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.
8.04.2009
Reality
For the first time today, a little over four months after Parks's birth, I donned a pair of regular jeans. Regular, as in non-maternity. Right.
Some of you may be ready to congratulate me, as it's quite a wondrous milestone to be back in one's pre-pregnancy jeans. Those of you, however, don't have all the facts. You see, these aren't my pre-pregnancy jeans. These are jeans that I shamefacedly bought last night at Steinmart. Jeans that are, unfortunately, 3 sizes bigger than those I wore before.
And yet, in spite of the embarrassingly large size, the muffin top effect still exists. You know, the way one's excess flab is squeezed in a pair of too-tight pants so that it billows over the top button, creating a roll the size of the giant weiner on top of the Oscar Meyer mobile. A roll that nothing but a flowy top over a tight camisole can hide, thus limiting my upper body wardrobe, as well. Sigh.
I knew it was time to bite the bullet when I saw Cal smirking at me as I pulled on my maternity jeans yesterday. "What?" I growled at him. He just laughed and shook his head.
Really, though, he should just be glad that I'm wearing anything other than sweatpants, seeing as how I don't leave the house a whole lot. And let me just tell you, ladies-without-kids: once you wear maternity jeans, you will NEVER want to squeeze into your skinny jeans again. Seriously. They're like pajamas, but no one ever knows, as long as you wear tops that are long enough to cover the elastic band at the waist. They are perfectly dreamy.
Anyway, if nothing else, perhaps having this unforgiving waistband digging into my gut will finally motivate me to get some of this baby fat off before it's completely out of control. Starting Monday, I'll be counting those points again.
Then again, our school-year routine won't start back until the next week. Maybe I'll count the points then, instead ...
Some of you may be ready to congratulate me, as it's quite a wondrous milestone to be back in one's pre-pregnancy jeans. Those of you, however, don't have all the facts. You see, these aren't my pre-pregnancy jeans. These are jeans that I shamefacedly bought last night at Steinmart. Jeans that are, unfortunately, 3 sizes bigger than those I wore before.
And yet, in spite of the embarrassingly large size, the muffin top effect still exists. You know, the way one's excess flab is squeezed in a pair of too-tight pants so that it billows over the top button, creating a roll the size of the giant weiner on top of the Oscar Meyer mobile. A roll that nothing but a flowy top over a tight camisole can hide, thus limiting my upper body wardrobe, as well. Sigh.
I knew it was time to bite the bullet when I saw Cal smirking at me as I pulled on my maternity jeans yesterday. "What?" I growled at him. He just laughed and shook his head.
Really, though, he should just be glad that I'm wearing anything other than sweatpants, seeing as how I don't leave the house a whole lot. And let me just tell you, ladies-without-kids: once you wear maternity jeans, you will NEVER want to squeeze into your skinny jeans again. Seriously. They're like pajamas, but no one ever knows, as long as you wear tops that are long enough to cover the elastic band at the waist. They are perfectly dreamy.
Anyway, if nothing else, perhaps having this unforgiving waistband digging into my gut will finally motivate me to get some of this baby fat off before it's completely out of control. Starting Monday, I'll be counting those points again.
Then again, our school-year routine won't start back until the next week. Maybe I'll count the points then, instead ...
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