Originally posted December 29/2006 on "Allison Wonderland"
So close! The part is in. The car is in. The mechanics are, in fact, working today. It's going to cost twice what we thought it would, but at least we're going to have a car tomorrow.
And no, it's not Canadian Tire's fault about the money... not this time. Due to circumstances I'm not going to go into here, we also have to get the transmission flushed and the filter replaced. But hey, we're going to have our car back.
So that will be that, I guess. I hope that'll be all for a while, anyway. Can I write about something INTERESTING now?
Showing posts with label 2006. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2006. Show all posts
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wishing You a Merrier Christmas Than We're Having
Originally posted December 23/2006 on "Allison Wonderland"
Just when we thought that as much of he proverbial shit had hit the fan as was going to this Christmas season, on came just a little more- just in case we weren't splattered with enough of it already. The icing on the cake. The cherry on the sundae. The kick to the kidneys when we were already down.
We paid $350 that we don't have yesterday to get the wheel on the car fixed. They said that the transmission, the tires and the other stuff could probably wait until January, when AJ's bonus comes in (and don't think I'm not picturing a Jelly Of The Month Club membership arriving by courier, 'cause that has crossed my mind many times). What a surprise, then, when today AJ left work to find transmission fluid leaking all over the f^*&ing parking lot. So now there's that to deal with, but no one's going to be able to work on it until at least Wednesday- and then there's the trouble of paying for it.
So no, it's not shaping up to be the merriest Christmas ever. Did we piss someone off somewhere? Are we cursed? Did we unknowingly break a whole lot of mirrors at some point? I don't understand. But whatever...
Just when we thought that as much of he proverbial shit had hit the fan as was going to this Christmas season, on came just a little more- just in case we weren't splattered with enough of it already. The icing on the cake. The cherry on the sundae. The kick to the kidneys when we were already down.
We paid $350 that we don't have yesterday to get the wheel on the car fixed. They said that the transmission, the tires and the other stuff could probably wait until January, when AJ's bonus comes in (and don't think I'm not picturing a Jelly Of The Month Club membership arriving by courier, 'cause that has crossed my mind many times). What a surprise, then, when today AJ left work to find transmission fluid leaking all over the f^*&ing parking lot. So now there's that to deal with, but no one's going to be able to work on it until at least Wednesday- and then there's the trouble of paying for it.
So no, it's not shaping up to be the merriest Christmas ever. Did we piss someone off somewhere? Are we cursed? Did we unknowingly break a whole lot of mirrors at some point? I don't understand. But whatever...
Here I Am Again...
Originally posted December 22/2006 on "Allison Wonderland"
Yeah... Zombie-Robot woman here. I should be depressed right now, but that seems to be impossible. It's good that I'm not having uncontrollable crying fits for no reason, but I think it's a problem when you can't feel anything when you have good reason to be upset. But anyway...
AJ took the car in this morning- and nothing is covered under our Ford warranty. Not a darn thing. Only $350 of the repairs absolutely had to be done for the car to be drive-able- good thing we still have access to overdraft on our bank account. So that's done. We're hoping the rest can wait until his bonus comes in January (though we don't know how much that will be).
Then, of course, there's the power bill. Did I mention that our apartment is a bit drafty? Yeah... I did the test where you hold a candle up by a closed window on a windy day, and the flame was flickerin' all over the place. We're going to talk to H (upstairs) about either getting something done about that or lowering our rent for the winter to compensate for the stupid amount of money it looks like we'll be paying for heat. Yes, we'll qualify for that $200 rebate thingy, but that's not going to cover it.
So that's that. I've got to get happier- Christmas is coming, and it should be a happy time. Not because we're forcing ourselves to be happy, though. We need to start focusing on the good things that we have, and take some time to appreciate all the good in our lives. We're going to a friend's mom's house for Christmas dinner, and that's SO exciting- even though we don't have our own families here, we've been welcomed into another one. We're not having an extravagant Christmas, but we all have gifts to give to each other. We have a warm (if expensively so) home and food to eat. We have a car. We both have jobs that we don't usually hate. And we have each other.
I have this idea that I might try for next Christmas. See, Christmas is my Thanksgiving; I find it's a natural time to reflect on all of those good things that we have. So what I was thinking is that, throughout the year (or even just December) we could write down things we're thankful for on colourful slips of paper, and then make a paper chain out of them to put on the tree. Then, on Christmas morning, maybe over breakfast, we can take turns reading them. Something to focus on besides the presents, you know? Not that presents aren't GREAT! : )
I think I feel a little better already.
Yeah... Zombie-Robot woman here. I should be depressed right now, but that seems to be impossible. It's good that I'm not having uncontrollable crying fits for no reason, but I think it's a problem when you can't feel anything when you have good reason to be upset. But anyway...
AJ took the car in this morning- and nothing is covered under our Ford warranty. Not a darn thing. Only $350 of the repairs absolutely had to be done for the car to be drive-able- good thing we still have access to overdraft on our bank account. So that's done. We're hoping the rest can wait until his bonus comes in January (though we don't know how much that will be).
Then, of course, there's the power bill. Did I mention that our apartment is a bit drafty? Yeah... I did the test where you hold a candle up by a closed window on a windy day, and the flame was flickerin' all over the place. We're going to talk to H (upstairs) about either getting something done about that or lowering our rent for the winter to compensate for the stupid amount of money it looks like we'll be paying for heat. Yes, we'll qualify for that $200 rebate thingy, but that's not going to cover it.
So that's that. I've got to get happier- Christmas is coming, and it should be a happy time. Not because we're forcing ourselves to be happy, though. We need to start focusing on the good things that we have, and take some time to appreciate all the good in our lives. We're going to a friend's mom's house for Christmas dinner, and that's SO exciting- even though we don't have our own families here, we've been welcomed into another one. We're not having an extravagant Christmas, but we all have gifts to give to each other. We have a warm (if expensively so) home and food to eat. We have a car. We both have jobs that we don't usually hate. And we have each other.
I have this idea that I might try for next Christmas. See, Christmas is my Thanksgiving; I find it's a natural time to reflect on all of those good things that we have. So what I was thinking is that, throughout the year (or even just December) we could write down things we're thankful for on colourful slips of paper, and then make a paper chain out of them to put on the tree. Then, on Christmas morning, maybe over breakfast, we can take turns reading them. Something to focus on besides the presents, you know? Not that presents aren't GREAT! : )
I think I feel a little better already.
...In Which I discover That I Am Not, In Fact, A Panda
Originally posted December 21/2006 on "Allison Wonderland"
We actually went OUT last night. Yes, it was our anniversary... well, almost. Close enough to celebrate, anyway. We don't get to do that very much- usually anything we do is with Simon in tow, and we can't really afford to go to a nice restaurant, anyway. We had been debating whether Wendy's or McDonalds would be more appropriate for an anniversary supper when our friends C & J reminded us that they had a gift certificate for a Thai restaurant downtown that had to be used before the end of the year, if we wanted to join them. As if we'd say no!!!
So we asked another couple who are ALSO our friends to babysit (good thing people like Simon!), and we went out last night. I actually got to dress up, which doesn't happen that often. Simon was happily playing with J & J (also known as JP squared) when we left. What a great anniversary gift- no crying or guilt! The restaurant was beautiful; small and candlelit, and it smelled great! C ordered for us, as AJ and I have no idea about Thai food, and we all shared the dishes that came. WOW! Best springrolls EVER. And the rest of the food was great, too, though I wasn't a huge fan of the red curry with bamboo shoots- apparently I am not a panda, as I had previously thought. My worldview is shaken. But other than that- SO GOOD. If you are ever in St. John's, I highly recommend "Taste of Thai."
We got to spend a relaxing evening with two of our best friends, knowing that we didn't need to worry about Simon, as he was safe with two of our OTHER best friends. On top of that, we weren't allowed to chip in for the cost of the meal outside of what the gift certificate covered, and JP2 didn't want money for babysitting, either.
Wow. This might be the best anniversary yet!
We actually went OUT last night. Yes, it was our anniversary... well, almost. Close enough to celebrate, anyway. We don't get to do that very much- usually anything we do is with Simon in tow, and we can't really afford to go to a nice restaurant, anyway. We had been debating whether Wendy's or McDonalds would be more appropriate for an anniversary supper when our friends C & J reminded us that they had a gift certificate for a Thai restaurant downtown that had to be used before the end of the year, if we wanted to join them. As if we'd say no!!!
So we asked another couple who are ALSO our friends to babysit (good thing people like Simon!), and we went out last night. I actually got to dress up, which doesn't happen that often. Simon was happily playing with J & J (also known as JP squared) when we left. What a great anniversary gift- no crying or guilt! The restaurant was beautiful; small and candlelit, and it smelled great! C ordered for us, as AJ and I have no idea about Thai food, and we all shared the dishes that came. WOW! Best springrolls EVER. And the rest of the food was great, too, though I wasn't a huge fan of the red curry with bamboo shoots- apparently I am not a panda, as I had previously thought. My worldview is shaken. But other than that- SO GOOD. If you are ever in St. John's, I highly recommend "Taste of Thai."
We got to spend a relaxing evening with two of our best friends, knowing that we didn't need to worry about Simon, as he was safe with two of our OTHER best friends. On top of that, we weren't allowed to chip in for the cost of the meal outside of what the gift certificate covered, and JP2 didn't want money for babysitting, either.
Wow. This might be the best anniversary yet!
Farewell to Old Friends
originally posted December 19/2006 on "Allison Wonderland"
Today I bid a fond farewell to an old friend. A friend who has been with me for longer than any of the friends I have today; a friend who has been with me through the end of high school, the beginning of University, the diagnosis of my Depression and leaving school. A friend who came with me to my marriage, and who was there during most of my pregnancy (and returned soon after my baby's birth). A friend who has been with me through many, many nights...
Yes, last night I found a big hole in the arse of my faithful Winnie the Pooh pajamas. Don't laugh. I got those jammies on Christmas Eve my last year in high school. They're the kind that looks like men's PJ's, with pants and a button-up shirt, with the inexplicable collar, cuffs and chest pocket. They used to glow in the dark, but almost 7 years of washing and wearing have left only a few stars with a weak glow.
Why are old clothes so darn comfortable? I'm going to miss those jammies... and now I face the prospect of breaking in new ones. I asked for new pajamas for Christmas, anticipating the day when I'd finally have to let go of the old ones. New stuff is nice, but like any new friend, it takes a while to get to know them. *sigh*...
But we must move on, mustn't we? And I have to say that I'm quite excited about the future. In fact, I found an awesome pair of pajama pants at work a few weeks ago- brand new, from la Senza. They're white with huge navy blue Hawiian-style flowers all over them, and an orange racing stripe up the side. Don't ask me what the hell the designers were thinking with that combination, but the result is, in my opinion, the height of awesomeness. As an added bonus, AJ HATES them, which is pretty funny.
Yes, it's hard to say goodbye to old friends, but the future looks bright...
And as an added bonus, my old pajamas are going to make some pretty cool dust rags!
Today I bid a fond farewell to an old friend. A friend who has been with me for longer than any of the friends I have today; a friend who has been with me through the end of high school, the beginning of University, the diagnosis of my Depression and leaving school. A friend who came with me to my marriage, and who was there during most of my pregnancy (and returned soon after my baby's birth). A friend who has been with me through many, many nights...
Yes, last night I found a big hole in the arse of my faithful Winnie the Pooh pajamas. Don't laugh. I got those jammies on Christmas Eve my last year in high school. They're the kind that looks like men's PJ's, with pants and a button-up shirt, with the inexplicable collar, cuffs and chest pocket. They used to glow in the dark, but almost 7 years of washing and wearing have left only a few stars with a weak glow.
Why are old clothes so darn comfortable? I'm going to miss those jammies... and now I face the prospect of breaking in new ones. I asked for new pajamas for Christmas, anticipating the day when I'd finally have to let go of the old ones. New stuff is nice, but like any new friend, it takes a while to get to know them. *sigh*...
But we must move on, mustn't we? And I have to say that I'm quite excited about the future. In fact, I found an awesome pair of pajama pants at work a few weeks ago- brand new, from la Senza. They're white with huge navy blue Hawiian-style flowers all over them, and an orange racing stripe up the side. Don't ask me what the hell the designers were thinking with that combination, but the result is, in my opinion, the height of awesomeness. As an added bonus, AJ HATES them, which is pretty funny.
Yes, it's hard to say goodbye to old friends, but the future looks bright...
And as an added bonus, my old pajamas are going to make some pretty cool dust rags!
Late Nights
Originally posted December 17/2006 on "Allison Wonderland (Livejournal)"
YAAAAAAAAAWN! (OK, so it's only midnight. That's past my bedtime, people!)
We had another late night at work- the store closed at nine, and we strolled out at 11:15. Why, you ask? Because I work in a huge, understaffed thrift store, that's why. But more than that, it's because we have the messiest customers on EARTH. Those hours we spend there after the store closes? That's just cleaning up after people. People who take clothes off the racks and drop them on the floor. People who pick things up in one section and decide to leave them in another (Yes, we actually have to fix that after you leave). People who can't be bothered to actually bring their unwanted items out from the fitting rooms with them, or even (heavens above!) HANG THEM UP. People who bring their paper coffee-cup in and then can't be bothered to actually locate a garbage can when they're done their cuppa joe.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
It's not everyone. There are probably more good customers than bad ones... at least, I choose to believe that there are. If I didn't, I'd go nuts. But you don't get a chance to notice the good ones, even when you try to. Not when you're sidetracked by people bitching about the prices the store has to charge in order to (under)pay the staff, people haggling over a 99-cent unicorn figurine, and (let's not forget) cleaning up after them. And not just the clothes; you should see the state people leave the friggin' bathroom in. Disgusting! Learn to AIM, people! Are we savages?!!
If you're one of THOSE customers (but of course, you're not, right?) you're probably thinking, "Honey, that's what you get PAID for." People have actually said this, as if by making a mess they're keeping me employed. Let me share a secret with you, darlin': Maids and janitors make a heck of a lot more per hour than I do. And those high prices you love to complain about? Maybe they'd be lower if the store didn't have to pay the staff to stay until 11:00 at night cleaning up after you. Just a thought.
As for those of you who try not to make a mess, who CAN be bothered to put back the stuff you don't want (or heck, even just drop it off at the fitting rooms so we can find it), who make our lives easier with kind words and sympathetic smiles: Thanks. I assume you've worked in customer service before, and you know what a difference it makes. I wish there were more of you.
And to the woman who brings her little dog in with her, who let it crap on the floor and then left it there so another customer could drive a friggin' cart through it?* Thanks a million. Please take your business elsewhere; I don't get paid enough to deal with your (or your dog's) crap.
*note: this didn't happen while I was working, thank God. But I feel the pain of the guy who had to clean it up... GAG!
YAAAAAAAAAWN! (OK, so it's only midnight. That's past my bedtime, people!)
We had another late night at work- the store closed at nine, and we strolled out at 11:15. Why, you ask? Because I work in a huge, understaffed thrift store, that's why. But more than that, it's because we have the messiest customers on EARTH. Those hours we spend there after the store closes? That's just cleaning up after people. People who take clothes off the racks and drop them on the floor. People who pick things up in one section and decide to leave them in another (Yes, we actually have to fix that after you leave). People who can't be bothered to actually bring their unwanted items out from the fitting rooms with them, or even (heavens above!) HANG THEM UP. People who bring their paper coffee-cup in and then can't be bothered to actually locate a garbage can when they're done their cuppa joe.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
It's not everyone. There are probably more good customers than bad ones... at least, I choose to believe that there are. If I didn't, I'd go nuts. But you don't get a chance to notice the good ones, even when you try to. Not when you're sidetracked by people bitching about the prices the store has to charge in order to (under)pay the staff, people haggling over a 99-cent unicorn figurine, and (let's not forget) cleaning up after them. And not just the clothes; you should see the state people leave the friggin' bathroom in. Disgusting! Learn to AIM, people! Are we savages?!!
If you're one of THOSE customers (but of course, you're not, right?) you're probably thinking, "Honey, that's what you get PAID for." People have actually said this, as if by making a mess they're keeping me employed. Let me share a secret with you, darlin': Maids and janitors make a heck of a lot more per hour than I do. And those high prices you love to complain about? Maybe they'd be lower if the store didn't have to pay the staff to stay until 11:00 at night cleaning up after you. Just a thought.
As for those of you who try not to make a mess, who CAN be bothered to put back the stuff you don't want (or heck, even just drop it off at the fitting rooms so we can find it), who make our lives easier with kind words and sympathetic smiles: Thanks. I assume you've worked in customer service before, and you know what a difference it makes. I wish there were more of you.
And to the woman who brings her little dog in with her, who let it crap on the floor and then left it there so another customer could drive a friggin' cart through it?* Thanks a million. Please take your business elsewhere; I don't get paid enough to deal with your (or your dog's) crap.
*note: this didn't happen while I was working, thank God. But I feel the pain of the guy who had to clean it up... GAG!
Handy-Dandy
Originally posted October 13/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
Forget handy-man; I'm the handy-mom.
OK, so maybe I'm more Red Green than Bob Vila; duct tape is my secret weapon (or not so secret; it's hard to hide the silver stuff when it's in the middle of the room). I swear, I can fix almost anything with it.
For example, Simon has figured out that there's no door knob on our bedroom door. This means that he can just crawl over and push the door open any time he wants to go in and play with Daddy's toys- a BIG no-no. I thought about just leaving the door open and putting a baby gate across the doorway, but that would mean I'd have to go out and buy another one... nah. I tried to tape the door shut, but it didn't work. Now we've got a lasso-type thing made out of duct tape stuck on the back of the door; it comes out of the room and loops around the top of a chair in the living room, keeping the door closed. It looks weird, but it works well, at least until someone gets trapped in the bedroom and has to holler to be let out.
We also have a power bar (the kind that plugs go into, not the semi-edible kind you choke down after a workout) that was resting on a heater in the living room all summer. We reluctantly decided to turn a few heaters on last week, but having electrical cords touching the heater seemed like a little bit of a fire hazard. Duct tape to the rescue! Everything is securely attached to the wall.
I can even do plumbing. A few days ago I turned on the hot water to the bath tub (it has to be off most of the time or it drips), and the pipe started spraying water all over the room, from behind the toilet to the door. A duct tape tourniquet has reduced this to a fast dripping for the moment; we'll have to get that taken care of properly, but at least most of the water's getting to the tub for now.
Ooh, and then there was the luggage strap I made out of ribbon and duct tape... not attractive, but certainly distinctive!
Oh yeah, I'm proud of my skills. Just call me Mrs. Fix-it!
Forget handy-man; I'm the handy-mom.
OK, so maybe I'm more Red Green than Bob Vila; duct tape is my secret weapon (or not so secret; it's hard to hide the silver stuff when it's in the middle of the room). I swear, I can fix almost anything with it.
For example, Simon has figured out that there's no door knob on our bedroom door. This means that he can just crawl over and push the door open any time he wants to go in and play with Daddy's toys- a BIG no-no. I thought about just leaving the door open and putting a baby gate across the doorway, but that would mean I'd have to go out and buy another one... nah. I tried to tape the door shut, but it didn't work. Now we've got a lasso-type thing made out of duct tape stuck on the back of the door; it comes out of the room and loops around the top of a chair in the living room, keeping the door closed. It looks weird, but it works well, at least until someone gets trapped in the bedroom and has to holler to be let out.
We also have a power bar (the kind that plugs go into, not the semi-edible kind you choke down after a workout) that was resting on a heater in the living room all summer. We reluctantly decided to turn a few heaters on last week, but having electrical cords touching the heater seemed like a little bit of a fire hazard. Duct tape to the rescue! Everything is securely attached to the wall.
I can even do plumbing. A few days ago I turned on the hot water to the bath tub (it has to be off most of the time or it drips), and the pipe started spraying water all over the room, from behind the toilet to the door. A duct tape tourniquet has reduced this to a fast dripping for the moment; we'll have to get that taken care of properly, but at least most of the water's getting to the tub for now.
Ooh, and then there was the luggage strap I made out of ribbon and duct tape... not attractive, but certainly distinctive!
Oh yeah, I'm proud of my skills. Just call me Mrs. Fix-it!
The Cupcake Caper
Originally posted October 3/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
It's been over a month now, and I think I'm ready to share the truth about the birthday cupcakes. There are a few people out there who already know; now this sad story is going to be available to the general public for the first time. (Check local listings)
I'm not very good about nutrition, to say the least. I take my vitamins every day, but my grandmother would have conniptions if she knew how little vegetable matter I actually consume in a week. I start out with the best intentions; A. doesn't like veggies, but I buy them for myself, and then I get to feel guilty when I open the crisper drawer in the fridge a week later and clean out the brown goop that has accumulated. But I take my vitamins every day... I know, it's not the same thing. You don't have to tell me.
I am, however, a bit more careful about what Simon eats. I'm not obsessive about organic stuff, and he has, in fact, tasted ice cream. Still, he and I eat whole-grain bread because I'd rather he get used to that than the white stuff. He eats a lot of veggies; sadly, they're in mush form most of the time, and not real appetizing to me.
Maybe that's why I decided to try to do the SuperMom thing for his birthday and make a carrot-cake for him. Not just any carrot cake, either; the one from "What to Expect the First Year," with wheat germ and whole-grain flour and carrots cooked in apple juice. We went to the bulk barn for most of the ingredients; they've got a good selection of crunchy-granola stuff there, and you don't have to buy a 30 lb. bag of it to get the 3 cups you need. While we were there I also bought apple butter, multigrain pancake mix, wheat germ, dried fruit (for me) and spaghetti.
See where this is going yet?
The thing is, for some reason the Bulk Barn doesn't provide any means of labelling your bags, just little twist-ties to close them with. I got home and found myself completely unable to distinguish between the whole-grain flour, the whole-wheat flour, and the multigrain pancake mix. Oops. In case you're wondering, they all taste the same if you try to do a Lik-M-Aid taste test on them.
I took my best guess and went to work. I figured either flour should work, so I had a 66% chance of the cake turning out just fine. (See, kids? You do use some of that math stuff later in life!)
I boiled the carrots in the apple juice until they were soft. I mixed my dry ingredients, and I pureed my carrots with raisins. It did not look appetizing, but everything was going well, until I mixed the wet and dry ingredients. Um, yeah... my batter bubbled. It was like a sick, brown, witch's birthday-brew. It swelled until it filled the bowl.
Oops.
As I watched my batter bubble, I thought about what Martha Stewart would do. I quickly realized that Martha would never have found herself in this situation, partly because everything would be neatly organized and labelled, and partly because if anyone let this happen, they'd be fired before the raisins hit the blender. Still, what would she do if, by some great cosmic accident, she did find herself in my situation?
Well obviously she'd toss the batter, make a run back to the store, re-purchase the ingredients and try again, possibly waiting until morning (though I don't think she actually sleeps).
Screw that, Martha I thought as I poured my puffy-looking cake mix into a dozen muffin cups. Either they'll be fine or they won't. I had already decided to buy a backup cake for any grownups who weren't tempted by the very healthy cupcakes, so if things went south, we'd just have that. It was late, I was tired, and the oven was already hot.
Well, they looked OK when they came out of the oven. They smelled fantastic. So they were a bit dense. Nobody complained, especially Simon. He loved them, and he made a nice mess all over is high-chair with them just like a first birthday-boy should.
So, what did I learn from this experience? Well, for one thing, I learned that Betty Crocker is my new best friend, and her reasonably-priced cake kits will be the extent of my adventures in baking for the next little while. More importantly, though, I think I learned that no matter how hard you try to be SuperMom, no matter how hard you try to get it right... stuff's not always going to turn out the way you wanted or expected. I guess you just pray that your best was good enough, and try to enjoy things the way they are... even if the cupcakes are a little heavy!
It's been over a month now, and I think I'm ready to share the truth about the birthday cupcakes. There are a few people out there who already know; now this sad story is going to be available to the general public for the first time. (Check local listings)
I'm not very good about nutrition, to say the least. I take my vitamins every day, but my grandmother would have conniptions if she knew how little vegetable matter I actually consume in a week. I start out with the best intentions; A. doesn't like veggies, but I buy them for myself, and then I get to feel guilty when I open the crisper drawer in the fridge a week later and clean out the brown goop that has accumulated. But I take my vitamins every day... I know, it's not the same thing. You don't have to tell me.
I am, however, a bit more careful about what Simon eats. I'm not obsessive about organic stuff, and he has, in fact, tasted ice cream. Still, he and I eat whole-grain bread because I'd rather he get used to that than the white stuff. He eats a lot of veggies; sadly, they're in mush form most of the time, and not real appetizing to me.
Maybe that's why I decided to try to do the SuperMom thing for his birthday and make a carrot-cake for him. Not just any carrot cake, either; the one from "What to Expect the First Year," with wheat germ and whole-grain flour and carrots cooked in apple juice. We went to the bulk barn for most of the ingredients; they've got a good selection of crunchy-granola stuff there, and you don't have to buy a 30 lb. bag of it to get the 3 cups you need. While we were there I also bought apple butter, multigrain pancake mix, wheat germ, dried fruit (for me) and spaghetti.
See where this is going yet?
The thing is, for some reason the Bulk Barn doesn't provide any means of labelling your bags, just little twist-ties to close them with. I got home and found myself completely unable to distinguish between the whole-grain flour, the whole-wheat flour, and the multigrain pancake mix. Oops. In case you're wondering, they all taste the same if you try to do a Lik-M-Aid taste test on them.
I took my best guess and went to work. I figured either flour should work, so I had a 66% chance of the cake turning out just fine. (See, kids? You do use some of that math stuff later in life!)
I boiled the carrots in the apple juice until they were soft. I mixed my dry ingredients, and I pureed my carrots with raisins. It did not look appetizing, but everything was going well, until I mixed the wet and dry ingredients. Um, yeah... my batter bubbled. It was like a sick, brown, witch's birthday-brew. It swelled until it filled the bowl.
Oops.
As I watched my batter bubble, I thought about what Martha Stewart would do. I quickly realized that Martha would never have found herself in this situation, partly because everything would be neatly organized and labelled, and partly because if anyone let this happen, they'd be fired before the raisins hit the blender. Still, what would she do if, by some great cosmic accident, she did find herself in my situation?
Well obviously she'd toss the batter, make a run back to the store, re-purchase the ingredients and try again, possibly waiting until morning (though I don't think she actually sleeps).
Screw that, Martha I thought as I poured my puffy-looking cake mix into a dozen muffin cups. Either they'll be fine or they won't. I had already decided to buy a backup cake for any grownups who weren't tempted by the very healthy cupcakes, so if things went south, we'd just have that. It was late, I was tired, and the oven was already hot.
Well, they looked OK when they came out of the oven. They smelled fantastic. So they were a bit dense. Nobody complained, especially Simon. He loved them, and he made a nice mess all over is high-chair with them just like a first birthday-boy should.
So, what did I learn from this experience? Well, for one thing, I learned that Betty Crocker is my new best friend, and her reasonably-priced cake kits will be the extent of my adventures in baking for the next little while. More importantly, though, I think I learned that no matter how hard you try to be SuperMom, no matter how hard you try to get it right... stuff's not always going to turn out the way you wanted or expected. I guess you just pray that your best was good enough, and try to enjoy things the way they are... even if the cupcakes are a little heavy!
Sigh...
originally posted September 15/2006 on "My Haikus That You Can Use"
I have nothing left
I am all out of Haiku
I'll get back to you
I have nothing left
I am all out of Haiku
I'll get back to you
Fingers + Drawer = "WAAAH!"
Originally posted August 11/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
I had to duct tape my desk drawers shut the other day. Simon learned how to open and close them, and that was fine; I put stuff he's allowed to play with in the bottom drawer so he could practice his new skill. Hooray for me! A new activity!
... and then he closed his fingers in the drawer. Not hard enough to do any serious damage, or even to hurt for long, but hard enough to make him angry. I'm not sure if he was mad at the drawer for hurting his fingers or for not closing properly, but he made his scrunched-up angry face, anyway. I took his fingers out of the drawer, closed it, and took him to find something else to do. That's what the books say to do: distract them. Yeah, thanks, books.
He went back and did it 5 more times. I'm choosing to believe that this is a sign of a scientific mind in development. He's re-testing his hypothesis... or something. Whatever, at least he's cute.
I had to duct tape my desk drawers shut the other day. Simon learned how to open and close them, and that was fine; I put stuff he's allowed to play with in the bottom drawer so he could practice his new skill. Hooray for me! A new activity!
... and then he closed his fingers in the drawer. Not hard enough to do any serious damage, or even to hurt for long, but hard enough to make him angry. I'm not sure if he was mad at the drawer for hurting his fingers or for not closing properly, but he made his scrunched-up angry face, anyway. I took his fingers out of the drawer, closed it, and took him to find something else to do. That's what the books say to do: distract them. Yeah, thanks, books.
He went back and did it 5 more times. I'm choosing to believe that this is a sign of a scientific mind in development. He's re-testing his hypothesis... or something. Whatever, at least he's cute.
Happy Birthday... Almost
Originally posted August 7/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
My little guy will be turning one soon. I can't believe almost a year has gone by since the day he was born. It's actually a pretty good birth story... have I told you? I will some time, if I haven't already.
It's been a good year. A great one, in fact. The best of my entire life, in spite of the lack of sleep. I never knew that I could love anyone as much as I love my little guy. Don't get me wrong; I love my husband as much today than I did the day we were married... but it's different. The love I have for my baby has often felt so strong I thought my heart would break from it, and I have cried as I held my little sleepy bundle in my arms, overcome by the depth of that love. Many times I have thought that God allows us to be parents so that we can have a small taste of the love He has for us; otherwise, how could we know? It's not a love that begins with infatuation or physical attraction, as romantic love so often does. It is pure, simple, and almost unbearably strong.
Obviously I haven't spent every day with my son crying all over his fuzzy little head and wondering at the mystery of motherly love- practical concerns make that impossible (and thank God for that!). The last year has been full of poopy diapers, sore breasts (sorry, guys), crying spells for both me and Simon, and teething frustrations. It has also been full of trips to the park to see the ducks, amazing growth and learning (again, for me and my boy), and new discoveries every day. I hope I never forget the first time he turned to me and smiled, the day he figured out that he could make things happen by kicking the buttons on his music box, or when he finally decided to start crawling... right for the DVD player.
I guess what I'm saying is this: this has been the hardest eleven months of my life, and I don't expect parenting to get any easier as my boy grows up. But it has also been the most amazing time I've ever experienced, and I thank God every day for giving me the chance to know, love and (scary thought!) raise this special little person.
Wish me luck in another year when we reach the Terrible Twos!
My little guy will be turning one soon. I can't believe almost a year has gone by since the day he was born. It's actually a pretty good birth story... have I told you? I will some time, if I haven't already.
It's been a good year. A great one, in fact. The best of my entire life, in spite of the lack of sleep. I never knew that I could love anyone as much as I love my little guy. Don't get me wrong; I love my husband as much today than I did the day we were married... but it's different. The love I have for my baby has often felt so strong I thought my heart would break from it, and I have cried as I held my little sleepy bundle in my arms, overcome by the depth of that love. Many times I have thought that God allows us to be parents so that we can have a small taste of the love He has for us; otherwise, how could we know? It's not a love that begins with infatuation or physical attraction, as romantic love so often does. It is pure, simple, and almost unbearably strong.
Obviously I haven't spent every day with my son crying all over his fuzzy little head and wondering at the mystery of motherly love- practical concerns make that impossible (and thank God for that!). The last year has been full of poopy diapers, sore breasts (sorry, guys), crying spells for both me and Simon, and teething frustrations. It has also been full of trips to the park to see the ducks, amazing growth and learning (again, for me and my boy), and new discoveries every day. I hope I never forget the first time he turned to me and smiled, the day he figured out that he could make things happen by kicking the buttons on his music box, or when he finally decided to start crawling... right for the DVD player.
I guess what I'm saying is this: this has been the hardest eleven months of my life, and I don't expect parenting to get any easier as my boy grows up. But it has also been the most amazing time I've ever experienced, and I thank God every day for giving me the chance to know, love and (scary thought!) raise this special little person.
Wish me luck in another year when we reach the Terrible Twos!
Monkey see, Monkey Do
Originally posted August 1/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
Simon is getting to be so funny.
A few days ago, he was playing on the floor with his Daddy. Simon noticed that the cover for the x-box (which is serving as our DVD player right now) was open, and he headed over to push the buttons. Daddy closed the cover and sat back down... and Simon kept picking at the cover.
"No, no, Simon," said Daddy. "That's Daddy's. Ta Ta!" We say "ta ta" when we ask Simon to give us something. Simon looked at Daddy... and went back to what he was doing. "Ta Ta, Simon. Ta Ta!"
Now, we all know that Daddy probably should have gone and taken Simon away from the x-box, but I guess he thought he could reason with Simon in the language of "Ta ta". In any case, it didn't work. Simon turned to Daddy with a big smile on his face, said "ta ta," and went back to what he was doing. The two repeated this exchange several times. "Ta Ta, Simon." "ta ta!" "No, Simon... Ta Ta!" "ta ta!"
I probably shouldn't have laughed, but it was too funny. I couldn't help it.
It looks like Simon is getting into the "monkey see, monkey do" stage- in fact, his newest nickname is "Monkey C. Monkeydoo". He's learning lots that way; clapping his hands, banging toys together to make noise... lots of fun stuff!
I think the copying might be leaving him open to the dangers of peer pressure, though. I've been looking after Raya for the last few days; she's a few weeks older than him, and she walks around (though she looks too small to be walking- it's too cute). She came in this morning, as she did yesterday, with her pacifier (soother, dumb-tit, whatever) in her mouth. Simon went right for it. After he pulled it out of her mouth a few times, I dug out one of his old ones from a basket in the kitchen, and he popped it in his mouth. Oy vey... I hope he grows out of this before the "cool" (or stupid) kids are smoking...
Simon is getting to be so funny.
A few days ago, he was playing on the floor with his Daddy. Simon noticed that the cover for the x-box (which is serving as our DVD player right now) was open, and he headed over to push the buttons. Daddy closed the cover and sat back down... and Simon kept picking at the cover.
"No, no, Simon," said Daddy. "That's Daddy's. Ta Ta!" We say "ta ta" when we ask Simon to give us something. Simon looked at Daddy... and went back to what he was doing. "Ta Ta, Simon. Ta Ta!"
Now, we all know that Daddy probably should have gone and taken Simon away from the x-box, but I guess he thought he could reason with Simon in the language of "Ta ta". In any case, it didn't work. Simon turned to Daddy with a big smile on his face, said "ta ta," and went back to what he was doing. The two repeated this exchange several times. "Ta Ta, Simon." "ta ta!" "No, Simon... Ta Ta!" "ta ta!"
I probably shouldn't have laughed, but it was too funny. I couldn't help it.
It looks like Simon is getting into the "monkey see, monkey do" stage- in fact, his newest nickname is "Monkey C. Monkeydoo". He's learning lots that way; clapping his hands, banging toys together to make noise... lots of fun stuff!
I think the copying might be leaving him open to the dangers of peer pressure, though. I've been looking after Raya for the last few days; she's a few weeks older than him, and she walks around (though she looks too small to be walking- it's too cute). She came in this morning, as she did yesterday, with her pacifier (soother, dumb-tit, whatever) in her mouth. Simon went right for it. After he pulled it out of her mouth a few times, I dug out one of his old ones from a basket in the kitchen, and he popped it in his mouth. Oy vey... I hope he grows out of this before the "cool" (or stupid) kids are smoking...
The Bigger They Are, the Harder We Fall
Originally posted July 28/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
When I was little, it seemed to be taking forever for me to grow up. My mom would sigh over how quickly my brother and I were growing, and I would honestly believe she was completely nuts. All of the cool big-kid stuff (then the high-school stuff, then the grown-up stuff... all the hyphenated stuff, really) seemed so far out of reach, and time dragged as I waited.
Oh, how the tables have turned! People tell you before you have a baby, "Enjoy him while he's little! They grow up so quickly..." I can honestly say I have taken this advice, and I have tried to enjoy as much of my time with Baby Simon as I could. I'll admit that there have been moments that I wouldn't exactly want to bronze and stick on a shelf, but I've reminded myself that nothing lasts forever, good times or bad. Still, I didn't understand exactly what people were telling me until he started growing up.
Yes, I know he's not grown up yet; he's not even a year old. We still have a few years before he's off to school, blah, blah, blah. But the tiny lump of newborn I once held in my arms is now a sturdy little guy who won't sit still long enough to get his diaper changed; he's just too busy! And the little critter that looked to me to satisfy every want and need is crawling around exploring the world independently (under careful supervision), and he'd prefer that I not interfere, thank you very much.
Oh, he still needs me. Every bump on the head requires kisses, and he hasn't mastered cooking quite yet. There's no question that he's getting away from me, though; Simon, who was once a part of my own body, hardly needs my breastmilk anymore. His needs are changing from physical to emotional, social, psychological... Where once I could fix almost anything by sticking a boob in his mouth (sorry for that mental image, folks), I now have to try to understand the complex needs of a little boy, and accept that I might not be able to fix everything.
I'm not going to try to hold him back. One of the most important measures of a parent's success is how well a child can live on his own when the time comes. I'm glad that time is still many years away... but when we get there, I know that years will seem like days. I pray that I'll continue to cherish every day-even the boring ones, the teething ones and the upcoming "Mommy-you're-not-my-friend!" ones. They'll be over far too soon.
When I was little, it seemed to be taking forever for me to grow up. My mom would sigh over how quickly my brother and I were growing, and I would honestly believe she was completely nuts. All of the cool big-kid stuff (then the high-school stuff, then the grown-up stuff... all the hyphenated stuff, really) seemed so far out of reach, and time dragged as I waited.
Oh, how the tables have turned! People tell you before you have a baby, "Enjoy him while he's little! They grow up so quickly..." I can honestly say I have taken this advice, and I have tried to enjoy as much of my time with Baby Simon as I could. I'll admit that there have been moments that I wouldn't exactly want to bronze and stick on a shelf, but I've reminded myself that nothing lasts forever, good times or bad. Still, I didn't understand exactly what people were telling me until he started growing up.
Yes, I know he's not grown up yet; he's not even a year old. We still have a few years before he's off to school, blah, blah, blah. But the tiny lump of newborn I once held in my arms is now a sturdy little guy who won't sit still long enough to get his diaper changed; he's just too busy! And the little critter that looked to me to satisfy every want and need is crawling around exploring the world independently (under careful supervision), and he'd prefer that I not interfere, thank you very much.
Oh, he still needs me. Every bump on the head requires kisses, and he hasn't mastered cooking quite yet. There's no question that he's getting away from me, though; Simon, who was once a part of my own body, hardly needs my breastmilk anymore. His needs are changing from physical to emotional, social, psychological... Where once I could fix almost anything by sticking a boob in his mouth (sorry for that mental image, folks), I now have to try to understand the complex needs of a little boy, and accept that I might not be able to fix everything.
I'm not going to try to hold him back. One of the most important measures of a parent's success is how well a child can live on his own when the time comes. I'm glad that time is still many years away... but when we get there, I know that years will seem like days. I pray that I'll continue to cherish every day-even the boring ones, the teething ones and the upcoming "Mommy-you're-not-my-friend!" ones. They'll be over far too soon.
Yards, Pens, Whatever...
Originally posted July 25/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
When we were shopping for baby stuff oh, so many moons ago, I noticed that stores and catalogues were offering a fine selection of "playards". This, I learned, is a clumsy abbreviation of "play yard", what we used to call a playpen.
I'm assuming that the name change comes from ultra-sensitive people being offended at the use of the word "pen" in relation to the containment of precious babies. "Pen!" they screamed (or so I imagine), "Pigs live in pens! My pwecious widdle snookums will not be contained in a pen, play or otherwise!"
The manufacturers of the much-maligned pens in question scratched their heads and brainstormed for endless... minutes before coming up with a new name. "Yard! Play Yard! Better yet, Playard! Sounds like Juliard! And Har-vard! They'll love that!"
Let's call a spade a spade, folks. We do use these convenient baby-containment systems to, well, contain our babies. It is a pen. It's there so we can let our kids play in a safe place while we pee, cook on a hot stove, or for when need to keep Junior away from marauding toddlers.
In protest of the unnecessary changing of perfectly good (if un-P.C.) names of products, I will now be using my own name for this one.
Now excuse me... I have to go put Simon in his Baby Cage while I make some spaghetti.
When we were shopping for baby stuff oh, so many moons ago, I noticed that stores and catalogues were offering a fine selection of "playards". This, I learned, is a clumsy abbreviation of "play yard", what we used to call a playpen.
I'm assuming that the name change comes from ultra-sensitive people being offended at the use of the word "pen" in relation to the containment of precious babies. "Pen!" they screamed (or so I imagine), "Pigs live in pens! My pwecious widdle snookums will not be contained in a pen, play or otherwise!"
The manufacturers of the much-maligned pens in question scratched their heads and brainstormed for endless... minutes before coming up with a new name. "Yard! Play Yard! Better yet, Playard! Sounds like Juliard! And Har-vard! They'll love that!"
Let's call a spade a spade, folks. We do use these convenient baby-containment systems to, well, contain our babies. It is a pen. It's there so we can let our kids play in a safe place while we pee, cook on a hot stove, or for when need to keep Junior away from marauding toddlers.
In protest of the unnecessary changing of perfectly good (if un-P.C.) names of products, I will now be using my own name for this one.
Now excuse me... I have to go put Simon in his Baby Cage while I make some spaghetti.
(Gender) Identity Crisis
Originally posted July 23/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
I was out grocery shopping yesterday, and I had an exceedingly unhappy baby with me. It wasn't nap time, he wasn't hungry; Simon just really hates grocery shopping. The novelty of sitting in the shopping cart has worn off, and now the only time he's happy is when another customer or a store employee is fawning over him. He's such a flirt!So he was happy when a very nice lady came over to us... and told me what a beautiful little girl I had.
To be fair, I should tell you that he was wearing yellow, which is just about the most gender-neutral colour you can dress a baby in. Plus, my baby boy has massive blue eyes and long, dark lashes that make his mommy jealous, so you can see where someone might get confused."Um, he's a boy, actually," I replied, adding that he was 10 months old (in response to her second question).
Now, if I make a mistake like that, my first instinct is to attempt to achieve complete invisibility; the closest I've gotten so far is to turn bright pink. This woman handled the situation perfectly; she said, "Oh! Well, he's just got a pretty face. He's going to grow up to look like Tom Cruise or someone like that!" Well! Tom Cruise isn't girly. Off his rocker, but not girly. Nice save, friendly lady!
I admire people who aren't afraid to talk to other people. I've met a lot of them since having a baby; nothing brings people flocking to you like a baby (except maybe a really cute puppy). I hope that as I work at getting over my shyness I'll become less afraid of people.
In the meantime, I'm dressing my pretty little boy in blue, thanks very much.
I was out grocery shopping yesterday, and I had an exceedingly unhappy baby with me. It wasn't nap time, he wasn't hungry; Simon just really hates grocery shopping. The novelty of sitting in the shopping cart has worn off, and now the only time he's happy is when another customer or a store employee is fawning over him. He's such a flirt!So he was happy when a very nice lady came over to us... and told me what a beautiful little girl I had.
To be fair, I should tell you that he was wearing yellow, which is just about the most gender-neutral colour you can dress a baby in. Plus, my baby boy has massive blue eyes and long, dark lashes that make his mommy jealous, so you can see where someone might get confused."Um, he's a boy, actually," I replied, adding that he was 10 months old (in response to her second question).
Now, if I make a mistake like that, my first instinct is to attempt to achieve complete invisibility; the closest I've gotten so far is to turn bright pink. This woman handled the situation perfectly; she said, "Oh! Well, he's just got a pretty face. He's going to grow up to look like Tom Cruise or someone like that!" Well! Tom Cruise isn't girly. Off his rocker, but not girly. Nice save, friendly lady!
I admire people who aren't afraid to talk to other people. I've met a lot of them since having a baby; nothing brings people flocking to you like a baby (except maybe a really cute puppy). I hope that as I work at getting over my shyness I'll become less afraid of people.
In the meantime, I'm dressing my pretty little boy in blue, thanks very much.
Martha Stewart I Ain't
Originally posted July 18/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
First of all, let me just say that I LOVE Martha Stewart's magazine. I like the pretty pictures, and I dream of having a home where every sheet set (if and when I own more than one) is neatly folded inside a coordinating pillowcase, where friends gather outdoors for a feast of "marin-aaah-ded" steak and fresh-squeezed lemonade, and where the cat isn't the only one who could, in theory, eat off the kitchen floor.
Yeah, right. No, I really do love that stuff, it's just that IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. My perfectionist days are over, thank you very much; it only took two stints in outpatient therapy to figure out that those tendencies weren't exactly helping my depression. I'm not saying we live in a pig sty; it's just that my home isn't quite ready to be featured in Better Homes and Gardens.
I vacuumed today, which is good. I only found three dead spiders while I was doing that... does anyone out there know the equation for figuring out how many LIVE spiders that means there are in my house? I did dishes, too, and managed not to gag from the smell of the 2-week old bottle of formula I dumped down the sink. Yummy! As for the bathroom, I keep it as clean as I can, scrub the toilet and pray that people take my word for it that those are rust stains in the can and not the result of a combination of severe colon blow and poor housekeeping skills. Really.
It's not all my fault. I have a baby, and he keeps me busy. He also contributes to the mess. OK, maybe I shouldn't give him Cheerios in the living room, but he gets so much joy from dumping them all over the floor. He's learning about GRAVITY, people; who am I to take away that valuable educational experience?! Also, my vacuum sucks. Or rather, it doesn't suck. I almost cried the day I used my mom's itt-bitty "carpet sweeper" and found that it was approximately four-hundred eighty-three times more powerful than my full-size, upright vac. Yeah, I said vac. I'm down with the lingo, yo. So is it really MY fault if you can't walk across the living room carpet without emerging wearing socks coated in cat hair? No. Blame the un-sucking-ness of my vacuum. Thank you.
I do what I can. Yes, there's clutter, but nothing choke-able within reach of the little monkey's paws. Clothes are piled all over my dresser, but I have a pretty good idea of what's clean and what's not. Besides, I'd rather spend my time enjoying my baby's baby-hood than trying to keep his mess off the floor.
Oh... and writing my blog. That, too!
First of all, let me just say that I LOVE Martha Stewart's magazine. I like the pretty pictures, and I dream of having a home where every sheet set (if and when I own more than one) is neatly folded inside a coordinating pillowcase, where friends gather outdoors for a feast of "marin-aaah-ded" steak and fresh-squeezed lemonade, and where the cat isn't the only one who could, in theory, eat off the kitchen floor.
Yeah, right. No, I really do love that stuff, it's just that IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. My perfectionist days are over, thank you very much; it only took two stints in outpatient therapy to figure out that those tendencies weren't exactly helping my depression. I'm not saying we live in a pig sty; it's just that my home isn't quite ready to be featured in Better Homes and Gardens.
I vacuumed today, which is good. I only found three dead spiders while I was doing that... does anyone out there know the equation for figuring out how many LIVE spiders that means there are in my house? I did dishes, too, and managed not to gag from the smell of the 2-week old bottle of formula I dumped down the sink. Yummy! As for the bathroom, I keep it as clean as I can, scrub the toilet and pray that people take my word for it that those are rust stains in the can and not the result of a combination of severe colon blow and poor housekeeping skills. Really.
It's not all my fault. I have a baby, and he keeps me busy. He also contributes to the mess. OK, maybe I shouldn't give him Cheerios in the living room, but he gets so much joy from dumping them all over the floor. He's learning about GRAVITY, people; who am I to take away that valuable educational experience?! Also, my vacuum sucks. Or rather, it doesn't suck. I almost cried the day I used my mom's itt-bitty "carpet sweeper" and found that it was approximately four-hundred eighty-three times more powerful than my full-size, upright vac. Yeah, I said vac. I'm down with the lingo, yo. So is it really MY fault if you can't walk across the living room carpet without emerging wearing socks coated in cat hair? No. Blame the un-sucking-ness of my vacuum. Thank you.
I do what I can. Yes, there's clutter, but nothing choke-able within reach of the little monkey's paws. Clothes are piled all over my dresser, but I have a pretty good idea of what's clean and what's not. Besides, I'd rather spend my time enjoying my baby's baby-hood than trying to keep his mess off the floor.
Oh... and writing my blog. That, too!
Ow! My Boob!
Originally posted June 27/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
[PLEASE NOTE: I wrote this back near the end of May. My boob is much better now. Thank you for asking. -K. )
Ow. Ow. Owww!
Remember way back when, that time I said I was lucky that I hadn’t experienced some of the complications that go along with breastfeeding, like blocked ducts and mastitis? Well cross the blocked duct thing off the list, friends. This is not a new phenomenon, actually. It has been happening off and on for several months; I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to deal with this. (Did I mention that I feel like whining today? I’m really, REALLY sorry. I won’t even hold it against you if you want to stop reading right now... still with me? OK then).
Commence whining in 5... 4... 3.... 2... 1. IT HUUUUUURTS! It really, really hurts! Just for purposes of reference for anyone who hasn’t had this particular experience: Have you ever had a really nasty toothache, the kind that is just completely distracting, and you can’t accomplish anything because this one teeny, tiny part of your body hurts so bloody much? Imagine that consuming your boob. Not the whole boob. Just, say, half of the boob. That’s what it feels like. A toothache of the boob. Have I said boob enough yet? Boob. Plus, as a value-added bonus, you get this rock-hard ball stuck to your chest, getting in the way for the day or so it takes to clear up.
So yeah, I’m not a happy camper today. All you can really do for a blocked milk duct is apply heat and massage (gently, and it still hurts!) as often as you can, and keep feeding the baby on that side. Because as much as the feeding hurts, letting the pressure build up is even worse. Ooh, and painkillers really help... a bit. This would be fine if caring for the boob (there, I said it again!) was all I had to do today, but it’s just not so. I’ve got my little guy to take care of, a hyperactive dog to deal with, and packing to do- did I mention that we’re moving next week? I’m ashamed to admit it, but I woke the hubby up this morning to ask- just to ask, mind you- if he could take a sick day for my boob. Apparently he can’t. Fine...
Like I said, this first happened months ago, and yet I’m still playing the dairy cow for my baby. Boy, am I dumb! If I had half a brain in my head, Simon would be happily drinking formula. Here’s the thing: it’s not because it’s good for him. It’s not for the bonding, though I still adore the feeling of closeness I get when he’s nursing. It’s not even the money, though goodness knows we still can’t afford formula. The reason I’m still breastfeeding him is this:
In the middle of the night, it’s just so much easier to whip out a boob than it is to prepare a bottle.
How sad is that? I’m willing to put up with pain and inconvenience because I’M TOO LAZY TO MAKE A BOTTLE. OK, so I’d miss it if I stopped- the feeding, I mean, not the blockage. I really would, in spite of everything. Am I crazy? Probably. What's your point?
[PLEASE NOTE: I wrote this back near the end of May. My boob is much better now. Thank you for asking. -K. )
Ow. Ow. Owww!
Remember way back when, that time I said I was lucky that I hadn’t experienced some of the complications that go along with breastfeeding, like blocked ducts and mastitis? Well cross the blocked duct thing off the list, friends. This is not a new phenomenon, actually. It has been happening off and on for several months; I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to deal with this. (Did I mention that I feel like whining today? I’m really, REALLY sorry. I won’t even hold it against you if you want to stop reading right now... still with me? OK then).
Commence whining in 5... 4... 3.... 2... 1. IT HUUUUUURTS! It really, really hurts! Just for purposes of reference for anyone who hasn’t had this particular experience: Have you ever had a really nasty toothache, the kind that is just completely distracting, and you can’t accomplish anything because this one teeny, tiny part of your body hurts so bloody much? Imagine that consuming your boob. Not the whole boob. Just, say, half of the boob. That’s what it feels like. A toothache of the boob. Have I said boob enough yet? Boob. Plus, as a value-added bonus, you get this rock-hard ball stuck to your chest, getting in the way for the day or so it takes to clear up.
So yeah, I’m not a happy camper today. All you can really do for a blocked milk duct is apply heat and massage (gently, and it still hurts!) as often as you can, and keep feeding the baby on that side. Because as much as the feeding hurts, letting the pressure build up is even worse. Ooh, and painkillers really help... a bit. This would be fine if caring for the boob (there, I said it again!) was all I had to do today, but it’s just not so. I’ve got my little guy to take care of, a hyperactive dog to deal with, and packing to do- did I mention that we’re moving next week? I’m ashamed to admit it, but I woke the hubby up this morning to ask- just to ask, mind you- if he could take a sick day for my boob. Apparently he can’t. Fine...
Like I said, this first happened months ago, and yet I’m still playing the dairy cow for my baby. Boy, am I dumb! If I had half a brain in my head, Simon would be happily drinking formula. Here’s the thing: it’s not because it’s good for him. It’s not for the bonding, though I still adore the feeling of closeness I get when he’s nursing. It’s not even the money, though goodness knows we still can’t afford formula. The reason I’m still breastfeeding him is this:
In the middle of the night, it’s just so much easier to whip out a boob than it is to prepare a bottle.
How sad is that? I’m willing to put up with pain and inconvenience because I’M TOO LAZY TO MAKE A BOTTLE. OK, so I’d miss it if I stopped- the feeding, I mean, not the blockage. I really would, in spite of everything. Am I crazy? Probably. What's your point?
Kodak Moment
Originally posted May 29/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
I was sitting on the bed a few minutes ago, feeding my boy before a badly needed nap. He was getting drowsy, but when he finished his snack, he fought off sleep for long enough to turn his head, gaze lovingly into my eyes, and say "Da Da."
I love this kid.
I was sitting on the bed a few minutes ago, feeding my boy before a badly needed nap. He was getting drowsy, but when he finished his snack, he fought off sleep for long enough to turn his head, gaze lovingly into my eyes, and say "Da Da."
I love this kid.
Cheaper Than "Pedigree"
Originally posted May 26/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
I read an article in Today’s Parent magazine about toilet training a baby while on a visit to India. It said that most people there don’t use diapers on their babies. This 7 month-old boy’s grandmother told his mother to let him crawl around without pants or a diaper on; her comment was (and I think I’m pretty close to the exact wording here, because I read the line about 5 times): "If he pees, we’ll wipe it off the floor. If he poops, the dog will eat it."
I almost started laughing out loud. It’s a good thing I didn’t, because I was in the doctor’s waiting room (where I do most of my reading- this was the same day I got my door prizes), and I get the impression that he already has serious questions about my mental state. I pictured this 7 month-old baby crawling around with his cute little commando-butt, and it was just too much.
Apparently this method of toilet training works really well. There’s more to it than just taking off the diaper, of course, and the article went into that. Sadly, it’s not a method that would work around here. Cold winters plus bare butts don’t equal happy babies, and it’s hard to just wipe the pee up off of wall-to-wall carpeting. It would be so good for the environment (and my wallet!) if we could do it, though. And think of the money you could save on dog food! Here, Otis...
I read an article in Today’s Parent magazine about toilet training a baby while on a visit to India. It said that most people there don’t use diapers on their babies. This 7 month-old boy’s grandmother told his mother to let him crawl around without pants or a diaper on; her comment was (and I think I’m pretty close to the exact wording here, because I read the line about 5 times): "If he pees, we’ll wipe it off the floor. If he poops, the dog will eat it."
I almost started laughing out loud. It’s a good thing I didn’t, because I was in the doctor’s waiting room (where I do most of my reading- this was the same day I got my door prizes), and I get the impression that he already has serious questions about my mental state. I pictured this 7 month-old baby crawling around with his cute little commando-butt, and it was just too much.
Apparently this method of toilet training works really well. There’s more to it than just taking off the diaper, of course, and the article went into that. Sadly, it’s not a method that would work around here. Cold winters plus bare butts don’t equal happy babies, and it’s hard to just wipe the pee up off of wall-to-wall carpeting. It would be so good for the environment (and my wallet!) if we could do it, though. And think of the money you could save on dog food! Here, Otis...
Contraception
Originally posted May 22/2006 on "Mommyhood Confidential"
I was at the doctor’s office not too long ago to a) get my prescription for antidepressants refilled- hooray! and b) to ask about post-baby birth control. I went back on the Pill recently, but it seemed to make my boobs think it was no longer necessary to produce milk. This would have been less of a problem if we could afford to buy formula for the boy, but we’re talking about the woman who finds a dime in a parking lot and hollers, "Hot Dang! Simon’s a-goin’ to college!" Have I mentioned how much I love embarrassing my husband?
Apparently the "low dose" pill I had tried was not the low-EST dose pill out there. Since the hormones were probably what was affecting my (or rather, Simon’s) milk supply, lower would seem to be better. That’s how I got a 3-month sample of the lower dose pill. But wait, there’s more! I also got a sample of the NuvaRing AND three trans-dermal patches. Wow... birth control, and I get to look like I’m trying to quit smoking, too!
The drug companies make everything look so pretty, like I’m going to base my decision on which looks nicest. Actually, that might be the best way to do it... Can I just tell you about the packaging? The pill I got the sample of is "Alesse", the commercial for which I have made fun of on several occasions.* The pills are pink and green to match the logo, and they come in a spanky-lookin’ silver cardboard case. Not bad... ooh, but look here! This patch thingy comes in a neat black leather-lookin' case! And it has a mirror inside! Sweet- I’m keeping the case for make-up even if I don’t end up using the patch. I think my favourite is the NuvaRing, though- it comes in a sheer blue fabric bag, tied with a bow at the top. It’s a gift, just for me! You shouldn’t have... It also comes with a free condom. This would seem to show a distinct lack of confidence in the product if not for the warning that the NuvaRing does not protect against STD's. OK then.
So I went in for a prescription and advice, and I came out with three low-dose hormonal contraceptives, a make-up case, a gift bag and a bonus condom to spiff up the hubby's wallet. This is why I love trips to the doctor; sound medical advice, plus I walk out feeling like I’ve won all kinds of door prizes. Yippee!
*You know... it’s the one where all these "Alias" type female spies are like, "I’m on Alesse" into their wrist-communicators in several languages, and then they all run off for their mission or something. I guess last-minute reports to headquarters on birth control methods are standard practice for spies.
I was at the doctor’s office not too long ago to a) get my prescription for antidepressants refilled- hooray! and b) to ask about post-baby birth control. I went back on the Pill recently, but it seemed to make my boobs think it was no longer necessary to produce milk. This would have been less of a problem if we could afford to buy formula for the boy, but we’re talking about the woman who finds a dime in a parking lot and hollers, "Hot Dang! Simon’s a-goin’ to college!" Have I mentioned how much I love embarrassing my husband?
Apparently the "low dose" pill I had tried was not the low-EST dose pill out there. Since the hormones were probably what was affecting my (or rather, Simon’s) milk supply, lower would seem to be better. That’s how I got a 3-month sample of the lower dose pill. But wait, there’s more! I also got a sample of the NuvaRing AND three trans-dermal patches. Wow... birth control, and I get to look like I’m trying to quit smoking, too!
The drug companies make everything look so pretty, like I’m going to base my decision on which looks nicest. Actually, that might be the best way to do it... Can I just tell you about the packaging? The pill I got the sample of is "Alesse", the commercial for which I have made fun of on several occasions.* The pills are pink and green to match the logo, and they come in a spanky-lookin’ silver cardboard case. Not bad... ooh, but look here! This patch thingy comes in a neat black leather-lookin' case! And it has a mirror inside! Sweet- I’m keeping the case for make-up even if I don’t end up using the patch. I think my favourite is the NuvaRing, though- it comes in a sheer blue fabric bag, tied with a bow at the top. It’s a gift, just for me! You shouldn’t have... It also comes with a free condom. This would seem to show a distinct lack of confidence in the product if not for the warning that the NuvaRing does not protect against STD's. OK then.
So I went in for a prescription and advice, and I came out with three low-dose hormonal contraceptives, a make-up case, a gift bag and a bonus condom to spiff up the hubby's wallet. This is why I love trips to the doctor; sound medical advice, plus I walk out feeling like I’ve won all kinds of door prizes. Yippee!
*You know... it’s the one where all these "Alias" type female spies are like, "I’m on Alesse" into their wrist-communicators in several languages, and then they all run off for their mission or something. I guess last-minute reports to headquarters on birth control methods are standard practice for spies.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)