The reason for the radio silence over here can be explained by two little words. Morning sickness. I suppose the happier announcement would be that I'm expecting again, or that Baby C will be a big sister some time in early January if all goes well. But January is a long way off. In the meantime, it's morning sickness. Sadly, not the kind that's actually confined to mornings.
I'm slowly starting to feel better, though, so I figured it was time to dust off the old blog.
When I was pregnant with Baby C, we didn't tell anyone until the 12 week mark had passed. It's a bit early for my taste to share such news. Unfortunately, my body disagrees. I'm already showing to the point of getting questions as to my due date, (and I receive looks of shock and pity when I answer 2010.)
While grateful to be able to get pregnant, I've never been enlightened enough to think it a beautiful state. I wonder hourly why men are spared, and I have an earful for God on the subject if I ever get a private audience. In the meantime, Baby C runs wild through the house as I try to entertain her from the sofa by reading aloud from the informational packet my doctor gave me. Chapters include the following:
Excessive Salivation
Nausea
Heartburn
Constipation
Backache
Varicose Veins
Hemorrhoids
The packet is entitled, "Great Expectations... a guide to enjoying your pregnancy."
I'm pretty sure the irony is unintentional.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Three Strikes You're Out
Baby C goes about her day, clutching the object of the hour (a pinecone, a stuffed cow, a sock she found) until she grows weary of holding it. Then she thrusts it into my hand, and says "Share!" Um, not quite. We're working on it.
Although Baby C knows how to say "All done!" and to sign "all done!", she's taken to letting us know she's all done by more direct means. She starts throwing whatever's left on her tray. For a 19-month-old, she's got a decent arm.
Yesterday, as the remnants of breakfast went flying, I sternly said, "No throwing food", and bent over to wipe up the now-very-scrambled eggs before they hardened into a cement-like glob. I felt something bounce off my back. It landed with a spray of crumbs next to me: a piece of toast. My own flesh and blood threw food at me?
"No. We do NOT throw food. We do NOT throw food at Mommy."
Baby C looked abashed, then she twinkled. "Share?" She asked hopefully.
Any suggestions?
Although Baby C knows how to say "All done!" and to sign "all done!", she's taken to letting us know she's all done by more direct means. She starts throwing whatever's left on her tray. For a 19-month-old, she's got a decent arm.
Yesterday, as the remnants of breakfast went flying, I sternly said, "No throwing food", and bent over to wipe up the now-very-scrambled eggs before they hardened into a cement-like glob. I felt something bounce off my back. It landed with a spray of crumbs next to me: a piece of toast. My own flesh and blood threw food at me?
"No. We do NOT throw food. We do NOT throw food at Mommy."
Baby C looked abashed, then she twinkled. "Share?" She asked hopefully.
Any suggestions?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Then and Now
Date: Mother's Day, the late 1970's.
Place: Suburban Chicago.
Time: Early Morning.
While other mothers were festooned with corsages and wooed with brunch, Mother's Day found my mom crawling through the house, following a trail of yarn that led to our paltry gifts. My sister and I had unfurled skeins and skeins of yarn, over and under and through furniture legs and lamps. We thought it was such fun. All the poor woman must have wanted was her coffee, or to be back in bed. But she was a good sport. She always was, with us.
Date: Today
Place: Suburban DC
Time: Early Enough
I'm pleased to report that Greg and Baby C had the good sense not to follow my childhood example. Instead, I awoke to classical music playing, and Greg bringing me my first-ever breakfast in bed! It was lovely and relaxing for a minute, until Baby C wanted to share. Conveniently, she used the sheets as both bib and napkin. Ah, well, it was still sweet.
As I yawned and expressed my gratitude, Greg said, "Sorry for waking you up, but I thought I heard you walking around. Guess it was just the cat using the litter box."
Happy Mother's Day.
Place: Suburban Chicago.
Time: Early Morning.
While other mothers were festooned with corsages and wooed with brunch, Mother's Day found my mom crawling through the house, following a trail of yarn that led to our paltry gifts. My sister and I had unfurled skeins and skeins of yarn, over and under and through furniture legs and lamps. We thought it was such fun. All the poor woman must have wanted was her coffee, or to be back in bed. But she was a good sport. She always was, with us.
Date: Today
Place: Suburban DC
Time: Early Enough
I'm pleased to report that Greg and Baby C had the good sense not to follow my childhood example. Instead, I awoke to classical music playing, and Greg bringing me my first-ever breakfast in bed! It was lovely and relaxing for a minute, until Baby C wanted to share. Conveniently, she used the sheets as both bib and napkin. Ah, well, it was still sweet.
As I yawned and expressed my gratitude, Greg said, "Sorry for waking you up, but I thought I heard you walking around. Guess it was just the cat using the litter box."
Happy Mother's Day.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Sneezy
Spring is--achoo!--here, and Greg's sneezes shake the roof and rattle the floorboards. The only upside to his allergies is the tiny voice that follows each explosive emission: Baby C's "Oddbessoo".
Bessoo, too, sweet pea. Always and forever.
Bessoo, too, sweet pea. Always and forever.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Head, Shoulders, Knees and. . . .
Head, mouth, ears, legs, arms, tummy, toes: Baby C's been able to name and point to most of the elementary body parts for a while now. It was time to expand our vocabulary. Baby C quickly learned her knees, so I went on. "These are your elbows," I said, pointing to her elbows.
"Elmo!" she said, enraptured, waiting for her favorite character to appear on her arm.
"No, honey--elBows, not ElMo."
"Bow," she said, and pointed to the bow in her hair.
"Yes, b-b-b-bows in your hair and el-el-el-elbows in your arms. Got it?"
She looked at her arms again. No Muppets appeared, but she was not deterred. "Elmos."
Fair enough. We have fingers, we have wrists, and Baby C, at least, has Elmos.
"Elmo!" she said, enraptured, waiting for her favorite character to appear on her arm.
"No, honey--elBows, not ElMo."
"Bow," she said, and pointed to the bow in her hair.
"Yes, b-b-b-bows in your hair and el-el-el-elbows in your arms. Got it?"
She looked at her arms again. No Muppets appeared, but she was not deterred. "Elmos."
Fair enough. We have fingers, we have wrists, and Baby C, at least, has Elmos.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A Suburban American Take on Semena Santa
Three years ago, Greg and I traded overcast and chilly Munich for sunny Seville, Spain. We wanted to see the Semena Santa (Holy Week) processions and celebrate Easter in good Hemingway fashion with a bullfight. (And get out of overcast and chilly Munich.)
The processions stunned me. Pilgrims walked through the stone streets to the cathedral as they had for centuries. The particularly devout trod barefoot. Everyone wore hooded capes and carried candles that stood taller than me. Knowing that tourism was a motivating factor for continuing the tradition did not stop me from feeling a bit voyeuristic as I watched from the sidewalk.
Well, today I took part in my own Good Friday act of self-flagellation. I went to Wegmans. It’s a huge grocery store 20 minutes away. I’d heard it was wonderland. I’d heard the prices were great. I’d heard it was so huge that it never felt crowded. Umm, that last part? That was wrong.
It was vast, but it was packed. The multi-acre parking lot was full at 10:00 a.m. We ventured inside to find masses of people pushing carts into each other. (Apparently, Wegmans changed their grocery cart dimensions recently, and folks misjudged the necessary turning clearance.) I needed a GPS in that place and had to repeatedly ask for directions.
Bruised and battered, we made our way to the butcher counter. The lady in front of me asked for the two pieces of lamb I’d been eyeing. Figures. When it was my turn, I distractedly ordered, then pried a jar of mint jelly out of Baby C’s grasp. The woman who had been in front of me came back and said, “Where’s my second piece?” The butcher, who had just passed over my package, said, “You wanted both pieces? I just gave it to her.” The lady looked at me. Of course, I offered the lamb back to her, but she very nicely let me keep it. I groveled in thanks and continued to try to check off my shopping list.
Over an hour later, we staggered to the check out counter with a few key ingredients still missing. Baby C had mutinied and I couldn’t take it any longer. If Wegmans had fresh rosemary, it was beyond my abilities to find it. As we rolled out to the parking lot, a car immediately started following me. Fine. They would have to wait through a backseat diaper change and an improvised snack for the wailing Baby C.
A good ten minutes later, I backed out, smiling icily at the car who had stalked us. It had been a nightmarish shopping experience, and I was grumpy. As we drove away, I remembered the kindness and patience demonstrated by the lady in front of me at the butcher counter, and started to feel a little guilty at my parking lot snottiness. All of a sudden it dawned on me that, thanks to her, I would be serving sacrificed lamb for Easter. I can only hope that, wherever she is, she got the last of the rosemary.
The processions stunned me. Pilgrims walked through the stone streets to the cathedral as they had for centuries. The particularly devout trod barefoot. Everyone wore hooded capes and carried candles that stood taller than me. Knowing that tourism was a motivating factor for continuing the tradition did not stop me from feeling a bit voyeuristic as I watched from the sidewalk.
Well, today I took part in my own Good Friday act of self-flagellation. I went to Wegmans. It’s a huge grocery store 20 minutes away. I’d heard it was wonderland. I’d heard the prices were great. I’d heard it was so huge that it never felt crowded. Umm, that last part? That was wrong.
It was vast, but it was packed. The multi-acre parking lot was full at 10:00 a.m. We ventured inside to find masses of people pushing carts into each other. (Apparently, Wegmans changed their grocery cart dimensions recently, and folks misjudged the necessary turning clearance.) I needed a GPS in that place and had to repeatedly ask for directions.
Bruised and battered, we made our way to the butcher counter. The lady in front of me asked for the two pieces of lamb I’d been eyeing. Figures. When it was my turn, I distractedly ordered, then pried a jar of mint jelly out of Baby C’s grasp. The woman who had been in front of me came back and said, “Where’s my second piece?” The butcher, who had just passed over my package, said, “You wanted both pieces? I just gave it to her.” The lady looked at me. Of course, I offered the lamb back to her, but she very nicely let me keep it. I groveled in thanks and continued to try to check off my shopping list.
Over an hour later, we staggered to the check out counter with a few key ingredients still missing. Baby C had mutinied and I couldn’t take it any longer. If Wegmans had fresh rosemary, it was beyond my abilities to find it. As we rolled out to the parking lot, a car immediately started following me. Fine. They would have to wait through a backseat diaper change and an improvised snack for the wailing Baby C.
A good ten minutes later, I backed out, smiling icily at the car who had stalked us. It had been a nightmarish shopping experience, and I was grumpy. As we drove away, I remembered the kindness and patience demonstrated by the lady in front of me at the butcher counter, and started to feel a little guilty at my parking lot snottiness. All of a sudden it dawned on me that, thanks to her, I would be serving sacrificed lamb for Easter. I can only hope that, wherever she is, she got the last of the rosemary.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Hypothetical
If a purely fictitious Mother A bathed purely fictitious Baby B... er, C, and Baby C subsequently emptied a bowl of applesauce over her head, can Mother A get away with swabbing the mess with a damp paper towel, or must she bathe Baby C again? These are the questions I ponder as I dodge the flying food.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
