2.08.2010
1.23.2010
Carol
I think the last time I saw my aunt Carol was on Christmas day, 2005. She was at my wedding, but I don't know that I got much more than a glimpse of her from across the crowded reception room. My husband has never met her, and she has never seen my son.
She is, however, the centerpiece of some of my fondest childhood memories.
When I was very young, Carol and her husband --my mother's brother, Rick-- didn't have any children. They lived in this great big old house, one that I vaguely remember as being kinda spooky. I don't think I ever went upstairs, actually, a reality that probably contributed to its mystery. The kitchen had a bold, black and white tile floor. Their guest room was green, and in it was a big, beautiful bed with lots of fluffy pillows.
Every now and then, Carol and Rick would invite Beth and me over for a spend-the-night party. Some nights, we would stay in the big, beautiful, green room and get to sleep in the big, beautiful, fluffy bed. I remember imagining that I was a princess; they certainly made me feel that way.
On other nights, Carol, Beth, and I would set up camp in the den. We'd spread out our sleeping bags, raid the kitchen for junk food, and beg Carol to let us make prank phone calls. Once, it seems like Beth attempted to call "The Time Man" (226-6101) but reached my parents' number instead, probably waking my dad up from a deep, restful sleep. We'd stay up all night (of course, it was probably only until 10 pm) watching old tv shows on Nick at Night and having a grand old time. I look back on that now, as an adult, and am amazed at the love that Carol must've had for us. Why would two, childless young adults willingly agree to take two 8-ish year-olds off our parents' hands for the night? I don't know, but they did.
In the mornings, we'd eat chocolate chip cookies and drink coca-cola (from original bottles!) for breakfast before Rick would take us out on his double-seater bicycle. On at least one visit, Carol had to lay me down flat on the bed so that she could get my jeans zipped up after I'd filled up on cookies and coke, or so the story goes. She'd always cackle with laughter whenever she told that story in the years that followed.
That laughter is a defining trait of my aunt. You can hear it from all over the house when she's around, no matter what room you're in. She's the type of person who can laugh AT you (not with you) without, somehow, making you feel bad about yourself. All you want to do is laugh along with her.
One time, in the middle of a big family dinner at one of the local restaurants, Carol convinced me, a naive, litte girl, to try an anchovie. "They're delicious!" she promised with a straight face, then promptly lost her composure as I gagged and sputtered after falling for her lie.
Carol's unconventional style, her refusal to conform to people's expectations, her unabashed affection for her nieces, nephews, son and daughter... all characteristics of this aunt of mine that I will tell Parks about one day soon. And maybe, just maybe, I will one day be regarded as Anna Claire's or Mallory's or William's coolest aunt. If I am, I won't be able to take the credit. I will have learned it all from Carol.
She is, however, the centerpiece of some of my fondest childhood memories.
When I was very young, Carol and her husband --my mother's brother, Rick-- didn't have any children. They lived in this great big old house, one that I vaguely remember as being kinda spooky. I don't think I ever went upstairs, actually, a reality that probably contributed to its mystery. The kitchen had a bold, black and white tile floor. Their guest room was green, and in it was a big, beautiful bed with lots of fluffy pillows.
Every now and then, Carol and Rick would invite Beth and me over for a spend-the-night party. Some nights, we would stay in the big, beautiful, green room and get to sleep in the big, beautiful, fluffy bed. I remember imagining that I was a princess; they certainly made me feel that way.
On other nights, Carol, Beth, and I would set up camp in the den. We'd spread out our sleeping bags, raid the kitchen for junk food, and beg Carol to let us make prank phone calls. Once, it seems like Beth attempted to call "The Time Man" (226-6101) but reached my parents' number instead, probably waking my dad up from a deep, restful sleep. We'd stay up all night (of course, it was probably only until 10 pm) watching old tv shows on Nick at Night and having a grand old time. I look back on that now, as an adult, and am amazed at the love that Carol must've had for us. Why would two, childless young adults willingly agree to take two 8-ish year-olds off our parents' hands for the night? I don't know, but they did.
In the mornings, we'd eat chocolate chip cookies and drink coca-cola (from original bottles!) for breakfast before Rick would take us out on his double-seater bicycle. On at least one visit, Carol had to lay me down flat on the bed so that she could get my jeans zipped up after I'd filled up on cookies and coke, or so the story goes. She'd always cackle with laughter whenever she told that story in the years that followed.
That laughter is a defining trait of my aunt. You can hear it from all over the house when she's around, no matter what room you're in. She's the type of person who can laugh AT you (not with you) without, somehow, making you feel bad about yourself. All you want to do is laugh along with her.
One time, in the middle of a big family dinner at one of the local restaurants, Carol convinced me, a naive, litte girl, to try an anchovie. "They're delicious!" she promised with a straight face, then promptly lost her composure as I gagged and sputtered after falling for her lie.
Carol's unconventional style, her refusal to conform to people's expectations, her unabashed affection for her nieces, nephews, son and daughter... all characteristics of this aunt of mine that I will tell Parks about one day soon. And maybe, just maybe, I will one day be regarded as Anna Claire's or Mallory's or William's coolest aunt. If I am, I won't be able to take the credit. I will have learned it all from Carol.
12.08.2009
A good night
Well, it's the end of the semester, and I've only posted, what?, one blog since I started teaching my classes back in August? Ah well.
Tonight, as I was leaving our final exam, I was walking out with one of my students. He's an older guy, as far as students go. In his early 50's, I'd say, with a military background and a life full of transfers, exotic locales, various occupations, and other experiences far different from mine. He gave me the ultimate compliment, one most teachers long to hear but rarely do, if only because we are quite easy to take for granted.
He told me that in all his 40-something years of education, elementary, middle, high, and various colleges here and there, that he learned more in my class this semester than he ever has in any other. Wow. Wow! I told Cal tonight that those words would never come out of a high schooler's mouth, and, if they did, they'd never mean as much as they did from a man wizened by adulthood and the hardships of life.
I post this not to brag, and, for this reason, chose my seldom-used blog as the method rather than silly ol' Facebook. I figure that those of you who still check this page from time to time are the ones who really care, who really know me enough to (hopefully) realize that I don't mean to boast by it. It just might be the first time, after 8 years of teaching blindly and merely hoping that I'm hitting the mark, that anyone has ever vocalized to me that what I do matters, and that I can be assured that I'm doing it well.
What a difference encouragement can make!
Tonight, as I was leaving our final exam, I was walking out with one of my students. He's an older guy, as far as students go. In his early 50's, I'd say, with a military background and a life full of transfers, exotic locales, various occupations, and other experiences far different from mine. He gave me the ultimate compliment, one most teachers long to hear but rarely do, if only because we are quite easy to take for granted.
He told me that in all his 40-something years of education, elementary, middle, high, and various colleges here and there, that he learned more in my class this semester than he ever has in any other. Wow. Wow! I told Cal tonight that those words would never come out of a high schooler's mouth, and, if they did, they'd never mean as much as they did from a man wizened by adulthood and the hardships of life.
I post this not to brag, and, for this reason, chose my seldom-used blog as the method rather than silly ol' Facebook. I figure that those of you who still check this page from time to time are the ones who really care, who really know me enough to (hopefully) realize that I don't mean to boast by it. It just might be the first time, after 8 years of teaching blindly and merely hoping that I'm hitting the mark, that anyone has ever vocalized to me that what I do matters, and that I can be assured that I'm doing it well.
What a difference encouragement can make!
9.27.2009
Thoughts
I saw the film Julie and Julia last night. Along with giving me the desire to cook lots of extravagant French cuisine, the movie also reminded me a bit of me, back when I started this blog. It (my blog) was an outlet--a way to reassure myself that I wasn't losing the "me" that I had discovered in Athens, now that I was living in Macon, a very non-Athens type of place.
In a similar vein, I'm realizing more and more every day that, in my new roles as Wife and Mother, I need constant reminders that my life now, although unfathomably different, is still one in which I can be "me." I wish that somehow those reminders would be more easily accessible, found in more obvious places. I sometimes wonder where that spontaneous, wanna-be-edgy girl from those days is, where she's hidden herself in this flabby and frumpily-dressed housewife exterior. I know she's here.
Cal and I go back and forth on this particular issue. I feel badly for him as he struggles to understand this identity crisis that I'm facing. He automatically associates my wistful walks down memory lane as reflections of my feelings for him, or for Parks. Wonders if I regret my decisions from the last few years, decisions that changed who I was then into who I am now. And that is SO far from the truth, and I hope that I have convincingly conveyed that reality to him.
My life, though different now, is no worse, and I am no less happy and, actually, am often happier than I was then. It's just different. And my sometimes-inner-turmoil is not due to a lack of satisfaction in my new roles; it is, rather, a consequence of my trying to reconcile this new identity to my old one. To mold it into an identity that is uniquely mine, in some way. To somehow figure out the paradox by fulfilling that ever-present and always-strong urge of mine to be independent without compromising the wonderful fact that I am not, and don't ever again want to be, alone. I am an integral part of, first, a pair, and, next, a trio. And I love the truth of the fact that I am no longer one.
I merely want the segment of the pair (or trio) that is me to truly be ME. Not some watered-down version, or some vain attempt to squeeze myself into the typecast of a Christian housewife and mother. (Because I think we can all agree that, unfortunately, the "me" of which I speak is not found anywhere remotely close to that perfect, Donna Reed stereotype.)
I am blessed. I have an amazing husband who loves me for who I was before, who I am now, and who I am trying to be in the future. He has to speak the truth in love, occasionally (Miriam, you're 31. You're married. You're a mother. The three of us live on one teacher's salary. At some point, you've got to realize that it's just not practical to flit off to Las Vegas whenever you find a great deal on Travel Zoo), but he constantly reminds me that he did not marry me because I'm an impeccable housekeeper, and that he cooked (quite well) for himself in the 12 years or so that existed for him between living under his mother's care and living under mine.
I, on the other hand, remind him on the occasions when I long for my lonely days and he gets concerned that his presence is the problem, that my independence and utter contentment with my singleness is what drew him --lonely and DIScontent-- to me in the first place. That if I had never had that enthusiasm for the time in my life before I was married, he, perhaps, would have never found me as mystifying (and, therefore, attractive) as he did.*
What does all of this have to do with Julie and Julia? Well, Julie claimed that her blog revived her soul and gave her new life. While I won't go that far with the analogy, I do wonder if I, myself, shouldn't find some project about which to write on a regular basis. A new challenge, a fresh way to bring myself out of the identity crisis rut that I've been in for a while. A way to make my life uniquely my life.
Then again, you all know me well enough to know that if I were truly able to commit to anything of the magnitude of which a project like this would be, I would, once again, have a new identity crisis on my hands. Me? Commit? Finish? Ha!
Or would that type of crisis be similar to the one I'm plodding through now? An identity that's not worse. Not a regression. Rather, one out of which I emerge better, more complete, closer to the woman that God is molding me to eventually be?
I don't know. Maybe I never will. But it makes for an interesting thought, late on a Sunday night.
*Cal will likely wake up tomorrow morning, mortified to be reading such personal ramblings about our private life. But, hey. He's written about my breast pumps on numerous occasions. I think I have some wiggle room here.
In a similar vein, I'm realizing more and more every day that, in my new roles as Wife and Mother, I need constant reminders that my life now, although unfathomably different, is still one in which I can be "me." I wish that somehow those reminders would be more easily accessible, found in more obvious places. I sometimes wonder where that spontaneous, wanna-be-edgy girl from those days is, where she's hidden herself in this flabby and frumpily-dressed housewife exterior. I know she's here.
Cal and I go back and forth on this particular issue. I feel badly for him as he struggles to understand this identity crisis that I'm facing. He automatically associates my wistful walks down memory lane as reflections of my feelings for him, or for Parks. Wonders if I regret my decisions from the last few years, decisions that changed who I was then into who I am now. And that is SO far from the truth, and I hope that I have convincingly conveyed that reality to him.
My life, though different now, is no worse, and I am no less happy and, actually, am often happier than I was then. It's just different. And my sometimes-inner-turmoil is not due to a lack of satisfaction in my new roles; it is, rather, a consequence of my trying to reconcile this new identity to my old one. To mold it into an identity that is uniquely mine, in some way. To somehow figure out the paradox by fulfilling that ever-present and always-strong urge of mine to be independent without compromising the wonderful fact that I am not, and don't ever again want to be, alone. I am an integral part of, first, a pair, and, next, a trio. And I love the truth of the fact that I am no longer one.
I merely want the segment of the pair (or trio) that is me to truly be ME. Not some watered-down version, or some vain attempt to squeeze myself into the typecast of a Christian housewife and mother. (Because I think we can all agree that, unfortunately, the "me" of which I speak is not found anywhere remotely close to that perfect, Donna Reed stereotype.)
I am blessed. I have an amazing husband who loves me for who I was before, who I am now, and who I am trying to be in the future. He has to speak the truth in love, occasionally (Miriam, you're 31. You're married. You're a mother. The three of us live on one teacher's salary. At some point, you've got to realize that it's just not practical to flit off to Las Vegas whenever you find a great deal on Travel Zoo), but he constantly reminds me that he did not marry me because I'm an impeccable housekeeper, and that he cooked (quite well) for himself in the 12 years or so that existed for him between living under his mother's care and living under mine.
I, on the other hand, remind him on the occasions when I long for my lonely days and he gets concerned that his presence is the problem, that my independence and utter contentment with my singleness is what drew him --lonely and DIScontent-- to me in the first place. That if I had never had that enthusiasm for the time in my life before I was married, he, perhaps, would have never found me as mystifying (and, therefore, attractive) as he did.*
What does all of this have to do with Julie and Julia? Well, Julie claimed that her blog revived her soul and gave her new life. While I won't go that far with the analogy, I do wonder if I, myself, shouldn't find some project about which to write on a regular basis. A new challenge, a fresh way to bring myself out of the identity crisis rut that I've been in for a while. A way to make my life uniquely my life.
Then again, you all know me well enough to know that if I were truly able to commit to anything of the magnitude of which a project like this would be, I would, once again, have a new identity crisis on my hands. Me? Commit? Finish? Ha!
Or would that type of crisis be similar to the one I'm plodding through now? An identity that's not worse. Not a regression. Rather, one out of which I emerge better, more complete, closer to the woman that God is molding me to eventually be?
I don't know. Maybe I never will. But it makes for an interesting thought, late on a Sunday night.
*Cal will likely wake up tomorrow morning, mortified to be reading such personal ramblings about our private life. But, hey. He's written about my breast pumps on numerous occasions. I think I have some wiggle room here.
9.04.2009
Lessons on Life
Parks is asleep and Cal's at the school's first home game, and, since I have the time, I feel like I should blog.
My classes at Macon State are turning out to be a lot of fun. I was hesitant at first about whether or not I'd like teaching at night, but, as it turns out, I really love it. The schedule seems to fit my natural tendencies: I hate mornings, so I can stay in my pj's as long as I want to because Parks sure doesn't care; I get an energy spurt at night after dinner, and that's about when my classes start. Our only drawback is that Cal still has to get up and go quite early in the mornings, so he's ready for bed when I walk in the door at 10:15 on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I, on the other hand, usually need some time to unwind once I get home.
Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of my classes is the variety of students that I have. I wondered before I started about what they'd be like, particularly since I have night classes. In a lot of ways, I think that the time of day is what has brought me the wide range of people; I imagine that the day courses are filled with your typical, run-of-the-mill 18-year-olds, fresh out of high school and not real sure they're happy to be in a classroom.
These students of mine, however, seem to want to be there. Most are older than the average student, and many of them have had life experiences that, for one reason or another, prevented them from heading straight to college after receiving their diplomas. Because of that fact, they are fascinating to me.
The school is in Warner Robins, home of Robins Air Force Base, and, therefore, a lot of the folks that I teach have a military background. They've seen places and experienced events that I can only envision in the remotest regions of my imagination. Others have had close family members die tragically, and several have suffered through abusive relationships.
What an educational experience for me, a naive 31-year-old from upper-middle class Georgia! I have, blessedly, never experienced the loss and pain and (literal) warfare that some of these folks count as part of their everyday lives.
Last night, as I was checking over the outlines that I had the classes write for their narrative essays due next week, I began to realize that I might be able to guide them through the how-to's of writing a decent paper, but beyond that ability, I'm the student. I truly believe that, come the end of final exam night in December, I will be thanking them for all that they will have taught me.
My classes at Macon State are turning out to be a lot of fun. I was hesitant at first about whether or not I'd like teaching at night, but, as it turns out, I really love it. The schedule seems to fit my natural tendencies: I hate mornings, so I can stay in my pj's as long as I want to because Parks sure doesn't care; I get an energy spurt at night after dinner, and that's about when my classes start. Our only drawback is that Cal still has to get up and go quite early in the mornings, so he's ready for bed when I walk in the door at 10:15 on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I, on the other hand, usually need some time to unwind once I get home.
Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of my classes is the variety of students that I have. I wondered before I started about what they'd be like, particularly since I have night classes. In a lot of ways, I think that the time of day is what has brought me the wide range of people; I imagine that the day courses are filled with your typical, run-of-the-mill 18-year-olds, fresh out of high school and not real sure they're happy to be in a classroom.
These students of mine, however, seem to want to be there. Most are older than the average student, and many of them have had life experiences that, for one reason or another, prevented them from heading straight to college after receiving their diplomas. Because of that fact, they are fascinating to me.
The school is in Warner Robins, home of Robins Air Force Base, and, therefore, a lot of the folks that I teach have a military background. They've seen places and experienced events that I can only envision in the remotest regions of my imagination. Others have had close family members die tragically, and several have suffered through abusive relationships.
What an educational experience for me, a naive 31-year-old from upper-middle class Georgia! I have, blessedly, never experienced the loss and pain and (literal) warfare that some of these folks count as part of their everyday lives.
Last night, as I was checking over the outlines that I had the classes write for their narrative essays due next week, I began to realize that I might be able to guide them through the how-to's of writing a decent paper, but beyond that ability, I'm the student. I truly believe that, come the end of final exam night in December, I will be thanking them for all that they will have taught me.
8.27.2009
8/27/09
Fed baby, ate breakfast, put baby down for nap, checked Facebook, took shower, got baby up from nap, put on make-up while talking baby talk to the kid on the bed behind me, fed baby, put baby down for nap, started laundry load 1, ate turkey sandwich and baked Ruffles, emptied dishwasher, washed dishes, made 3 bottles, started laundry load 2, checked email, got baby up from nap, fed baby, folded laundry load 1 while talking baby talk to the kid on the floor next to the couch, took baby to nursery and changed crib sheets (a lot harder than you'd think), put baby down for nap, cooked spaghetti sauce, folded laundry load 2 while talking to husband home early from rained-out softball practice, got baby up from nap, made noodles and garlic bread for husband, fed baby while husband ate supper, turned baby over to husband, made noodles and garlic bread for me, ate supper, changed into work clothes, left the house for my second job, drove to Warner Robins, taught two 75-minute classes, drove home from Warner Robins, blogged.
8.13.2009
A new kind of First Day
Seems like in the past few years, I've nearly always managed to muster up the energy to write a bit about my first day back at school for another year, even if it means just referring back to the story of my first day of my first year teaching. This year, I figure I'll carry on the tradition, although it wasn't my first day at school. This year, it was my first day NOT at school.
Even though Parks has been sleeping much better (12 straight hours the last two nights!) since we've been crying it out, I, for some unknown reason, didn't sleep well last night. So far, not much different from years past. I woke up when Cal's alarm went off at 6:45 and remained in my place on the bed while he got ready for his day. We chatted groggily as he put on his tie, and I did my best to sympathize (again) with the fact that he has to wear one every day while the female teachers get away with a much more casual look, to say the least. He left around 7:15, and I remained awake in bed, dreading the wail from the monitor that I knew would come as soon as Parks woke up soon thereafter.
The morning preceded very much as usual; feeding the baby, playing in our pj's for an hour or so, bath time, then nap #1. For our next round, I decided we'd venture out of the house for a nice walk with our new jogging stoller, purchased via Craigslist a couple of days ago. I hoped that the exercise would add to the diet that I started on Monday, and that it'd be a break from the normal routine of Parks's day. What I seemed to have forgotten in my enthusiasm for getting out of the house was that I haven't exercised in, oh... a year. Needless to say, my first attempt back out, pushing not only my fat butt and stomach but also a 15 pound baby in a 22 pound stroller, wasn't what I'd call smooth sailing. A couple of years ago, I could jog several miles, several times a week. Today, I could barely WALK 1 1/2 miles. Parks seemed to sense my frustration, as he started fussing a bit 'round about the 1 mile marker. Then again, maybe he just found the foul smell of my extensive sweat and the ridiculously loud sound of my labored breathing irritating. I know I did.
Anyway, an embarrassingly long length of time later, we made it back to the house where I longed to gulp down a huge glass of water or, better yet, hook myself up to an IV so that I could collapse on the floor without fear of dehydration. Not this time, however. Parks was thirsty, too, and he was letting me know it. I fed him (a marathon-like feat in and of itself... the kid takes 30 minutes to eat 2 oz, and I'm supposed to get at least 6 oz down him at a time), put him down for nap #2, and, finally, 45 minutes after our walk, drank my glass of water and started some soup heating on the stove while I grabbed a shower.
Parks, of course, chose that time to take one of his notoriously short naps. Just as I was settling in to read a chapter or two in my book while I enjoyed my lunch, the inevitable wail of an awake baby pierced the air. Durn. A 25-minute nap. Seriously, Parks? Are you REALLY my child?
I had decided that on this next period of wakefulness, we'd venture out of the house to return a cheap sound machine that I had bought at Walmart (a failed attempt to keep Nick the Cat from waking Parks up at 5 am with all his "feed me, I'm STARVING" antics) and, hopefully, catch Cal at school between his 1:00 meeting and his 3:00 softball practice. He had a game tonight and wouldn't get home until after Parks was asleep and, since Parks wasn't awake when he left this morning, would potentially go the full day without getting to say hello. I hoped to solve that problem. I got Parks up, changed his diaper, scarfed down my (cold) soup while he (very impatiently) waited in his bouncer, then headed out the door.
I was feeling like quite the model wife and mother until about halfway to Walmart, when Parks started shrieking. Not crying, really; just shrieking. These not-so-little squeals that so often emanate from our little man signify not, like so many people believe when they first hear it, a playful attitude but, instead, an escalating level of an "I'm going to warn you for a little while before I start wailing for real" kind of attitude. Mr. Parksy, it seemed, chose that moment to clue in to the fact that a 25-minute nap means no rest. And no rest? Still tired.
"Hang on, Buddy," I encouraged him from the front seat. "We're gonna see Daddy soon!" He stared at me blankly in his mirror, while a record-breakingingly long stream of drool stretched from his mouth.
We got through the Walmart return counter relatively quickly (surprise, huh?), then headed across the street to the school. Cal met us at the car, and we decided to show Parks off a bit. Cal, the proud papa, walked into the administration building of the school and, immediately, Parks's face crumpled up and the alligator tears began to flow. Thankfully, adults find it pretty cute when little babies cry. Parks was, therefore, really cute today.
We left the school about 20 not-so-successful minutes later, and I managed to keep Parks awake until I got him home and in his crib, where nap #3 lasted for one, blissful hour.
Round 4 of the day began when Parks woke up around 4 pm. Cal would be home sometime after 9. What to do next? My very limited supply of activities-to-do-with-four-month-olds was running dry. There was still hope that he'd take another nap before his last feeding of the day, but it wasn't a sure bet. I had at least 3 hours until then. We ate another 8 oz (45 minutes down), read books, played on his Baby Einstein floor gym, played on his Baby Einstein exersaucer, played in his bouncer, played on the bed while I folded clothes, sang songs, and pretty much bided our time until he started his shrieks again. Hurrah! Another nap!
I laid him down in his crib and listened for his shrieks to become cries and his cries to become silent. However, it didn't happen. His playful noises continued for 20 minutes or so until I finally went into his room, only to find him staring wide-eyed at his (currently immobile) mobile, as if believing it would spontaneously begin spinning and playing music (Glory Glory, by the way) if he could just concentrate hard enough. He grinned at me with his slobbery mouth when he noticed that I was peeping over his crib. Eyes rolling, I grabbed him up, and we bided a little more time.
Finally... 6:15 pm. Too early to start the night time ritual? Hmmm. Maybe not. He had been awake for over two hours, and he was rubbing his eyes and fussing a bit. I started with making an attempt to feed him his rice cereal, a task that we've only been trying since Monday, but one that has resulted in the 12-hour nights mentioned above, coincidence or not. Parks doesn't quite get the solid food thing. I put the cereal in his mouth (which he opens wide in anticipation), at which point he grimaces in a way that makes me wonder if the rice cereal tastes not like rice cereal but, instead, like a lemon, and then pushes it all out with his tongue if, that is, he does anything with it at all. Most of the time, he sits there grimacing with his mouth open, not swallowing, not chewing ... nothing.
I've learned that the quickest way to get him to swallow is to give him his pacifier, so, tonight, I placed the food in his mouth and followed it up fairly quickly with the passy, which he sucked furiously for a few seconds until it was time for the next bite. Sure, I'm probably encouraging him to become a 25-year-old man who sucks a pacifier after every bite of his hamburger and fries one day, but --hey-- he's sleeping through the night. It's called survival, folks.
PJ's on, bottle drunk, and fussing for bed by 6:35, at which point I joyfully placed Mr. Parks in his crib with nary a murmur of complaint from him. Too good to be true? Definitely.
30 minutes later, he was wailing. As it wasn't even his normal bedtime yet, I decided to get him up and feed him the rest of the bottle that he had started not even an hour before. He was fussing again within 30 minutes and could hardly hold his eyes open, so I put him back down, hoping it would take this time, as it was 7:30 and pretty close to his normal routine. The screams (real ones, this time) started before I had gotten out of the nursery.
It is now 8:28, 58 minutes after I put him down, and the little flashing lights on the monitor above the tv have just this second stopped blinking, signifying that Parks has, finally, gone to sleep. Cal is due home in half an hour, and it'll be a task to stay up to see him and hear about his first day at school.
It's hard to say which is tougher: dealing with 100 or so middle or highschoolers, or entertaining Parks all day, all by myself. I do know, though, without a shadow of a doubt, which is more rewarding for me. One little smile from that one little baby outshines all the 80-something awed, 6th grade faces that stared up at me when I first opened a lock so many years ago.
My, how things have changed.
Even though Parks has been sleeping much better (12 straight hours the last two nights!) since we've been crying it out, I, for some unknown reason, didn't sleep well last night. So far, not much different from years past. I woke up when Cal's alarm went off at 6:45 and remained in my place on the bed while he got ready for his day. We chatted groggily as he put on his tie, and I did my best to sympathize (again) with the fact that he has to wear one every day while the female teachers get away with a much more casual look, to say the least. He left around 7:15, and I remained awake in bed, dreading the wail from the monitor that I knew would come as soon as Parks woke up soon thereafter.
The morning preceded very much as usual; feeding the baby, playing in our pj's for an hour or so, bath time, then nap #1. For our next round, I decided we'd venture out of the house for a nice walk with our new jogging stoller, purchased via Craigslist a couple of days ago. I hoped that the exercise would add to the diet that I started on Monday, and that it'd be a break from the normal routine of Parks's day. What I seemed to have forgotten in my enthusiasm for getting out of the house was that I haven't exercised in, oh... a year. Needless to say, my first attempt back out, pushing not only my fat butt and stomach but also a 15 pound baby in a 22 pound stroller, wasn't what I'd call smooth sailing. A couple of years ago, I could jog several miles, several times a week. Today, I could barely WALK 1 1/2 miles. Parks seemed to sense my frustration, as he started fussing a bit 'round about the 1 mile marker. Then again, maybe he just found the foul smell of my extensive sweat and the ridiculously loud sound of my labored breathing irritating. I know I did.
Anyway, an embarrassingly long length of time later, we made it back to the house where I longed to gulp down a huge glass of water or, better yet, hook myself up to an IV so that I could collapse on the floor without fear of dehydration. Not this time, however. Parks was thirsty, too, and he was letting me know it. I fed him (a marathon-like feat in and of itself... the kid takes 30 minutes to eat 2 oz, and I'm supposed to get at least 6 oz down him at a time), put him down for nap #2, and, finally, 45 minutes after our walk, drank my glass of water and started some soup heating on the stove while I grabbed a shower.
Parks, of course, chose that time to take one of his notoriously short naps. Just as I was settling in to read a chapter or two in my book while I enjoyed my lunch, the inevitable wail of an awake baby pierced the air. Durn. A 25-minute nap. Seriously, Parks? Are you REALLY my child?
I had decided that on this next period of wakefulness, we'd venture out of the house to return a cheap sound machine that I had bought at Walmart (a failed attempt to keep Nick the Cat from waking Parks up at 5 am with all his "feed me, I'm STARVING" antics) and, hopefully, catch Cal at school between his 1:00 meeting and his 3:00 softball practice. He had a game tonight and wouldn't get home until after Parks was asleep and, since Parks wasn't awake when he left this morning, would potentially go the full day without getting to say hello. I hoped to solve that problem. I got Parks up, changed his diaper, scarfed down my (cold) soup while he (very impatiently) waited in his bouncer, then headed out the door.
I was feeling like quite the model wife and mother until about halfway to Walmart, when Parks started shrieking. Not crying, really; just shrieking. These not-so-little squeals that so often emanate from our little man signify not, like so many people believe when they first hear it, a playful attitude but, instead, an escalating level of an "I'm going to warn you for a little while before I start wailing for real" kind of attitude. Mr. Parksy, it seemed, chose that moment to clue in to the fact that a 25-minute nap means no rest. And no rest? Still tired.
"Hang on, Buddy," I encouraged him from the front seat. "We're gonna see Daddy soon!" He stared at me blankly in his mirror, while a record-breakingingly long stream of drool stretched from his mouth.
We got through the Walmart return counter relatively quickly (surprise, huh?), then headed across the street to the school. Cal met us at the car, and we decided to show Parks off a bit. Cal, the proud papa, walked into the administration building of the school and, immediately, Parks's face crumpled up and the alligator tears began to flow. Thankfully, adults find it pretty cute when little babies cry. Parks was, therefore, really cute today.
We left the school about 20 not-so-successful minutes later, and I managed to keep Parks awake until I got him home and in his crib, where nap #3 lasted for one, blissful hour.
Round 4 of the day began when Parks woke up around 4 pm. Cal would be home sometime after 9. What to do next? My very limited supply of activities-to-do-with-four-month-olds was running dry. There was still hope that he'd take another nap before his last feeding of the day, but it wasn't a sure bet. I had at least 3 hours until then. We ate another 8 oz (45 minutes down), read books, played on his Baby Einstein floor gym, played on his Baby Einstein exersaucer, played in his bouncer, played on the bed while I folded clothes, sang songs, and pretty much bided our time until he started his shrieks again. Hurrah! Another nap!
I laid him down in his crib and listened for his shrieks to become cries and his cries to become silent. However, it didn't happen. His playful noises continued for 20 minutes or so until I finally went into his room, only to find him staring wide-eyed at his (currently immobile) mobile, as if believing it would spontaneously begin spinning and playing music (Glory Glory, by the way) if he could just concentrate hard enough. He grinned at me with his slobbery mouth when he noticed that I was peeping over his crib. Eyes rolling, I grabbed him up, and we bided a little more time.
Finally... 6:15 pm. Too early to start the night time ritual? Hmmm. Maybe not. He had been awake for over two hours, and he was rubbing his eyes and fussing a bit. I started with making an attempt to feed him his rice cereal, a task that we've only been trying since Monday, but one that has resulted in the 12-hour nights mentioned above, coincidence or not. Parks doesn't quite get the solid food thing. I put the cereal in his mouth (which he opens wide in anticipation), at which point he grimaces in a way that makes me wonder if the rice cereal tastes not like rice cereal but, instead, like a lemon, and then pushes it all out with his tongue if, that is, he does anything with it at all. Most of the time, he sits there grimacing with his mouth open, not swallowing, not chewing ... nothing.
I've learned that the quickest way to get him to swallow is to give him his pacifier, so, tonight, I placed the food in his mouth and followed it up fairly quickly with the passy, which he sucked furiously for a few seconds until it was time for the next bite. Sure, I'm probably encouraging him to become a 25-year-old man who sucks a pacifier after every bite of his hamburger and fries one day, but --hey-- he's sleeping through the night. It's called survival, folks.
PJ's on, bottle drunk, and fussing for bed by 6:35, at which point I joyfully placed Mr. Parks in his crib with nary a murmur of complaint from him. Too good to be true? Definitely.
30 minutes later, he was wailing. As it wasn't even his normal bedtime yet, I decided to get him up and feed him the rest of the bottle that he had started not even an hour before. He was fussing again within 30 minutes and could hardly hold his eyes open, so I put him back down, hoping it would take this time, as it was 7:30 and pretty close to his normal routine. The screams (real ones, this time) started before I had gotten out of the nursery.
It is now 8:28, 58 minutes after I put him down, and the little flashing lights on the monitor above the tv have just this second stopped blinking, signifying that Parks has, finally, gone to sleep. Cal is due home in half an hour, and it'll be a task to stay up to see him and hear about his first day at school.
It's hard to say which is tougher: dealing with 100 or so middle or highschoolers, or entertaining Parks all day, all by myself. I do know, though, without a shadow of a doubt, which is more rewarding for me. One little smile from that one little baby outshines all the 80-something awed, 6th grade faces that stared up at me when I first opened a lock so many years ago.
My, how things have changed.
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