich and a 100-calorie bag of microwave popcorn. That is my standard meal if I'm not at a restaurant for lunch.
SAM: Every dang day?
Stephanie: Pretty much.
SAM: Sounds sort of chillingly efficient. Is that why you drink so heavily in the evenings?
Stephanie: When I was doing Weight Watchers, I ate a light lunch so that there would be points left over for that evening's wine, so I guess they're related. But the kids are the main reason I drink.
SAM: Of course. With kids like yours, I'm not sure I’d have anything in the pantry but bourbon.
Stephanie: It's easier to ignore the size of Chloe's head if I have a good buzz.
SAM: That explains why you always bring wine to monkey gatherings.
Stephanie: We bring wine to every gathering. We love wine! We went to Napa and Sonoma on our honeymoon.
SAM: Okay, we can explore that more deeply in the Cry For Help section of the interview.
Stephanie: I thought this was supposed to be uplifting. I guess painting me as a lush is funny?
SAM: Well, your attorney asked me not to talk about the crack.
Stephanie: My attorney earns his retainer.
SAM: We can explore that more deeply in the Way, Way Too Personal Information About the Chockleyblogs section of the interview. Or not.
Stephanie: It's helpful to have an attorney on staff. Especially to fight the credit card companies when I keep getting my wallet stolen.
SAM: So let's get right to what the people really want to know: what is it, exactly and in as specific detail as possible, that makes you such an avid admirer and appreciator of SAM?
Stephanie: First of all, she's beautiful. Secondly, she's super-smart and a fantastic writer. But mostly she doesn't say much, so she almost never interrupts me when I'm talking.
SAM: This is the best interview ever. Microwave popcorn's on me for the next month.
Stephanie: I just bought a box of 42 at Costco! I got a tear in my eye when I saw the box- it's a new addition at Costco.
SAM: Costco makes me weep a little, but not really for the same reason.
Stephanie: Am I about to receive a lecture about its evils? Because I've got a box of Easy Mac at home that says you're wrong.
SAM: Oh, no, no. I don't necessarily equate soul-sucking with evil. Speaking of, what's your favorite reality TV show?
Stephanie: If buying in bulk makes me soul-less, I can probably live with that.
American Idol, of course.
SAM: I usually keep at least passing attention on it, but I've completely ignored it this season. I just can't stand that they've let Simon's haircut go on this long.
Stephanie: I think Simon is hot.
SAM: So does Simon.
Stephanie: True. That's part of his charm. Last night was their big charity/telethon thing. It has inspired much email debate about fundraising between me and my brother.
SAM: Your side being?
Stephanie: We were just questioning how much of a profit Fox made from advertising on last night's show, for one thing. Also, I thought their fundraising lacked focus. It was like they couldn't agree on one charity to support, so they just said "Poor kids!" and left it at that.
Plus Celine Dion did a duet with Elvis, and we were debating which level of hell the people who put that together will end up.
SAM: Handy segue: In my extensive research (i.e., reading the comments on my own blog), I uncovered that you have a background in fundraising. Tell the good people about that, please.
Stephanie: This will easily be the most embarrassing part of the interview.
I work at Rhodes College, my alma mater, in the Development Department. Development is a fancy word for fundraising, for those of you not in a non-profit. My job is to research potential prospects.
SAM: Dig up rich people?
Stephanie: Yes, it's as crass as it sounds. Part of the job is to dig them up, but a lot of my job is to prepare those who are going to do the asking before they go visit someone. Rich people know you are going to ask them for money, and they expect you to have a proposal geared towards their interests.
SAM: And teaching them the Secret Rich People Handshake?
Stephanie: Oh, the fundraisers never actually learn that. We don't make enough money.
A lot of my friends think I'm a stalker, but it's really about doing the ego dance with these people. Ask them for the right thing, ask for the right amount- they get insulted if you ask for too much or too little. Rich people know I exist. It's poor people who find my job repulsive.
SAM: In your extremely entertaining and informative interview with RJA, you made a comment about having "a mindless job that would leave you free to pursue your true passions." Or something like that. I'm too tired to look it up. Is that how you would describe your current job situation? Except not, you know, in front of your boss?
Stephanie: I wouldn't describe my job as mindless - I was really suggesting that for him. But I do have a job that I can leave behind at 5:00. I don't have so much work that I have to bring it home, or so much responsibility that I end up thinking about work when I'm not there.
My true passions are being a wife and mother. I realized too late that I was meant to be June Cleaver.
SAM: You do rock the heels.
Stephanie: I don't want anyone to know that I'm only 5'4''
But I was smart, went to college- I thought I was supposed to have a big career. I realized later on that my calling was more domestic than I had hoped, and I quit trying to satisfy my ego through my work.
SAM: So where do you see yourself in 15-20 years, when the kids are out of the house? Finishing that Masters?
Stephanie: Whatever for? In 15-20 years I have to still be working here so that the kids get a discount on college!
SAM: Yeah, that's our college savings plan, too. We figure the best way to get a kid to want to go to a specific college is to tell them they HAVE to.
Stephanie: I have a variety of options for my kids. Rhodes is free, but other colleges give a big discount. Associated Colleges of the South.
SAM: So no pressure at all for them to hang around home?
Stephanie: No. I sometimes regret not leaving Memphis when that perfect opportunity presented itself. I'm happy I stayed here and met Chip, but otherwise I should have taken the chance to leave when it was staring me in the face. It would have been easier to leave town at 18 than it would, say, now.
SAM: Because you're more established in your career and homelife or because of your irreplaceable, relentlessly cool social circle?
Stephanie: A lot more to uproot at this point than just myself, I guess. Everything from not having my mom right around the corner to Chip having to study for and pass another state's bar exam. But I'm not exactly pining to leave town right now. I just think I missed that easy opportunity to experience something else.
Right now I'm anxious to leave East Memphis. All the cool people are in Midtown.
SAM: And it's way safer.
Stephanie: I imagine my new cool neighbors would notice if someone walked out of my house with a TV.
SAM: We tend to be more alert to stuff like that. And we can try to block their escape cars with our hybrids.
Stephanie: Of course. Or run them down on your bikes.
SAM: Well, that would risk tipping over and crushing a basket full of organic papayas.
Stephanie: Well, I hope to get there soon.
SAM: We'd be lucky to have you.
Stephanie: Yes. Then we could have conversations like this in person, and perhaps they would make more sense. Of course, we're both in Midtown right now, but we can pretend like I was at home when you IM'd me.
SAM: Feel free to query any midtowner to see if they've ever had a conversation this long with me in person.
Stephanie: In person my answers would have been longer.
SAM: Ready for the Lightning Round?
Stephanie: Yes.
SAM: Alright. Here we go.
Who plays Stephanie in Chockleyblogs: The Movie?
Stephanie: Chip has long maintained that I look like Elisabeth Shue, but I'm not sure she has the chops to pull it off. I'm a complicated character.
SAM: Okay, Chip's insane. But moving on.
Farmer's market or grocery store?
Stephanie: Grocery store. We're not much for fresh vegetables in my family. And with that answer, Midtown will be rejecting my passport.
SAM: Yeah, you're lucky you got a work visa.
Paris or London?
Stephanie: Paris. (I've decided to embrace the spirit of the lightning round and quit explaining my answers.)
SAM: There we go.
Connery or Brosnan?
Stephanie: Connery
SAM: Paper or plastic?
Stephanie: Paper
SAM: White or red?
Stephanie: White
SAM: Movie theater or DVD?
Stephanie: DVD
SAM: Dining With Monkeys or Fertile Ground?
Stephanie: Fertile Ground
SAM: January or July?
Stephanie: Ugh. July
SAM: Back yard or front yard?
Stephanie: Front
SAM: Pro or NCAA?
Stephanie: Pro
They're all pros, though.
SAM: I'm still trying to explain to my dad why college athletes shouldn't get paid to play.
Stephanie: But they should!
SAM: They do. It's called a scholarship. To college.
Stephanie: So many people making so much money off of them. Pay them market value, and maybe they'd stay in school and finish their degrees.
A scholarship to college is valuable to someone who is going to use their education to earn a living. College athletes do not fall into that category.
SAM: Sigh. You're drunk right now, aren't you?
Stephanie: I wish!
SAM: I'll let you get back to soliciting the Howells in a moment, but because I think everyone should get a chance to publicly answer them, we'll close with the the Ten Questions from Inside the Actor's Studio and ... that French show about boullion.
What is your favorite word?
Stephanie: It's a tie between cocktail and kumquat
By the way, I hate these questions.
SAM: Angelina Jolie would never say that.
Stephanie: We can't all be Angie.
SAM: Okay, I'll just make up the other nine.
Stephanie: No! I'll answer them.
SAM: No, no, I don't want to end on a grudging note.
Stephanie: Well then, don't print the part where I say I hate these. I'll honestly answer. I just always feel I have the wrong answers!
SAM: How can it be wrong? Just don't do that actor thing where you pretend to stop and think about it when they've already got their responses all prepared.
Stephanie: Cocktail and kumquat were definitely prepared. I debated which one I would say, but had to go with the tie.
SAM: What is your least favorite ... American Idol theme night?
Stephanie: This season it was Latin night.
SAM: What turns you on?
Stephanie: Instant messaging, of course.
SAM: (flipping hair over my shoulder) Well.
What makes you turn the TV off?
Stephanie: When the electricity goes out.
SAM: What is your favorite curse word?
Stephanie: Douchebag
SAM: What sound or noise do you love?
Stephanie: Such a cliche, but my kids' voices
SAM: What sounds or noise do your children love making in public places?
Stephanie: Burps and farts. An occasional screech.
SAM: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? (I love how they say, "attempt," because James Lipton knows you're never going to make it without the proper job training.)
Stephanie: Sideline reporter on Monday Night Football.
SAM: What do you think is really the World's Oldest Profession?
Stephanie: Blogger
SAM: If Heaven exists beyond the lobby of Sakura, what would you like to hear The Great Sushi Master say when you arrive?
Stephanie: It's okay- we'll let you in anyway.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Working For The Next Day
Last night the SAM household hosted A Big Discussion. Or as big a discussion as is possible when I'm one half of the participants, anyway. We were going over our family financials and came to a number of unpleasant realizations about our current and foreseeable future status. Such discussions always lead to the question, spoken or not, about just what the hell I'm doing with my life. Am I an at-home mom? Well, obviously not, since I go to work five days a week. So am I a working mom? Well, that's sort of tricky to answer. I do run two businesses on my own, yes. And that's work. But most working adults draw a salary of some sort to pay for things like food and shelter and the childcare required to allow a full-time work schedule. So, really, what the hell am I doing?
I've been trying to answer this question for months now, ever since I announced that I was putting the store up for sale. At that point, I'd decided that it wasn't in our family interest to keep a stake in a business that was taking so much of my time and wasn't bringing any income, especially with another time-sucker ... er, baby on the way. I wasn't happy about it, per se, but I could see the advantages, especially when The Admiral's massive swaths of vacation time were repeatedly wasted by my tether to the store.
The plan then, as I saw it, was to sell the store and focus fully on booking, perhaps expanding into management, promotion or publishing. There would be virtually no overhead, my hours would be extremely flexible, and my pay would be determined by how much I was able to work rather than the fickle demands of the sling-buying public. Plus, I'd get to keep that minor degree of coolness imparted on music professionals. Maybe once the babies were bigger, I could tour manage, actually hitting the road and seeing all the cities I was vicariously working in.
But then something happened. Or a few somethings, maybe. Firstly, a really cool group of moms started coming to the store on a regular basis, anchoring our playgroup and resurrecting our breastfeeding support group. They became good friends and compatriots, and their concern over the future of the store made me start questioning the true necessity of my leaving. And listening to their questions. Could I make a go of it if I had more help? Were there marketing opportunities or revenue streams I wasn't yet taking advantage of? If I couldn't find a buyer, I wouldn't really, truly just close the doors, would I?
Then I noticed a For Rent sign in a newly renovated house across the street and started having fantasies about what we could offer in that kind of space - more classes, bigger gatherings, maybe even a diaper service. I told the other moms about it, I discussed it with The Admiral, I practically decorated it over the phone with my mom. I started making a business plan to include the capital I'd need to expand. I could really see things working out.
And then the sign went down, just like that. As if the owner couldn't psychically glean all my big plans for that space. When I saw the empty spot on the lawn, my first reaction was disappointment. I didn't know how attached I'd gotten to my hypotheticals until I realized they couldn't happen. It got me wondering how I'd really feel about selling or, worse, closing the business, and whether I'd really considered all of my options.
During all of this, of course, I was trying to set up anywhere from 1 to 4 multi-state tours at a time. And that ... was not fun. As much as I enjoy working with musicians and going to shows, the daily drudgery of pimping gigs is a consistently soul-sapping venture. I also felt like I was always behind, always neglecting at least one artist (usually more) for the sake of another. I have a very low tolerance for disappointing people, and even when I was trying my hardest, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was constantly disappointed in me. And then I'd get just a teence resentful that I was exhausting myself on behalf of grown (childless) adults when I could have been spending an equal amount of time doing something more personally rewarding. Like napping.
So ... easy decision, then? Scrap the booking and save the store? Sigh. Of course it can't be that simple. For starters, I'm about to the end of the fraying rope that's passed for my operating capital. I can't keep the store open without an investor or outside loan, both of which I'm reluctant to pursue. And then there's the reality of this tiny person about to emerge from my body. I had 8 weeks of maternity leave with Miss M before I had to go back to the rigors of my at-home office, and it was still a very tough transition. I imagine being able to spring back and come to work with a 2-week-old strapped to my chest, but I have to keep reminding myself how fatigued and frazzled and possibly physically encumbered I'll be. I've had lots of moms offer to help out, but I know I'd still need to be heavily involved in the day to day, just to make sure bills were getting paid.
Yet another factor: the most likely potential buyer for the store won't be making a decision until at least late May. As in, two weeks before I have a baby. So at this point, my options aren't fully known, and they won't be until it's just a fraction before too late. And as much as my college study habits would indicate otherwise, I really prefer not to put anything that important off to the very last minute.
All of this was going through my head last night as we were trying to figure out how we're going to afford Miss M's next month of school and the dog's overdue annual exam all in the same pay period. It's a crushing feeling, as anyone with money woes knows too well. But I tend to take it personally, too. It wasn't all that long ago that The Admiral and I were bringing roughly the same size paychecks into the house, and it's still a blow to my pride (and degree) that I'm not making that kind of contribution anymore. It's also a scary feeling to be a mother to almost-two and not have any sort of financial independence. Without The Admiral, we'd be sunk (boat pun intended but regretted).
So, much like this post, there's no quick, easy wrap-up. The questions are still lingering, with no obvious answer in sight. The sign is there one day, and then gone the next.
I've been trying to answer this question for months now, ever since I announced that I was putting the store up for sale. At that point, I'd decided that it wasn't in our family interest to keep a stake in a business that was taking so much of my time and wasn't bringing any income, especially with another time-sucker ... er, baby on the way. I wasn't happy about it, per se, but I could see the advantages, especially when The Admiral's massive swaths of vacation time were repeatedly wasted by my tether to the store.
The plan then, as I saw it, was to sell the store and focus fully on booking, perhaps expanding into management, promotion or publishing. There would be virtually no overhead, my hours would be extremely flexible, and my pay would be determined by how much I was able to work rather than the fickle demands of the sling-buying public. Plus, I'd get to keep that minor degree of coolness imparted on music professionals. Maybe once the babies were bigger, I could tour manage, actually hitting the road and seeing all the cities I was vicariously working in.
But then something happened. Or a few somethings, maybe. Firstly, a really cool group of moms started coming to the store on a regular basis, anchoring our playgroup and resurrecting our breastfeeding support group. They became good friends and compatriots, and their concern over the future of the store made me start questioning the true necessity of my leaving. And listening to their questions. Could I make a go of it if I had more help? Were there marketing opportunities or revenue streams I wasn't yet taking advantage of? If I couldn't find a buyer, I wouldn't really, truly just close the doors, would I?
Then I noticed a For Rent sign in a newly renovated house across the street and started having fantasies about what we could offer in that kind of space - more classes, bigger gatherings, maybe even a diaper service. I told the other moms about it, I discussed it with The Admiral, I practically decorated it over the phone with my mom. I started making a business plan to include the capital I'd need to expand. I could really see things working out.
And then the sign went down, just like that. As if the owner couldn't psychically glean all my big plans for that space. When I saw the empty spot on the lawn, my first reaction was disappointment. I didn't know how attached I'd gotten to my hypotheticals until I realized they couldn't happen. It got me wondering how I'd really feel about selling or, worse, closing the business, and whether I'd really considered all of my options.
During all of this, of course, I was trying to set up anywhere from 1 to 4 multi-state tours at a time. And that ... was not fun. As much as I enjoy working with musicians and going to shows, the daily drudgery of pimping gigs is a consistently soul-sapping venture. I also felt like I was always behind, always neglecting at least one artist (usually more) for the sake of another. I have a very low tolerance for disappointing people, and even when I was trying my hardest, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was constantly disappointed in me. And then I'd get just a teence resentful that I was exhausting myself on behalf of grown (childless) adults when I could have been spending an equal amount of time doing something more personally rewarding. Like napping.
So ... easy decision, then? Scrap the booking and save the store? Sigh. Of course it can't be that simple. For starters, I'm about to the end of the fraying rope that's passed for my operating capital. I can't keep the store open without an investor or outside loan, both of which I'm reluctant to pursue. And then there's the reality of this tiny person about to emerge from my body. I had 8 weeks of maternity leave with Miss M before I had to go back to the rigors of my at-home office, and it was still a very tough transition. I imagine being able to spring back and come to work with a 2-week-old strapped to my chest, but I have to keep reminding myself how fatigued and frazzled and possibly physically encumbered I'll be. I've had lots of moms offer to help out, but I know I'd still need to be heavily involved in the day to day, just to make sure bills were getting paid.
Yet another factor: the most likely potential buyer for the store won't be making a decision until at least late May. As in, two weeks before I have a baby. So at this point, my options aren't fully known, and they won't be until it's just a fraction before too late. And as much as my college study habits would indicate otherwise, I really prefer not to put anything that important off to the very last minute.
All of this was going through my head last night as we were trying to figure out how we're going to afford Miss M's next month of school and the dog's overdue annual exam all in the same pay period. It's a crushing feeling, as anyone with money woes knows too well. But I tend to take it personally, too. It wasn't all that long ago that The Admiral and I were bringing roughly the same size paychecks into the house, and it's still a blow to my pride (and degree) that I'm not making that kind of contribution anymore. It's also a scary feeling to be a mother to almost-two and not have any sort of financial independence. Without The Admiral, we'd be sunk (boat pun intended but regretted).
So, much like this post, there's no quick, easy wrap-up. The questions are still lingering, with no obvious answer in sight. The sign is there one day, and then gone the next.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
La La La-La La Laaa
There are certain things I expected as a parent. The diapers, the late nights, the constant, inexplicable stickiness - all part of the territory. But I also had certain expectations regarding the small, simple pleasures of parenting. The first smile, those big gummy kisses, and perhaps most importantly, the distant but vivid promise of weekend sleep, granted by the blissful tranquility that only four straight hours of animated programming can provide. I have waited three years for Saturday morning cartoons and now that we can actually make use of them, I've made a startling discovery. Saturday morning cartoons suck.
The first problem is that none of the major networks, at least in Memphis, airs cartoons before 10 am. How, exactly, does that help me? Do they think my pre-schooler is going to sit quietly through a rebroadcast of last night's news or the championship round of Knowledge Bowl? The only hope of finding a "baby show," as Miss M calls them, is to flip on Fox or the CW or the church channel. Giving us the unsettling choice between Power Rangers or low-rent Muppet knock-offs spouting Bible verses.
By the time the big guys start showing cartoons, we're all up and nearly ready for the day, but if we bother to turn something on, odds are good that it will be something ridiculous like "Horseland" or "Trollz" (actual title of the Trollz theme song: "It's A Hair Thing!"). With enough scanning, it's possible to find a couple acceptable options - The Replacements on ABC is decent, but it's sandwiched between a bunch of live action tween fluff.
Maybe the networks have given up trying to compete with the increasing number of all-cartoon or kid-directed cable channels, but as a family that had to bail cable so we could afford to feed our recovering Noggin addict, free TV is our only hope. If we're lucky, we might hit the Babar/Dragon double-header while we're trying to shower or do laundry, but that's really not what I need. I need wall-to-wall, small-child-friendly entertainment from 7-9 am. I need shows that don't make my daughter think that femininity requires a credit card and equine companion. I need the ever-lovin' Smurfs!
The first problem is that none of the major networks, at least in Memphis, airs cartoons before 10 am. How, exactly, does that help me? Do they think my pre-schooler is going to sit quietly through a rebroadcast of last night's news or the championship round of Knowledge Bowl? The only hope of finding a "baby show," as Miss M calls them, is to flip on Fox or the CW or the church channel. Giving us the unsettling choice between Power Rangers or low-rent Muppet knock-offs spouting Bible verses.
By the time the big guys start showing cartoons, we're all up and nearly ready for the day, but if we bother to turn something on, odds are good that it will be something ridiculous like "Horseland" or "Trollz" (actual title of the Trollz theme song: "It's A Hair Thing!"). With enough scanning, it's possible to find a couple acceptable options - The Replacements on ABC is decent, but it's sandwiched between a bunch of live action tween fluff.
Maybe the networks have given up trying to compete with the increasing number of all-cartoon or kid-directed cable channels, but as a family that had to bail cable so we could afford to feed our recovering Noggin addict, free TV is our only hope. If we're lucky, we might hit the Babar/Dragon double-header while we're trying to shower or do laundry, but that's really not what I need. I need wall-to-wall, small-child-friendly entertainment from 7-9 am. I need shows that don't make my daughter think that femininity requires a credit card and equine companion. I need the ever-lovin' Smurfs!
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt
I hate The Ticker. You know, the string of random, unrelated items that appears in a constant stream across the bottom of the screen during morning programs and cable "news" shows. The local NBC affiliate has an especially strange collection of ticker fodder, throwing together 9-word reports on everything from traffic accidents to Britney Spears. So I can't decide if it is a colossal insult or an amazing universal joke that, somewhere between headlines about the Minister-Shooting Wife and the Racially Insensitive Radio Host, I read that, "Author Kurt Vonnegut has died at the age of 84."
The words hit me straight in the gut, and I made some sort of noise. "Oh," maybe. Or, "shit." Something very literary like that. I went on with my morning, getting the child ready for school and reassembling the house and preparing for work, but with that initial ache still present somewhere deep inside me.
I've never understood the people who lay memorial wreaths on the gates of celebrity homes, making such a public demonstration of mourning for someone they never met. But this morning I felt more sympathy for them, understanding from a personal perspective how the loss of someone unknown but revered could bring out that need to remember and respect the ways a stranger's life can affect your own.
Like so many other avid fans, I discovered Vonnegut as a teenager, the perfect age to come across literature that recognizes the total lunacy of nearly every human institution. But as a burgeoning writer, his work also struck me for its ability to mix satire, parody, and scatological humor yet still make it onto the required reading list. It was the first time I was aware that "serious" literature could also be really, really funny. Other than my beloved Twain, I hadn't come across another writer who got any credit from the society at which he poked such merciless fun. Reading Vonnegut was like learning the secret handshake into The Ironist's Club.
I admit that I haven't read the entire Vonnegut oeuvre, but I hold three of his novels to me like cherished friends: Bluebeard, Breakfast of Champions and Slaughterhouse-Five. Rabo, Kilgore and Billy have lived in my head since my adolescence, speaking clear truths with fingers crossed behind their backs, cracking their deadly serious jokes. They're just as alive today as they were yesterday, and they will live on for lifetimes to come. It breaks a place in my heart to know that the brilliant, hilarious man who created them is gone from our midst, but it's hard to mourn a man whose work has left an indelible mark on this and at least three other planets.
He survived the firebombing of Dresden. He died because he fell down.
So it goes.
The words hit me straight in the gut, and I made some sort of noise. "Oh," maybe. Or, "shit." Something very literary like that. I went on with my morning, getting the child ready for school and reassembling the house and preparing for work, but with that initial ache still present somewhere deep inside me.
I've never understood the people who lay memorial wreaths on the gates of celebrity homes, making such a public demonstration of mourning for someone they never met. But this morning I felt more sympathy for them, understanding from a personal perspective how the loss of someone unknown but revered could bring out that need to remember and respect the ways a stranger's life can affect your own.
Like so many other avid fans, I discovered Vonnegut as a teenager, the perfect age to come across literature that recognizes the total lunacy of nearly every human institution. But as a burgeoning writer, his work also struck me for its ability to mix satire, parody, and scatological humor yet still make it onto the required reading list. It was the first time I was aware that "serious" literature could also be really, really funny. Other than my beloved Twain, I hadn't come across another writer who got any credit from the society at which he poked such merciless fun. Reading Vonnegut was like learning the secret handshake into The Ironist's Club.
I admit that I haven't read the entire Vonnegut oeuvre, but I hold three of his novels to me like cherished friends: Bluebeard, Breakfast of Champions and Slaughterhouse-Five. Rabo, Kilgore and Billy have lived in my head since my adolescence, speaking clear truths with fingers crossed behind their backs, cracking their deadly serious jokes. They're just as alive today as they were yesterday, and they will live on for lifetimes to come. It breaks a place in my heart to know that the brilliant, hilarious man who created them is gone from our midst, but it's hard to mourn a man whose work has left an indelible mark on this and at least three other planets.
He survived the firebombing of Dresden. He died because he fell down.
So it goes.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Doctor, My Eyes
I'm an admitted minimalist when it comes to medical interventions, but when I do bother to see a doctor, I believe in being upfront and providing all necessary information in order to receive an accurate diagnosis. Unless, of course, it's the eye doctor. Before I even arrived at Dr. W's office this morning, I'd already practiced my not-quite-truthful answers to questions like, "How long do you usually wear your (supposedly disposable) contacts before throwing them out?" (Um, two weeks ... ish.) "How many hours a day do you wear your contacts?" (Ten is a reasonable number, right? I put them in at 7 am and ... okay, maybe 11.) and "How long have you been wearing this current pair of lenses?" (For some reason, 5 months seems less irresponsible than 7, so ... let's go with 5.).
I don't think I fooled him, though. Dr. W. busted out the PowerPoint slides of his corneal ulcer patient, carefully explaining how bacteria can eat through my eyeball, which is already nearly dead from lack of oxygen. It seemed a bit dramatic, but maybe that's just because no opthamologist has ever given me a single warning about wearing contacts. In the ten years I've been sticking foreign objects into my eyes, I've never had a doctor detail any serious consequences of contact lens use. I haven't been as bad about taking care of my eyes as I have, say, my teeth (what? 8 years is longer than the recommended period between check-ups?), but constant changes in insurance coverage have stymied any efforts at consistent care.
I wanted to explain all that to Dr. W, that my failures as a patient were really due to financial issues and not a general disregard for my corneal health, but I was too busy trying on my fancy new non-toddler-warped glasses. After all that discussion on the importance of airing my eyeballs out, I figured I might as well have a cute way to do it.
I don't think I fooled him, though. Dr. W. busted out the PowerPoint slides of his corneal ulcer patient, carefully explaining how bacteria can eat through my eyeball, which is already nearly dead from lack of oxygen. It seemed a bit dramatic, but maybe that's just because no opthamologist has ever given me a single warning about wearing contacts. In the ten years I've been sticking foreign objects into my eyes, I've never had a doctor detail any serious consequences of contact lens use. I haven't been as bad about taking care of my eyes as I have, say, my teeth (what? 8 years is longer than the recommended period between check-ups?), but constant changes in insurance coverage have stymied any efforts at consistent care.
I wanted to explain all that to Dr. W, that my failures as a patient were really due to financial issues and not a general disregard for my corneal health, but I was too busy trying on my fancy new non-toddler-warped glasses. After all that discussion on the importance of airing my eyeballs out, I figured I might as well have a cute way to do it.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
You Went To School To Learn, Girl
Last night, as we were sitting outside watching Miss M sing and sign her way through an unbearably cute and thoughtfully brief Montessori Centennial program, I realized it's been almost exactly one year since she began attending her school. It's hard to recognize that so much time has passed since her squirming, screaming body was wrenched from mine. Lovingly wrenched, of course. The thing that most impressed and comforted me as Miss M spent her first days away from my constant presence was knowing that the staff was looking out for her emotional needs just as much as her social and educational ones. They acknowledged her need for a temporary pseudo-mom and let her spend her first couple months attached to them rather than pushing her out onto her peers. Their experience gave them patience with her shyness, into which she retreated for several weeks. I was surprised when I picked her up one day and a teacher exclaimed happily, "She's talking now!" It hadn't occurred to me at that point that my little stream-of-consciousness reporter wouldn't be talking, although having seen her work through an increased number of new social situations over the past year, I now realize that's her M.O. But her teachers understood the pattern right away, and rather than stressing either of us out about it, they helped her find her place and get comfortable enough to show her true self.
As I wrote after our parent-teacher conference, Miss M has more than found her place - she has set up a fiefdom. She has a gaggle of friends, a stunning new skill set, and the love of her teachers. All in all, it's a perfect situation. The only problem lately is that she's decided she doesn't want to learn her letters, and this pains me. Not only because she says it makes her "feel shy" when she tries to practice them, which I interpret to mean that she's encountering those first prickles of shame at not being able to catch on to something as quickly as other kids, but also because, what? My kid? Not being interested in letters? This is a possibility I hadn't considered. While Kristy is trying to overcome her math-phobia on behalf of her offspring, I'm now trying to let go of the expectation that my child will be the voracious reader that every other woman in our family is. When my first grade class had library time, I was given special permission to wander away from the picture books and indulge in the high shelves of chapter books. My sister made reading into an Olympic sport, breaking world records as she sped through Little Women for the ninth time. And I can't even think of my mom without picturing a book in front of her. She could even fall dead asleep and still manage to balance an open book on her chest. (Usually one about a serial killer, the cover illustrated with various bloody, dismembered body parts embossed on a creepy, domestic tableau of a background, but that's a traumatic recollection for another day. Oh, and happy birthday, Mom!)
I don't really even recall learning how to read - it was just something I could do, almost from the time of my earliest memories. I don't know if I ever resisted it, or got frustrated by the trickier elements - silent letters, irregular verbs, what a participle was and how to avoid dangling one. The only performance-based school activity I never dreaded was reading out loud. But it has recently come to my attention that The Admiral was just the opposite. I've never known the man to sit down with a novel, but he can burn through an electrical engineering textbook like it's the latest Patterson confection, so I was surprised when we were talking about school memories and he shuddered in remembrance of being called on to read aloud. He abhorred it. It terrified him. I daresay it made him "feel shy." Knowing this, and seeing Miss M's reaction to the dreaded letter boards, has forced me to dump my prejudices against "non-readers" and acknowledge that a passion for fiction isn't necessarily a predictor of future success.
Her ability to perfectly time every movement to their choreographed school song, however, clearly indicates she's an unstoppable genius.
As I wrote after our parent-teacher conference, Miss M has more than found her place - she has set up a fiefdom. She has a gaggle of friends, a stunning new skill set, and the love of her teachers. All in all, it's a perfect situation. The only problem lately is that she's decided she doesn't want to learn her letters, and this pains me. Not only because she says it makes her "feel shy" when she tries to practice them, which I interpret to mean that she's encountering those first prickles of shame at not being able to catch on to something as quickly as other kids, but also because, what? My kid? Not being interested in letters? This is a possibility I hadn't considered. While Kristy is trying to overcome her math-phobia on behalf of her offspring, I'm now trying to let go of the expectation that my child will be the voracious reader that every other woman in our family is. When my first grade class had library time, I was given special permission to wander away from the picture books and indulge in the high shelves of chapter books. My sister made reading into an Olympic sport, breaking world records as she sped through Little Women for the ninth time. And I can't even think of my mom without picturing a book in front of her. She could even fall dead asleep and still manage to balance an open book on her chest. (Usually one about a serial killer, the cover illustrated with various bloody, dismembered body parts embossed on a creepy, domestic tableau of a background, but that's a traumatic recollection for another day. Oh, and happy birthday, Mom!)
I don't really even recall learning how to read - it was just something I could do, almost from the time of my earliest memories. I don't know if I ever resisted it, or got frustrated by the trickier elements - silent letters, irregular verbs, what a participle was and how to avoid dangling one. The only performance-based school activity I never dreaded was reading out loud. But it has recently come to my attention that The Admiral was just the opposite. I've never known the man to sit down with a novel, but he can burn through an electrical engineering textbook like it's the latest Patterson confection, so I was surprised when we were talking about school memories and he shuddered in remembrance of being called on to read aloud. He abhorred it. It terrified him. I daresay it made him "feel shy." Knowing this, and seeing Miss M's reaction to the dreaded letter boards, has forced me to dump my prejudices against "non-readers" and acknowledge that a passion for fiction isn't necessarily a predictor of future success.
Her ability to perfectly time every movement to their choreographed school song, however, clearly indicates she's an unstoppable genius.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Five, Six, Seven O'clock, Eight O'clock Rock
I realize that my posts of late have been very mom-centric and not so secret agent-y, so I thought I should pop in and mention some of the stuff coming up around Skinny River HQ. 
Otherlands has really been putting together some great shows, and considering that they're early (doors at 7pm), smoke-free and always $5 or less, it's a pretty parent-friendly option for a night out. I'm hoping to take advantage of that friendliness this Sunday, April 1 when Jimmy and his buddies Eric Lewis and Tommy Burroughs hit the stage for a pickin' party that, I feel completely safe in saying, will blow the ever-loving acoustic roof off. Those boys can play.
About this time next week - that being Friday, April 6 - Cory will be doing a full evening at Otherlands. I haven't had a chance to see him in his Marlboro-infused natural habitat since I got knocked up, so I'm really looking forward to hearing the new stuff in a pregnancy-safe zone. And eating giant chocolate chip cookies at the same time.
I hope to see some of your lovely faces there. I know it seems disingenuous to say so, but with a schedule as harried as mine, I've had to be very selective about the artists I work with, so it just naturally happens that they're all really quite good. There isn't a soul on that list over there to the right that I wouldn't wholeheartedly exhort you to check out. I know I'm supposed to be the jaded, calculating agent, but really, I'm just terribly thrilled that they let me be a part of what they do.
Oh, and in a sidenote not relating in any way to my income, some of us monkey-wranglers will be heading out to Shangri-La to catch Vending Machine play a quick, free show starting at 5:00 this evening (or as soon as Miss M finishes her ice cream cup at Huey's).
Otherlands has really been putting together some great shows, and considering that they're early (doors at 7pm), smoke-free and always $5 or less, it's a pretty parent-friendly option for a night out. I'm hoping to take advantage of that friendliness this Sunday, April 1 when Jimmy and his buddies Eric Lewis and Tommy Burroughs hit the stage for a pickin' party that, I feel completely safe in saying, will blow the ever-loving acoustic roof off. Those boys can play. About this time next week - that being Friday, April 6 - Cory will be doing a full evening at Otherlands. I haven't had a chance to see him in his Marlboro-infused natural habitat since I got knocked up, so I'm really looking forward to hearing the new stuff in a pregnancy-safe zone. And eating giant chocolate chip cookies at the same time.
I hope to see some of your lovely faces there. I know it seems disingenuous to say so, but with a schedule as harried as mine, I've had to be very selective about the artists I work with, so it just naturally happens that they're all really quite good. There isn't a soul on that list over there to the right that I wouldn't wholeheartedly exhort you to check out. I know I'm supposed to be the jaded, calculating agent, but really, I'm just terribly thrilled that they let me be a part of what they do.
Oh, and in a sidenote not relating in any way to my income, some of us monkey-wranglers will be heading out to Shangri-La to catch Vending Machine play a quick, free show starting at 5:00 this evening (or as soon as Miss M finishes her ice cream cup at Huey's).
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Don't Know When I'll Be Back Again
There was a time, not all that long ago, when I traveled. As a telecommuter, I made regular trips between Memphis and Chicago. I had work assignments in locales like Boston, Orlando, New Orleans and Las Vegas. I frequently visited friends in Los Angeles, and family in San Diego and Minneapolis. I usually made these trips alone, and if it were possible to get into the wayback machine and drop in on my pre-maternal self, the first thing I would say to myself would be, "Hey! Get the hell out of the hotel!"
I squandered most of these trips, I realize that now. My most distinct memory of my time in Boston is staring longingly at a row of one-of-a-kind boutiques as my co-workers and I hurried toward T.G.I. Friday's. My takeaway from Las Vegas is the food court at the Venetian (where, despite what might be expected, the Sbarro is really no better than anywhere else). And even three weeks in Orlando didn't bring me any closer to seeing an inch of DisneyWorld or Universal Studios (although I had a really spectacular anxiety attack at a work-sponsored outing to Sea World). I was too young and too timid to really get out and appreciate these cities. I clung to the familiar, hovered around the few people I knew, and ate a lot of really unnecessarily awful food.
There were some bright spots in my solo world travels, like the film-making road trip to Massachusetts that garnered me a scar that I swear is from a cougar attack and not from a very awkward attempt at leaping over a barbed wire fence. Or the trek to L.A. for my bowling alley baby shower, where in one of the most bizarre coincidences of my life, my college boyfriend was kicking off his bachelor party. But in general, I wasted most of my freewheeling, jet-setting days.
As I near both the end of the "safe air travel" period of pregnancy and my current non-lactating era, I'm feeling a very strong urge to make up for all these under-appreciated journeys. I've been thinking about taking a trip out to San Diego to see my sister, lie on the beach, and read my way through the backlog of novels and New Yorkers on my nightstand. Only downside - and this wouldn't normally be one, but for me wanting to enjoy just a few child-free days - is that my 10-month-old niece would be in the same digs. And as much as I really want to see her, the idea of a vacation involving mashed food of any sort just isn't exactly what I'm looking for. So then I thought about taking a weekend at The Admiral's ancestral condo, eating at Captain Charlie's, reading, lying on the beach (and I don't even like the beach). But the condo is, technically, an over-55 community, and ... well, like I said about the mashed food. I need to figure something out quick, though, because my window of relative freedom is about to slam shut, and at this point, three days of maid service, room service and free HBO doesn't sound like such a waste of time.
I squandered most of these trips, I realize that now. My most distinct memory of my time in Boston is staring longingly at a row of one-of-a-kind boutiques as my co-workers and I hurried toward T.G.I. Friday's. My takeaway from Las Vegas is the food court at the Venetian (where, despite what might be expected, the Sbarro is really no better than anywhere else). And even three weeks in Orlando didn't bring me any closer to seeing an inch of DisneyWorld or Universal Studios (although I had a really spectacular anxiety attack at a work-sponsored outing to Sea World). I was too young and too timid to really get out and appreciate these cities. I clung to the familiar, hovered around the few people I knew, and ate a lot of really unnecessarily awful food.
There were some bright spots in my solo world travels, like the film-making road trip to Massachusetts that garnered me a scar that I swear is from a cougar attack and not from a very awkward attempt at leaping over a barbed wire fence. Or the trek to L.A. for my bowling alley baby shower, where in one of the most bizarre coincidences of my life, my college boyfriend was kicking off his bachelor party. But in general, I wasted most of my freewheeling, jet-setting days.
As I near both the end of the "safe air travel" period of pregnancy and my current non-lactating era, I'm feeling a very strong urge to make up for all these under-appreciated journeys. I've been thinking about taking a trip out to San Diego to see my sister, lie on the beach, and read my way through the backlog of novels and New Yorkers on my nightstand. Only downside - and this wouldn't normally be one, but for me wanting to enjoy just a few child-free days - is that my 10-month-old niece would be in the same digs. And as much as I really want to see her, the idea of a vacation involving mashed food of any sort just isn't exactly what I'm looking for. So then I thought about taking a weekend at The Admiral's ancestral condo, eating at Captain Charlie's, reading, lying on the beach (and I don't even like the beach). But the condo is, technically, an over-55 community, and ... well, like I said about the mashed food. I need to figure something out quick, though, because my window of relative freedom is about to slam shut, and at this point, three days of maid service, room service and free HBO doesn't sound like such a waste of time.
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