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!
12.08.2009
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.
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 ...
7.17.2009
Stepping back out
5 months. 5 months! I couldn't believe it when I logged onto my site a minute ago and realized how long it had been since I've written. I mean, I know I haven't since Parks was born, but 5 months? That's almost 6 months. And 6 months is half of a year. Wow.
My lack of posting is the consequence of several circumstances:
1) Time. For the first two months of his life, Parks didn't nap. At least not in his bed. Kinda hard to type a blog when there's a child in your arms, you know? For the past two months, he's napped, but only for 30 minutes at a time. Those precious 30 minutes (about 4 per day) are devoted to reading (but not responding to) email, eating, showering, sleeping. Usually in that order.
2) Prior to yesterday, I had 40 thank-you notes that were, as yet, unwritten. Any time that was not spent on the aforementioned four activities was spent feeling guilty (but not doing anything) about those 40 unwritten thank-you notes. Written, finally, yesterday. Yes, I'm currently taking a very deep bow.
3) Lastly, and equally important, is the lack of interesting events to write about. I have no problems with blogs written about a people's children. In fact, I read several, and it's a great way to keep up with out-of-town family members' kids, etc. However, when I started this blog four years ago, I did it with the intention of writing about MY life and MY experiences, not those of my kids. In other words, I don't want this to turn into a blog about Parks's first word ("Dumbledore," of course) or sentence ("Fly, you fools!") or steps or girlfriend or whatever, even though I'm sure it'll happen occasionally. While I may write about my take on motherhood, I want to use it to maintain my identity as Miriam, not as Parks's mother. Make sense?
So for my first blog as a mother, I thought I'd take it easy on myself and just make a little list of the ways my life is different now, for better and for worse.
-- I caught myself yesterday holding my bare hand cupped in front of Parks's mouth as he spit up his last feeding. I didn't have a burp cloth handy, and I had just put him in his clean pajamas. I had frightening flashbacks of seeing other mothers in my past use the same gesture to catch the gum that their children had been chewing. Hmmm.
-- Remember the Miriam who loved living by herself? Whose idea of a perfect day was holing up in her house alone to read a good book in her pajamas for hours? Since Parks was born almost four months ago, I have been really and truly alone for a grand total of two times, thanks to Cal's taking the baby on shopping jaunts to the sporting goods stores. Two times! 4 hours, tops. Sure, our parents and a couple of our friends (Elizabeth, namely) have kept Parks while I've run to Walmart or out to eat with Cal. But can a trip to Walmart be counted as alone time? Don't think so.
-- I have not slept a full night in four months.
-- I am on an antidepressant. (Yes, it's true.)
-- I have only seen one movie in the theater in four months. I cried when it was over and I had to go back home. No, the movie wasn't sad ... it was, actually, a comedy. Did I mention the antidepressant?
-- I, a pridefully independent person, have relied more on my mother in the last few months than I have in, perhaps, my entire life. The wealth of knowledge and insight there is amazing. From my sisters, too.
-- I know now just how sweet a sleeping baby can be, especially when he's in my arms.
-- I have not only learned what a breast pump is, exactly, but I've learned how to use it quite proficiently. Consequently, I've learned to hate it quite passionately.
-- I have also learned that I blessedly inherited my mother's gift for fast childbirth (3 hours). I also inherited her difficulty with nursing. See above re:breastpump.
-- I've occasionally found myself in the last few weeks wishing I were going back to school with everyone else in a couple of weeks.
-- I get excited when I suddenly remember another children's song from VBS or elementary school. I've got a repertoire of thousands, I'm sure; I just can't think of what they are.
-- Huge shocker: I actually have started to wonder if I might want to move back to Thomasville one day. Having a baby without family around to help out from time to time is a lot tougher than I thought it'd be.
-- I've discovered the difficulty in letting a child cry himself to sleep. Previously, I always thought moms were silly when they went on and on about how terrible it is. Yesterday, I wanted to take all those thoughts back ... as I was crying, too.
-- I have learned just how patient Cal, a self-described impatient person, can truly be. He's been wonderful.
-- I have also learned just how hard of a sleeper Cal is in the middle of the night. At least, how hard of a sleeper he PRETENDS to be ...
-- In the last month or so, I'm understanding what everyone said (and I never believed) about how you forget how hard it is in the beginning once the babies get a bit older. In spite of how dramatically my life has changed, Parks is stealing my heart more and more every day.
My lack of posting is the consequence of several circumstances:
1) Time. For the first two months of his life, Parks didn't nap. At least not in his bed. Kinda hard to type a blog when there's a child in your arms, you know? For the past two months, he's napped, but only for 30 minutes at a time. Those precious 30 minutes (about 4 per day) are devoted to reading (but not responding to) email, eating, showering, sleeping. Usually in that order.
2) Prior to yesterday, I had 40 thank-you notes that were, as yet, unwritten. Any time that was not spent on the aforementioned four activities was spent feeling guilty (but not doing anything) about those 40 unwritten thank-you notes. Written, finally, yesterday. Yes, I'm currently taking a very deep bow.
3) Lastly, and equally important, is the lack of interesting events to write about. I have no problems with blogs written about a people's children. In fact, I read several, and it's a great way to keep up with out-of-town family members' kids, etc. However, when I started this blog four years ago, I did it with the intention of writing about MY life and MY experiences, not those of my kids. In other words, I don't want this to turn into a blog about Parks's first word ("Dumbledore," of course) or sentence ("Fly, you fools!") or steps or girlfriend or whatever, even though I'm sure it'll happen occasionally. While I may write about my take on motherhood, I want to use it to maintain my identity as Miriam, not as Parks's mother. Make sense?
So for my first blog as a mother, I thought I'd take it easy on myself and just make a little list of the ways my life is different now, for better and for worse.
-- I caught myself yesterday holding my bare hand cupped in front of Parks's mouth as he spit up his last feeding. I didn't have a burp cloth handy, and I had just put him in his clean pajamas. I had frightening flashbacks of seeing other mothers in my past use the same gesture to catch the gum that their children had been chewing. Hmmm.
-- Remember the Miriam who loved living by herself? Whose idea of a perfect day was holing up in her house alone to read a good book in her pajamas for hours? Since Parks was born almost four months ago, I have been really and truly alone for a grand total of two times, thanks to Cal's taking the baby on shopping jaunts to the sporting goods stores. Two times! 4 hours, tops. Sure, our parents and a couple of our friends (Elizabeth, namely) have kept Parks while I've run to Walmart or out to eat with Cal. But can a trip to Walmart be counted as alone time? Don't think so.
-- I have not slept a full night in four months.
-- I am on an antidepressant. (Yes, it's true.)
-- I have only seen one movie in the theater in four months. I cried when it was over and I had to go back home. No, the movie wasn't sad ... it was, actually, a comedy. Did I mention the antidepressant?
-- I, a pridefully independent person, have relied more on my mother in the last few months than I have in, perhaps, my entire life. The wealth of knowledge and insight there is amazing. From my sisters, too.
-- I know now just how sweet a sleeping baby can be, especially when he's in my arms.
-- I have not only learned what a breast pump is, exactly, but I've learned how to use it quite proficiently. Consequently, I've learned to hate it quite passionately.
-- I have also learned that I blessedly inherited my mother's gift for fast childbirth (3 hours). I also inherited her difficulty with nursing. See above re:breastpump.
-- I've occasionally found myself in the last few weeks wishing I were going back to school with everyone else in a couple of weeks.
-- I get excited when I suddenly remember another children's song from VBS or elementary school. I've got a repertoire of thousands, I'm sure; I just can't think of what they are.
-- Huge shocker: I actually have started to wonder if I might want to move back to Thomasville one day. Having a baby without family around to help out from time to time is a lot tougher than I thought it'd be.
-- I've discovered the difficulty in letting a child cry himself to sleep. Previously, I always thought moms were silly when they went on and on about how terrible it is. Yesterday, I wanted to take all those thoughts back ... as I was crying, too.
-- I have learned just how patient Cal, a self-described impatient person, can truly be. He's been wonderful.
-- I have also learned just how hard of a sleeper Cal is in the middle of the night. At least, how hard of a sleeper he PRETENDS to be ...
-- In the last month or so, I'm understanding what everyone said (and I never believed) about how you forget how hard it is in the beginning once the babies get a bit older. In spite of how dramatically my life has changed, Parks is stealing my heart more and more every day.
2.24.2009
Bonus!
I got my second jury summons in a 2-month span of time the other day. The first time, I got a deferral because it was the last day of the quarter at school, and I couldn't get out of class. This time, I wasn't sure I'd be so lucky.
However, yesterday at my bi-weekly doctor's appointment, I was scheduling all of my visits several weeks in advance. Turns out that the only time they could take me for my 36-week appt (which includes a sonogram, doctor's visit, AND the 30-minute non-stress test*) was on the same day that I had been summoned. When I hemmed and hawed a bit about it, the nurse very nonchalantly said, "Oh, well, we'll just write you a medical excuse and get you on out of that jury duty." Nice.
I called the clerk's office today to see if I still needed to come in on the assigned day, doctor's note in hand. When I told her my predicament ("Um, I'm 8 months pregnant and have 3 procedures scheduled at the doctor's office that day."), the lady promptly and sweetly replied "Well, I think you'd better not come to jury duty, don't you?"
I explained to her that I couldn't take another deferment, as the next time I'd be even more out-of-commission with a newborn on my hands. After asking me my plans for post-maternity leave (ie, "Are you going to be a stay-at-home mom?") and hearing my affirmative response, she then gave me the best news of the day.
"Well, honey," she said, "a stay-at-home mom gets removed from the list until her child is 6 years old."
Hallelujah! So, not only am I out of jury duty for March 9th, but I'm out of jury duty until March 9th, 2015! Yes!
In other exciting news, I've saved up enough sick days that I can take off from work at 37-weeks pregnant (3 weeks before I'm due, and less than 3 weeks from today), starting on March 16th, and not lose any of my salary. I'll have to go back to work for finals week, but it'll just be a 4-day week consisting of one half-day and 3 two-hour days of exam proctoring. It's been a good day!
*Non-stress test not so bad after all; merely time consuming. I sit in a recliner with a little belt-like contraption velcroed around my stomach, reading my book and pressing a button (think Jeopardy buzzer) whenever I feel Parks move. I have to stay for a minimum of 20 minutes, maybe more -- it all depends on if he's cooperating and being pretty active. Either way, it's 20+ minutes in a recliner, reading a book. Not much different from my favorite summer days, with the exception of being able to hear the baby's little heartbeat steadily drumming on from the machine next to me. Kinda nice, actually.
However, yesterday at my bi-weekly doctor's appointment, I was scheduling all of my visits several weeks in advance. Turns out that the only time they could take me for my 36-week appt (which includes a sonogram, doctor's visit, AND the 30-minute non-stress test*) was on the same day that I had been summoned. When I hemmed and hawed a bit about it, the nurse very nonchalantly said, "Oh, well, we'll just write you a medical excuse and get you on out of that jury duty." Nice.
I called the clerk's office today to see if I still needed to come in on the assigned day, doctor's note in hand. When I told her my predicament ("Um, I'm 8 months pregnant and have 3 procedures scheduled at the doctor's office that day."), the lady promptly and sweetly replied "Well, I think you'd better not come to jury duty, don't you?"
I explained to her that I couldn't take another deferment, as the next time I'd be even more out-of-commission with a newborn on my hands. After asking me my plans for post-maternity leave (ie, "Are you going to be a stay-at-home mom?") and hearing my affirmative response, she then gave me the best news of the day.
"Well, honey," she said, "a stay-at-home mom gets removed from the list until her child is 6 years old."
Hallelujah! So, not only am I out of jury duty for March 9th, but I'm out of jury duty until March 9th, 2015! Yes!
In other exciting news, I've saved up enough sick days that I can take off from work at 37-weeks pregnant (3 weeks before I'm due, and less than 3 weeks from today), starting on March 16th, and not lose any of my salary. I'll have to go back to work for finals week, but it'll just be a 4-day week consisting of one half-day and 3 two-hour days of exam proctoring. It's been a good day!
*Non-stress test not so bad after all; merely time consuming. I sit in a recliner with a little belt-like contraption velcroed around my stomach, reading my book and pressing a button (think Jeopardy buzzer) whenever I feel Parks move. I have to stay for a minimum of 20 minutes, maybe more -- it all depends on if he's cooperating and being pretty active. Either way, it's 20+ minutes in a recliner, reading a book. Not much different from my favorite summer days, with the exception of being able to hear the baby's little heartbeat steadily drumming on from the machine next to me. Kinda nice, actually.
34 weeks (out of 40) and counting
2.15.2009
7th inning stretch
I'm currently sitting in my pajamas, sipping decaf coffee and staring out at the choppy waves of the Gulf of Mexico from the couch of my parents' condo in Destin. Mom and Dad are at church, and Cal is still asleep.
It's nice to be here; Cal and I haven't been able to make the 5+ hour drive since last spring break. On that trip, we stopped in Thomasville to pick up my sister Amy and her 3-week-old baby William. Now, William's 1-year-old birthday is coming up in 3weeks, and I'm nearly 30 pounds heavier and counting the days until the arrival of my own little boy. Who could've ever guessed?
Our lives have been a flurry of activity lately. On top of all the baby preoccupation, I've had a job interview for a teaching position at one of the local colleges, and I have another later this week. I'm trying to pick up a night class or two to teach in the fall in order to not only supplement our income, but also help keep me sane. We have, in case you're not aware, decided for me to resign from my teaching post at FPD so that I can stay home with Parks. If I teach at night, Cal will be able to be home, and the problem of paying for childcare is, theoretically, solved.
The folks at Macon State seemed genuinely interested, but they won't know until July (or, one of them said, possibly even two weeks before the semester starts) if they have any openings. It all depends on enrollment levels, so we're praying for strong student turnouts on registration day.
My doctor's appointments are currently coming every two weeks, although starting next week I'll have to visit twice a week for something called a "non-stress test" because of my chronic hypertension issues. Everyone assures me that it's a non-invasive procedure, but when they go on to describe the tubes, machines, etc that will be hooked up to my belly, the doubts as to their honesty begin to creep in. I'll let you know.
I'm 33 weeks along, which, in the non-pregnant world, equals about 7 1/2 months. You can thank me later for sparing you the math. In spite of our busy-ness, I feel like I've been pregnant for 10 years, and 7 months pregnant for 9 of those. It's not so much that I can't wait to have that little bundle of joy here for all the cuddling and cooing (I don't think I'm so naive to the trials of motherhood as that) as it is that I just don't really like being pregnant.
So many people go on and on about the blessings of the knowledge of growing a child in their womb, and, really, I am grateful that I can have this experience when so many women are unable to for one reason or another. However, I'm simply ready to have my body back to myself.
Due to the extra weight on the front side of my torso (currently about 28 pounds -- or a little more than one Nick the Cat, as I describe it to my husband), I find myself more clumsier than ever. Now, you all can vouch for the fact that I have never claimed to be anything more than the least graceful of all women, but lately it's gotten out of hand. Since getting pregnant, I have fallen 4 times. The first being the incident in the school cafeteria, the most recent being the parking lot in front of the Destin Steinmart just yesterday.
Aside from the slip in the lunchroom, all of the falls have been classic, fall flat on your face kinds of events. Two of them occurred while I was out walking in the neighborhood; yesterday's was a little more public and, therefore, a quite bit more embarrassing. For each I've managed to keep off my stomach. Yesterday's maneuver was at the expense of my poor chin: as I was going down face-first, I curled up my torso so that it wouldn't hit the ground and therefore ended up with my face on the asphalt. Sheesh. Two skinned knees, a scraped face, and a swollen ankle later, I'm fine and Parks is still moving violently (and visibly) within my belly, even as I type.
Cal, understandably, is quite concerned at my propensity to collapse at the first sign of a pebble in my path, although his solution of buying me a walking stick (even one of those "cool ones" that he insists exist in the world) just doesn't seem to appeal to me. He finally acknowledged yesterday that with the way things have been going lately, the additional, stabilizing "leg" might complicate my clumsiness even more by getting in the way and causing even more accidents.
Sleeping, too, has become much less pleasurable than it once was. For Christmas, Cal bought me one of those pregnancy body pillows, and it has worked wonders for my comfort levels. However, switching from side-to-side in the middle of the night with no stomach muscles and a nearly 30-pound weight anchoring my front side of the body to the mattress is still a challenge that I'm not sure how to overcome.
Whenever I mention this particular woe in public, all current mothers (and some aggravatingly "all-knowing" men, too) smile smugly and say, "Just wait, honey, until that baby gets here; you'll be wishing that turning over in the middle of the night is at the top of your list of sleeping problems!" Don't they realize that I know that? Reminding me of a fact that I'm well aware of --that my favorite pasttime is soon to be nonexistent-- doesn't help matters. It's the same as when Cal's friends laugh when he says he's busy, then say something like "Oooooh, just wait till the baby gets here! No more tennis for you!" We're aware of the sacrifices, all you joykillers out there. Just trying not to dwell on them. Thank you very much.
All jokes aside, I really have had it easy. I've been able to continue teaching and plan to up until spring break, which conveniently falls one week before my due date. My students aren't real excited about this fact. They keep asking when my baby is coming, not out of excitement for his arrival, but out of anticipation of my departure and the arrival of my fresh, young long-term substitute. "She's SOOOOO nice!" they all exclaim when they hear who's scheduled to take my place.
I've also felt pretty good the entire time, other than the normal fatigue, and Cal says my hormone-induced moodiness hasn't been too overwhelming, either. Of course, what's he going to say, right? He's been wonderful through it all ... cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. I don't know what I would've done without him.
This post, as usual, really has no point; however, I haven't written in a while and it'll be nice to have a record of these things a few years from now when Parks is older and these memories have all become distant. I should wrap things up, though. Mom and Dad are due home any minute, and I must go take care of this coffee stain that, like other food spills of late, has streaked down the front of my shirt instead of falling straight to my lap. The lap, you know, is quickly disappearing.
Bring on Parks!
It's nice to be here; Cal and I haven't been able to make the 5+ hour drive since last spring break. On that trip, we stopped in Thomasville to pick up my sister Amy and her 3-week-old baby William. Now, William's 1-year-old birthday is coming up in 3weeks, and I'm nearly 30 pounds heavier and counting the days until the arrival of my own little boy. Who could've ever guessed?
Our lives have been a flurry of activity lately. On top of all the baby preoccupation, I've had a job interview for a teaching position at one of the local colleges, and I have another later this week. I'm trying to pick up a night class or two to teach in the fall in order to not only supplement our income, but also help keep me sane. We have, in case you're not aware, decided for me to resign from my teaching post at FPD so that I can stay home with Parks. If I teach at night, Cal will be able to be home, and the problem of paying for childcare is, theoretically, solved.
The folks at Macon State seemed genuinely interested, but they won't know until July (or, one of them said, possibly even two weeks before the semester starts) if they have any openings. It all depends on enrollment levels, so we're praying for strong student turnouts on registration day.
My doctor's appointments are currently coming every two weeks, although starting next week I'll have to visit twice a week for something called a "non-stress test" because of my chronic hypertension issues. Everyone assures me that it's a non-invasive procedure, but when they go on to describe the tubes, machines, etc that will be hooked up to my belly, the doubts as to their honesty begin to creep in. I'll let you know.
I'm 33 weeks along, which, in the non-pregnant world, equals about 7 1/2 months. You can thank me later for sparing you the math. In spite of our busy-ness, I feel like I've been pregnant for 10 years, and 7 months pregnant for 9 of those. It's not so much that I can't wait to have that little bundle of joy here for all the cuddling and cooing (I don't think I'm so naive to the trials of motherhood as that) as it is that I just don't really like being pregnant.
So many people go on and on about the blessings of the knowledge of growing a child in their womb, and, really, I am grateful that I can have this experience when so many women are unable to for one reason or another. However, I'm simply ready to have my body back to myself.
Due to the extra weight on the front side of my torso (currently about 28 pounds -- or a little more than one Nick the Cat, as I describe it to my husband), I find myself more clumsier than ever. Now, you all can vouch for the fact that I have never claimed to be anything more than the least graceful of all women, but lately it's gotten out of hand. Since getting pregnant, I have fallen 4 times. The first being the incident in the school cafeteria, the most recent being the parking lot in front of the Destin Steinmart just yesterday.
Aside from the slip in the lunchroom, all of the falls have been classic, fall flat on your face kinds of events. Two of them occurred while I was out walking in the neighborhood; yesterday's was a little more public and, therefore, a quite bit more embarrassing. For each I've managed to keep off my stomach. Yesterday's maneuver was at the expense of my poor chin: as I was going down face-first, I curled up my torso so that it wouldn't hit the ground and therefore ended up with my face on the asphalt. Sheesh. Two skinned knees, a scraped face, and a swollen ankle later, I'm fine and Parks is still moving violently (and visibly) within my belly, even as I type.
Cal, understandably, is quite concerned at my propensity to collapse at the first sign of a pebble in my path, although his solution of buying me a walking stick (even one of those "cool ones" that he insists exist in the world) just doesn't seem to appeal to me. He finally acknowledged yesterday that with the way things have been going lately, the additional, stabilizing "leg" might complicate my clumsiness even more by getting in the way and causing even more accidents.
Sleeping, too, has become much less pleasurable than it once was. For Christmas, Cal bought me one of those pregnancy body pillows, and it has worked wonders for my comfort levels. However, switching from side-to-side in the middle of the night with no stomach muscles and a nearly 30-pound weight anchoring my front side of the body to the mattress is still a challenge that I'm not sure how to overcome.
Whenever I mention this particular woe in public, all current mothers (and some aggravatingly "all-knowing" men, too) smile smugly and say, "Just wait, honey, until that baby gets here; you'll be wishing that turning over in the middle of the night is at the top of your list of sleeping problems!" Don't they realize that I know that? Reminding me of a fact that I'm well aware of --that my favorite pasttime is soon to be nonexistent-- doesn't help matters. It's the same as when Cal's friends laugh when he says he's busy, then say something like "Oooooh, just wait till the baby gets here! No more tennis for you!" We're aware of the sacrifices, all you joykillers out there. Just trying not to dwell on them. Thank you very much.
All jokes aside, I really have had it easy. I've been able to continue teaching and plan to up until spring break, which conveniently falls one week before my due date. My students aren't real excited about this fact. They keep asking when my baby is coming, not out of excitement for his arrival, but out of anticipation of my departure and the arrival of my fresh, young long-term substitute. "She's SOOOOO nice!" they all exclaim when they hear who's scheduled to take my place.
I've also felt pretty good the entire time, other than the normal fatigue, and Cal says my hormone-induced moodiness hasn't been too overwhelming, either. Of course, what's he going to say, right? He's been wonderful through it all ... cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. I don't know what I would've done without him.
This post, as usual, really has no point; however, I haven't written in a while and it'll be nice to have a record of these things a few years from now when Parks is older and these memories have all become distant. I should wrap things up, though. Mom and Dad are due home any minute, and I must go take care of this coffee stain that, like other food spills of late, has streaked down the front of my shirt instead of falling straight to my lap. The lap, you know, is quickly disappearing.
Bring on Parks!
1.04.2009
Nesting
Given my track record for housework, I didn't know if it would ever kick in. However, throughout the last month or so, that nesting instinct that everyone goes on about seems to have taken root deep within me.
Cal and I have a wonderfully charming, old 1920's era house in the semi-historic district of Macon. Back before we were married, when Cal was looking to buy into the real estate here, I shamelessly (and hopefully subtly) pushed him in this direction, as I had hopes at the time that the house he'd end up buying would one day be mine, too. My efforts were successful, and I was ecstatic when he closed on what is now our home.
He has two big gripes about the old house style: small bathrooms and miniscule closet space. My gripe is confined to the latter, especially as I've never experienced the ensuite bathroom luxury that he had in his new, pre-fab home in Florida.
The lack of closet space didn't really bother me before I got pregnant. Cal had his tiny little closet in our bedroom, I had my tiny little closet in the spare room, and we shared a tiny little closet in the guest room for coats, formal attire, and other rarely-worn items. Now, however, things are different.
Seeing as how all of our closets (plus drawer-space) were stuffed full of our things, little Parks Powell was looking towards a future of baby clothes, shoes, blankets, pack-n-plays, strollers, bouncers, swings, etc. strewn throughout every ounce of open space in his little nursery. That just wasn't going to work.
So, starting at my Thanksgiving break, I set out on a mission to find space (any space) in which we'd be able to stash baby stuff. I began by cleaning out my closet and dresser drawers, putting everything that I'm not currently wearing (ie, all non-maternity or non-XL regular clothing) in the attic. I got rid of about 15 pairs of shoes and 10 or so purses, some of which Elizabeth took back to her house for her own use.
I then turned to Cal's closet. From that venture, we ended up taking probably 20 pairs of pants that he has never worn in the 3+ years I've known him to the Goodwill. It was difficult for him, a bit of a packrat, but he sucked it up and handled it pretty well in the end.
Today, we tackled our extra closet and ended up clearing it completely out (except for the clothes on the hanging rod), and hopefully its top and bottom will leave enough room for storage of the larger baby items like the pack-n-play and stroller. We'll see.
The Powells gave us an old armoire that they had stopped using, so Parks's hang-ups will go there. He's got my old chest of drawers for his fold-ups, blankets, etc. I hope, for all of our sakes, that it will be enough.
All total, we've filled up 5 large rubbermaid containers for the attic and supplied 96% of Macon's Goodwill shoppers with their wardrobe and accessories for the year.
On the other hand, we've got no diapers, Diaper Champ (apparently the better alternative to the Diaper Genie), diaper bag, bedding, mattress, mattress pad, changing table pad, moniters, pacifiers, burp cloths, infant tub, baby shampoo/soap/detergent, wipes, or any other such practical necessities for a newborn baby.
Less than 3 months to go. I'd best get back to nesting...
Cal and I have a wonderfully charming, old 1920's era house in the semi-historic district of Macon. Back before we were married, when Cal was looking to buy into the real estate here, I shamelessly (and hopefully subtly) pushed him in this direction, as I had hopes at the time that the house he'd end up buying would one day be mine, too. My efforts were successful, and I was ecstatic when he closed on what is now our home.
He has two big gripes about the old house style: small bathrooms and miniscule closet space. My gripe is confined to the latter, especially as I've never experienced the ensuite bathroom luxury that he had in his new, pre-fab home in Florida.
The lack of closet space didn't really bother me before I got pregnant. Cal had his tiny little closet in our bedroom, I had my tiny little closet in the spare room, and we shared a tiny little closet in the guest room for coats, formal attire, and other rarely-worn items. Now, however, things are different.
Seeing as how all of our closets (plus drawer-space) were stuffed full of our things, little Parks Powell was looking towards a future of baby clothes, shoes, blankets, pack-n-plays, strollers, bouncers, swings, etc. strewn throughout every ounce of open space in his little nursery. That just wasn't going to work.
So, starting at my Thanksgiving break, I set out on a mission to find space (any space) in which we'd be able to stash baby stuff. I began by cleaning out my closet and dresser drawers, putting everything that I'm not currently wearing (ie, all non-maternity or non-XL regular clothing) in the attic. I got rid of about 15 pairs of shoes and 10 or so purses, some of which Elizabeth took back to her house for her own use.
I then turned to Cal's closet. From that venture, we ended up taking probably 20 pairs of pants that he has never worn in the 3+ years I've known him to the Goodwill. It was difficult for him, a bit of a packrat, but he sucked it up and handled it pretty well in the end.
Today, we tackled our extra closet and ended up clearing it completely out (except for the clothes on the hanging rod), and hopefully its top and bottom will leave enough room for storage of the larger baby items like the pack-n-play and stroller. We'll see.
The Powells gave us an old armoire that they had stopped using, so Parks's hang-ups will go there. He's got my old chest of drawers for his fold-ups, blankets, etc. I hope, for all of our sakes, that it will be enough.
All total, we've filled up 5 large rubbermaid containers for the attic and supplied 96% of Macon's Goodwill shoppers with their wardrobe and accessories for the year.
On the other hand, we've got no diapers, Diaper Champ (apparently the better alternative to the Diaper Genie), diaper bag, bedding, mattress, mattress pad, changing table pad, moniters, pacifiers, burp cloths, infant tub, baby shampoo/soap/detergent, wipes, or any other such practical necessities for a newborn baby.
Less than 3 months to go. I'd best get back to nesting...
12.03.2008
A little light reading
Take a look at my reading list these days, and you'll find such books as the ever-popular What to Expect When You're Expecting, the delightfully graphic An Expectant Mother's Guide to Breastfeeding, and the oh-so-practical Baby Bargains. You get the picture -- no longer am I a recent graduate of a master's program in English literature, feasting upon the words of Jane Austen or William Faulkner. Nope, I've become a slave to a literature of a different genre: the "how-to" guides for raising babies.
It's not at all that these books are so fascinating. The compulsion to read them is not out of desire, but out of intense fear of the impending death of my child should I neglect to memorize every detail of each topic. I personally am beginning to think it's all a marketing scam.
You see, these books don't contain a whole lot of positive aspects of having a baby. Instead, they choose to dwell on all the different ways that your future baby could, perhaps, die because you didn't know one fact or another about how to care for him (and it is a him, in case you didn't yet know), either while he's still unborn or after delivery.
Apparently, the most common way for a baby to die is by suffocation. According to these books, any little thing I do or do not do may cause my baby to (accidentally, of course) suffocate. The Baby Bargain book is the worst about graphically detailing this particular tragedy. We've been looking into cribs and crib bedding lately, and, because of the warnings that I'm reading, I'm beginning to think that it's miraculous that any of us have been able to continue breathing unhindered for as long as we have.
Take these contradictory "suggestions," for example:
If I go against the Baby Bargains recommendation and choose to use baby bumpers (padded pillows that line the insides of the furniture) on my crib, the child may trap himself up under them in some way, thus smothering himself. Crib regulations all over the Internet, however, scream warnings of babies' bodies slipping through uncovered slats in the crib (which can only be 2 3/4 inches or less apart, apparently), thus meeting their untimely doom by way of hanging. Wonderful. Sounds like a lose-lose situation to me.
Other fun facts about infant death by suffocation:
- Mattresses that are too soft or plush can cut off the air supply to an infant not yet old enough to lift his head on his own.
- Pillows or blankets of any sort are dangerous and should by no means EVER be placed in a crib with a sleeping child.
- Stuffed animals, too, should also be avoided for the same reason, but try telling that to my 2-year-old niece Anna Claire. Yeah right.
- Strings attached to pacifiers or clothing may mischievously wrap themselves around the baby's neck at night, thus choking him to death.
- Posts on the corners of cribs may not rise more than 5/8 of an inch from the rest of the surface, just in case a child attempts to climb out and gets his clothing caught on the post, thus - you guessed it - hanging himself.
- Fitted bedsheets (the only kind allowed, of course) should have elastic all the way around the edges (and not just on the corners) so that it will stay securely in place throughout the time that your baby is naively napping in his crib (or should I say "death trap"?).
I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. The fear is this: what if I go back to my normal, what-I'd-rather-be-reading novels, and fail to learn one of these millions of rules provided in these trillions of miserably depressing books? And then, because of my apathy, my child becomes the one baby in the last 232 years (and the next 476) that has suffocated himself in his animal-themed crib bumpers?
Sigh. It's a racket, I tell you, this baby book stuff. All a corporate conspiracy designed to boost the rapidly-failing economy by having obsessive parents-to-be buy every book they can get their hands on.
I think I'll go back to reading my Twilight series now. Blood-thirsty, lonely vampires, unrequited love, and heartsick teenagers. Now that's what it's all about. Something uplifting for a change!
It's not at all that these books are so fascinating. The compulsion to read them is not out of desire, but out of intense fear of the impending death of my child should I neglect to memorize every detail of each topic. I personally am beginning to think it's all a marketing scam.
You see, these books don't contain a whole lot of positive aspects of having a baby. Instead, they choose to dwell on all the different ways that your future baby could, perhaps, die because you didn't know one fact or another about how to care for him (and it is a him, in case you didn't yet know), either while he's still unborn or after delivery.
Apparently, the most common way for a baby to die is by suffocation. According to these books, any little thing I do or do not do may cause my baby to (accidentally, of course) suffocate. The Baby Bargain book is the worst about graphically detailing this particular tragedy. We've been looking into cribs and crib bedding lately, and, because of the warnings that I'm reading, I'm beginning to think that it's miraculous that any of us have been able to continue breathing unhindered for as long as we have.
Take these contradictory "suggestions," for example:
If I go against the Baby Bargains recommendation and choose to use baby bumpers (padded pillows that line the insides of the furniture) on my crib, the child may trap himself up under them in some way, thus smothering himself. Crib regulations all over the Internet, however, scream warnings of babies' bodies slipping through uncovered slats in the crib (which can only be 2 3/4 inches or less apart, apparently), thus meeting their untimely doom by way of hanging. Wonderful. Sounds like a lose-lose situation to me.
Other fun facts about infant death by suffocation:
- Mattresses that are too soft or plush can cut off the air supply to an infant not yet old enough to lift his head on his own.
- Pillows or blankets of any sort are dangerous and should by no means EVER be placed in a crib with a sleeping child.
- Stuffed animals, too, should also be avoided for the same reason, but try telling that to my 2-year-old niece Anna Claire. Yeah right.
- Strings attached to pacifiers or clothing may mischievously wrap themselves around the baby's neck at night, thus choking him to death.
- Posts on the corners of cribs may not rise more than 5/8 of an inch from the rest of the surface, just in case a child attempts to climb out and gets his clothing caught on the post, thus - you guessed it - hanging himself.
- Fitted bedsheets (the only kind allowed, of course) should have elastic all the way around the edges (and not just on the corners) so that it will stay securely in place throughout the time that your baby is naively napping in his crib (or should I say "death trap"?).
I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. The fear is this: what if I go back to my normal, what-I'd-rather-be-reading novels, and fail to learn one of these millions of rules provided in these trillions of miserably depressing books? And then, because of my apathy, my child becomes the one baby in the last 232 years (and the next 476) that has suffocated himself in his animal-themed crib bumpers?
Sigh. It's a racket, I tell you, this baby book stuff. All a corporate conspiracy designed to boost the rapidly-failing economy by having obsessive parents-to-be buy every book they can get their hands on.
I think I'll go back to reading my Twilight series now. Blood-thirsty, lonely vampires, unrequited love, and heartsick teenagers. Now that's what it's all about. Something uplifting for a change!
11.06.2008
Random thoughts
One of the strangest parts about this pregnancy so far has been my appetite. Back in the first few weeks, I (along with everyone else who's ever been pregnant) couldn't eat a thing. I wouldn't get physically sick, necessarily; my stomach would just churn at the thought of most foods.
I made the mistake of going overboard with the foods that I could stomach. For example, about 5 or 6 weeks in, I made a batch of Rebecca's delicious tomato soup, and I ate it, along with a handful of goldfish crackers, for nearly a week. Cal even bought a HUGE, family-size goldfish carton for me to snack on, since it seemed at the time like it would be the food that would carry me through.
I haven't been able to even think about tomato soup OR goldfish crackers since that week. We still have the carton, 90% full, sitting in our pantry, now 3 months later.
I had similar experiences with a couple of other usually delicious foods. Cal's mom's recipe for homemade mac and cheese, for one (I ate an entire bowl of it for a meal during that period and haven't touched the stuff since), and the Mexican chicken soup from any of the Mexican restaurants that Cal likes to frequent. That's really too bad for him, of course ... the soup was pretty much the only thing I'd eat at El Azteca.
Nowadays, my sickness is gone, but my appetite is still not up to par. I keep waiting for the onslaught of cravings and hunger to kick in, but nothing's happened yet. I've had an aversion to meat -- chicken in particular -- and, perhaps strangest of all, I've not been a big ice cream fan of late. My ever-present sweet tooth seems to have disappeared. Cal will pick up a pack of cookie dough from Kroger, I'll bake him a few, and not ever have one bit of a desire to eat any myself. Kinda scary, if you ask me.
For lunch, I've been existing on peanut butter, mayonnaise, and banana sandwiches. Today at school I had my sandwich only partially prepared, with the PB on one side and the mayo on the other, the banana on my tray next to my plate. You should've heard the squeals from the kids in line around me. "EEEeeeew! Is that peanut butter and mayonnaise? Gross!" I think they contributed it to my pregnancy, but I grew up on that combo. I didn't even realize that the addition of mayonnaise was strange to others. It was just part of the banana sandwich in the Terry household.
Tonight, in an effort to cook more, I made my mother's meatloaf (the only kind I'll eat), much to Cal's dismay. He insists that he detests meatloaf, but when probed about it, he admits that the only time he ever ate it was in elementary school at his cafeteria and it was disgusting. I insisted that anything from the school cafeteria was pretty nasty, which prompted a starry-eyed look in his eyes as he told a far-fetched tale of the chef named Gloria who was, he proclaims adamantly, the best cafeteria-chef he's ever known. Fine. Whatever. More for me.
Anyway, the meatloaf turned out well, Cal didn't touch it, and I've got leftovers and a second currently freezing for later use. I just can't do chicken, and we're sick of the same old restaurants every night.
Supposedly, I can start feeling the baby kick any day now, but I might not recognize it when it happens. I've felt some "flutters" (similar to a little muscle twitch in your eyelid or something), but perhaps they've just been part of the digestion process, or remnants of the most recent iron pill working its sadistic magic. I figure that soon, I'll get one that's unmistakable. Currently, the reality of the baby hasn't sunk in, and maybe it'll happen then.
This has perhaps been the most random blog post, hasn't it? Oh well. If you've made it this far, you've done well.
In other news, Cal and I went to Jekyll Island last weekend for a wedding, and had a really good time. Our only regret is that we couldn't really justify splurging on a nice place to say, therefore ending up at the Days Inn. I'm sure it was fine for a place of its caliber. However, I'm a priceline.com girl, and for the same amount of money I was sure missing my down comforter, crisp white bedding, interior doors, and all the other luxuries of a fantastic hotel! We made the mistake Saturday night of going over to the Jekyll Island Club (where the wedding was held) and walking around a bit. After that, we really regretted not spending the extra cash for a bit of heavenly pampering.
We're talking about going on a "babymoon" of sorts around Christmas, kind of a last nice vacation before the kid changes everything. Maybe by saving a little money last weekend, we've got enough left over for a nice place in Charleston, or New Orleans, or ... I don't know ... Las Vegas. (You hear me, Cal? Bette won't be there much longer ... please?)
Guess that's it for the night. Cal's off playing tennis, and I have to stay awake long enough to watch Grey's Anatomy at 9, so this has been a good little diversion from the usual Food Network and King of Queens on the television. Until next time!
I made the mistake of going overboard with the foods that I could stomach. For example, about 5 or 6 weeks in, I made a batch of Rebecca's delicious tomato soup, and I ate it, along with a handful of goldfish crackers, for nearly a week. Cal even bought a HUGE, family-size goldfish carton for me to snack on, since it seemed at the time like it would be the food that would carry me through.
I haven't been able to even think about tomato soup OR goldfish crackers since that week. We still have the carton, 90% full, sitting in our pantry, now 3 months later.
I had similar experiences with a couple of other usually delicious foods. Cal's mom's recipe for homemade mac and cheese, for one (I ate an entire bowl of it for a meal during that period and haven't touched the stuff since), and the Mexican chicken soup from any of the Mexican restaurants that Cal likes to frequent. That's really too bad for him, of course ... the soup was pretty much the only thing I'd eat at El Azteca.
Nowadays, my sickness is gone, but my appetite is still not up to par. I keep waiting for the onslaught of cravings and hunger to kick in, but nothing's happened yet. I've had an aversion to meat -- chicken in particular -- and, perhaps strangest of all, I've not been a big ice cream fan of late. My ever-present sweet tooth seems to have disappeared. Cal will pick up a pack of cookie dough from Kroger, I'll bake him a few, and not ever have one bit of a desire to eat any myself. Kinda scary, if you ask me.
For lunch, I've been existing on peanut butter, mayonnaise, and banana sandwiches. Today at school I had my sandwich only partially prepared, with the PB on one side and the mayo on the other, the banana on my tray next to my plate. You should've heard the squeals from the kids in line around me. "EEEeeeew! Is that peanut butter and mayonnaise? Gross!" I think they contributed it to my pregnancy, but I grew up on that combo. I didn't even realize that the addition of mayonnaise was strange to others. It was just part of the banana sandwich in the Terry household.
Tonight, in an effort to cook more, I made my mother's meatloaf (the only kind I'll eat), much to Cal's dismay. He insists that he detests meatloaf, but when probed about it, he admits that the only time he ever ate it was in elementary school at his cafeteria and it was disgusting. I insisted that anything from the school cafeteria was pretty nasty, which prompted a starry-eyed look in his eyes as he told a far-fetched tale of the chef named Gloria who was, he proclaims adamantly, the best cafeteria-chef he's ever known. Fine. Whatever. More for me.
Anyway, the meatloaf turned out well, Cal didn't touch it, and I've got leftovers and a second currently freezing for later use. I just can't do chicken, and we're sick of the same old restaurants every night.
Supposedly, I can start feeling the baby kick any day now, but I might not recognize it when it happens. I've felt some "flutters" (similar to a little muscle twitch in your eyelid or something), but perhaps they've just been part of the digestion process, or remnants of the most recent iron pill working its sadistic magic. I figure that soon, I'll get one that's unmistakable. Currently, the reality of the baby hasn't sunk in, and maybe it'll happen then.
This has perhaps been the most random blog post, hasn't it? Oh well. If you've made it this far, you've done well.
In other news, Cal and I went to Jekyll Island last weekend for a wedding, and had a really good time. Our only regret is that we couldn't really justify splurging on a nice place to say, therefore ending up at the Days Inn. I'm sure it was fine for a place of its caliber. However, I'm a priceline.com girl, and for the same amount of money I was sure missing my down comforter, crisp white bedding, interior doors, and all the other luxuries of a fantastic hotel! We made the mistake Saturday night of going over to the Jekyll Island Club (where the wedding was held) and walking around a bit. After that, we really regretted not spending the extra cash for a bit of heavenly pampering.
We're talking about going on a "babymoon" of sorts around Christmas, kind of a last nice vacation before the kid changes everything. Maybe by saving a little money last weekend, we've got enough left over for a nice place in Charleston, or New Orleans, or ... I don't know ... Las Vegas. (You hear me, Cal? Bette won't be there much longer ... please?)
Guess that's it for the night. Cal's off playing tennis, and I have to stay awake long enough to watch Grey's Anatomy at 9, so this has been a good little diversion from the usual Food Network and King of Queens on the television. Until next time!
11.03.2008
I Heart Anemia
Yes, I know I've been gone awhile, but no, I'm not going to apologize for it. I'm pregnant. And working full-time. And sleeping when I'm not working. Blogging hasn't exactly been high on my priority list, if you know what I mean.
I'm currently 18 weeks along in pregnancy lingo. If you've never had a baby and you're like I was, that means absolutely nothing to you. I remember I used to get so irritated when people would refer to their pregnancy in terms of "weeks." You go your whole life learning "9 months" for human gestation, then all of a sudden you talk to a pregnant woman who tells you she's 22 weeks, and you have to spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out if that's 4 months or 5. (And I have no idea.) Basically, though, I'm about 4 months along, maybe a little over. We find out the gender two weeks from today.
Other than the constant "I've been hit by a Mac Truck" sensation, I'm feeling okay, or at least I was up until about a week and a half ago. That's when I had my 16-week (4 month?) appointment, and they told me I was anemic and nonchalantly handed me some iron pill samples and a prescription for more of the same. I headed directly to my local pharmacy (go local! hurray! -- shameless ad for your neighborhood drug stores!), forked over $30+ (we discovered a few weeks ago that our insurance doesn't cover vitamins of any kind, prescription or not), and took my first pill that night.
I promptly vomited.
That's right folks. I had gotten through the dreaded first trimester without losing an ounce of my food, and all of a sudden, I was hugging the toilet. What in the world? It had to be the pills.
The next day, it was coming out in other ways (sorry.). The day after that, I developed a severe cough on top of the queasiness. Cal got a fever that lasted a week. I'm still coughing like crazy, all the while keeping my fingers crossed that I don't accidentally push the baby (or something worse) out in one of my uncontrollable fits. I heard Cal telling his sister on the phone the other day that he can't remember there ever being a time when I didn't cough. I'm coughing right this very second, actually.
Therefore, in spite of what may or may not be legitimately attributed to them, I've now officially renamed my iron pills the "Pills from hell", or "PfH". (Is that blasphemous?) I'm remembering fondly the days when I was anemic, and I long to have them back. Was I tired then? Pshaw. I am tired now, AND have to fight off nausea every morning, AND am constipated, AND sound like I've been smoking for 73 years. So why am I not blogging? I'm just glad I'm alive.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I can hardly wait for a glass of wine as soon as I have this child. That, and a big ol' swig of cough syrup.
I'm currently 18 weeks along in pregnancy lingo. If you've never had a baby and you're like I was, that means absolutely nothing to you. I remember I used to get so irritated when people would refer to their pregnancy in terms of "weeks." You go your whole life learning "9 months" for human gestation, then all of a sudden you talk to a pregnant woman who tells you she's 22 weeks, and you have to spend the next 10 minutes trying to figure out if that's 4 months or 5. (And I have no idea.) Basically, though, I'm about 4 months along, maybe a little over. We find out the gender two weeks from today.
Other than the constant "I've been hit by a Mac Truck" sensation, I'm feeling okay, or at least I was up until about a week and a half ago. That's when I had my 16-week (4 month?) appointment, and they told me I was anemic and nonchalantly handed me some iron pill samples and a prescription for more of the same. I headed directly to my local pharmacy (go local! hurray! -- shameless ad for your neighborhood drug stores!), forked over $30+ (we discovered a few weeks ago that our insurance doesn't cover vitamins of any kind, prescription or not), and took my first pill that night.
I promptly vomited.
That's right folks. I had gotten through the dreaded first trimester without losing an ounce of my food, and all of a sudden, I was hugging the toilet. What in the world? It had to be the pills.
The next day, it was coming out in other ways (sorry.). The day after that, I developed a severe cough on top of the queasiness. Cal got a fever that lasted a week. I'm still coughing like crazy, all the while keeping my fingers crossed that I don't accidentally push the baby (or something worse) out in one of my uncontrollable fits. I heard Cal telling his sister on the phone the other day that he can't remember there ever being a time when I didn't cough. I'm coughing right this very second, actually.
Therefore, in spite of what may or may not be legitimately attributed to them, I've now officially renamed my iron pills the "Pills from hell", or "PfH". (Is that blasphemous?) I'm remembering fondly the days when I was anemic, and I long to have them back. Was I tired then? Pshaw. I am tired now, AND have to fight off nausea every morning, AND am constipated, AND sound like I've been smoking for 73 years. So why am I not blogging? I'm just glad I'm alive.
I'm not much of a drinker, but I can hardly wait for a glass of wine as soon as I have this child. That, and a big ol' swig of cough syrup.
9.10.2008
An aunt, again!
My sister Julie, mother of the beloved Anna Claire, gave birth this afternoon to Mallory! 7 lb 11 oz, 21 inches long. Hurray!
9.06.2008
Two Pink Lines.
I couldn't believe it when I saw them. There they were, however: both as clear as day, and both appearing instantaneously (and not after the 3 required minutes). It was as if the Scary Little Stick had known that my nerves couldn't take the delay.
Five weeks earlier, Cal and I had made the big decision while we were out on one of our semi-regular neighborhood walks. Neither of us had really felt ready for kids, but we also had to be practical. I'm 30. He's 31. We didn't have time to wait until that ready feeling hit, especially considering the family members that we had who had taken months, years even, to conceive. If we wanted more than one, we'd have to take the risk now. Surely no one ever truly feels ready, we consoled ourselves. Plus, it'll be several months before anything happens. We can get used to the idea in the meantime.
And yet here I was, facing the reality that I, of the four of us, am Mom's Fertile Daughter. She had always warned us when we were in high school that "Girls, you come from a very fertile family!" And now, staring at me after one month off the pill, was proof that she wasn't just trying to scare her headstrong daughters into abstinence. She was telling the truth.
Cal wasn't home at the time. We had joked for a couple of weeks about the possibility, but neither one of us really believed it might be true. He got home from softball practice a couple of hours later and asked his usual, "Did you hear from anyone? Email? Phone calls?" And then, with a smirk on his face, "Are you pregnant?"
He couldn't believe it either. He wanted to know if that was possible. I told him that, obviously, it was.
Over 6 weeks later, and we've seen the baby and heard the heartbeat. So far, the only other sign that anything is different is that I've had waves of nausea (but no vomiting), not wanted to eat a thing (now that's a change), and experienced an ever-expanding waistline. My weight has stayed the same, but I can't button my pants. I am currently living without a pair of jeans to my name. I'm down to about four outfits, all of which are stretchy, empire-waist dresses. Thank goodness for the latest fashion and its friendliness to a poochy belly.
I read ahead in my What to Expect ... book to next month's changes and was shocked to see this line: "By the end of this month (next month for me, remember), you may start to outgrow your clothes." Seems I'm a month ahead as far as that's concerned. I told Cal the other day that I'm facing all the frustrations of gaining weight without the pleasures of food to appease me. Getting fat without eating milkshakes, french fries, and oreos? What a killjoy.
I've also felt the infamous "first trimester fatigue," although I wonder how much of it can actually be attributed instead to school starting back up. I'm always tired this time of year, and I usually have caffeine to help me through. Early mornings, no diet cokes, and a tiny parasite growing inside of my stomach? I don't stand a chance.
Cal hates it when I refer to the baby as a parasite, by the way. But, technically, isn't that what it is? Maybe if it were growing inside of him, he'd understand. Can I get an Amen, ladies?
I'm 10 weeks along and due the first week of April. The timing is perfect, as, theoretically, it'll enable me to stop work at spring break for my maternity leave and not go back until next Fall. We weren't going to tell the folks at school until the end of the first 12 weeks, but rumors started flying the first week of classes. Since only family at that time knew the news, it had to just be teenage speculation, but they happened to be right. Things had gotten so out of hand that we decided to go ahead and confirm it yesterday. Since then, news has spread like wildfire. Welcome to Macon.
So, how am I handling the emotions, the reality of it all? Well, I'll admit that I still don't feel ready. I'm in the midst of mourning the loss of spontaneous trips to the likes of Vegas and Puerto Rico, and sad to see our newlywed time come to an end. I'm grappling with the realization that things between Cal and me will never be the same as they have been in this last year as a married-with-no-kids couple. And I'm scared to death that my maternal instinct won't kick in like everyone says it will as soon as I see my baby for the first time.
I comfort my uneasiness, however, with this knowledge: if something were to happen and I were to lose this child, I would be very, very sad. So who knows? Maybe I'm ready to do this thing after all.
Five weeks earlier, Cal and I had made the big decision while we were out on one of our semi-regular neighborhood walks. Neither of us had really felt ready for kids, but we also had to be practical. I'm 30. He's 31. We didn't have time to wait until that ready feeling hit, especially considering the family members that we had who had taken months, years even, to conceive. If we wanted more than one, we'd have to take the risk now. Surely no one ever truly feels ready, we consoled ourselves. Plus, it'll be several months before anything happens. We can get used to the idea in the meantime.
And yet here I was, facing the reality that I, of the four of us, am Mom's Fertile Daughter. She had always warned us when we were in high school that "Girls, you come from a very fertile family!" And now, staring at me after one month off the pill, was proof that she wasn't just trying to scare her headstrong daughters into abstinence. She was telling the truth.
Cal wasn't home at the time. We had joked for a couple of weeks about the possibility, but neither one of us really believed it might be true. He got home from softball practice a couple of hours later and asked his usual, "Did you hear from anyone? Email? Phone calls?" And then, with a smirk on his face, "Are you pregnant?"
He couldn't believe it either. He wanted to know if that was possible. I told him that, obviously, it was.
Over 6 weeks later, and we've seen the baby and heard the heartbeat. So far, the only other sign that anything is different is that I've had waves of nausea (but no vomiting), not wanted to eat a thing (now that's a change), and experienced an ever-expanding waistline. My weight has stayed the same, but I can't button my pants. I am currently living without a pair of jeans to my name. I'm down to about four outfits, all of which are stretchy, empire-waist dresses. Thank goodness for the latest fashion and its friendliness to a poochy belly.
I read ahead in my What to Expect ... book to next month's changes and was shocked to see this line: "By the end of this month (next month for me, remember), you may start to outgrow your clothes." Seems I'm a month ahead as far as that's concerned. I told Cal the other day that I'm facing all the frustrations of gaining weight without the pleasures of food to appease me. Getting fat without eating milkshakes, french fries, and oreos? What a killjoy.
I've also felt the infamous "first trimester fatigue," although I wonder how much of it can actually be attributed instead to school starting back up. I'm always tired this time of year, and I usually have caffeine to help me through. Early mornings, no diet cokes, and a tiny parasite growing inside of my stomach? I don't stand a chance.
Cal hates it when I refer to the baby as a parasite, by the way. But, technically, isn't that what it is? Maybe if it were growing inside of him, he'd understand. Can I get an Amen, ladies?
I'm 10 weeks along and due the first week of April. The timing is perfect, as, theoretically, it'll enable me to stop work at spring break for my maternity leave and not go back until next Fall. We weren't going to tell the folks at school until the end of the first 12 weeks, but rumors started flying the first week of classes. Since only family at that time knew the news, it had to just be teenage speculation, but they happened to be right. Things had gotten so out of hand that we decided to go ahead and confirm it yesterday. Since then, news has spread like wildfire. Welcome to Macon.
So, how am I handling the emotions, the reality of it all? Well, I'll admit that I still don't feel ready. I'm in the midst of mourning the loss of spontaneous trips to the likes of Vegas and Puerto Rico, and sad to see our newlywed time come to an end. I'm grappling with the realization that things between Cal and me will never be the same as they have been in this last year as a married-with-no-kids couple. And I'm scared to death that my maternal instinct won't kick in like everyone says it will as soon as I see my baby for the first time.
I comfort my uneasiness, however, with this knowledge: if something were to happen and I were to lose this child, I would be very, very sad. So who knows? Maybe I'm ready to do this thing after all.
8.29.2008
Just call me Grace
When my sisters and I were babies, we could talk up a storm. We read early, processed ideas quickly, and could quote Shakespeare's 14th sonnet at 6 months. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but you get the point. We couldn't, however, walk.
When the twins were born, I was 19 months and still relatively immobile. My parents had not one baby, but three to carry around for a while. I'm sure my mom was worried about it when she talked to pediatrician.
His answer? "Well, Susan, some kids are mobile. Others are verbal."
And thus began life at the Terry household.
As I've mentioned numerous times before, we were a family full of nerds and not very athletic. For me, it wasn't merely that I couldn't play sports. I could barely get from one end of the house to the other without falling and breaking something. By the time I got to middle school, I had broken my collarbone, both wrists, and the main bone in the top of my foot. I was a walking accident.
The trend continued into college and graduate school, where I distinctly remember a 6-month period of time when I fell and sprained my ankle on four separate occasions. That ankle still gives me a bit of trouble when I jog (which is rare, admittedly), and every now and then will swell inexplicably. Wonderful.
I had hoped that in entering my third decade, I would be putting that everlasting awkward phase behind me. My hopes, however, were dashed just a few short days ago.
Picture, if you will, a cafeteria like all other cafeterias. It's high school lunch period, and I've made my way through the line, the salad bar, and the drink dispenser. I'm feeling quite sassy (and comfortable) in my little empire-waisted, knee-length dress and sandals, and I've said my hellos to fellow teachers and former students that have crossed my path. I'm now headed for the teacher's table at the very back of the room, weaving my way between tables and chairs filled with unbelievably gorgeous and graceful teenagers (no kidding; I don't think there's a kid here with a zit on his face).
Suddenly, my little sandaled foot hits a puddle of water. It slides slowly, but uncontrollably, in front of my body. My other foot stays in place. For the first time in my life, I've successfully completed a split. The only problem is that I'm in the middle of a bunch of 16-year-olds and in my once cute (now impractical) empire-waisted dress. In a split formation. On the floor. With a tray in my hand, surrounded by a puddle of pink lemonade and taco salad.
The room got quiet. (It really did!) Finally, one of the girls at the table nearby looked down at me and asked if I were alright, then quietly admitted that she's nearly done the same thing a million times. Nearly, being the operative word. I had ACTUALLY done it.
I mustered up as much dignity as I could manage, struggled out of the painfully awkward position I was in, stood up (all the while trying to keep my dress down), and gathered my tray and silverware. Next stop: the kitchen, where I had to let the cafeteria staff know that there was a mess that had to be cleaned up. Chef Joe is still teasing me about it.
The bright spots: I'm okay. I landed in a split, but still upright enough to not have flashed my undies to all interested parties. I've provided a reason for others to smile, laugh even.
I never thought I'd say it, but I'm currently looking forward to my forties. I'm bound to outgrow this phase sooner or later. For now, I'm off to attend a pep rally in the gym. Wish me luck with those bleachers ...
When the twins were born, I was 19 months and still relatively immobile. My parents had not one baby, but three to carry around for a while. I'm sure my mom was worried about it when she talked to pediatrician.
His answer? "Well, Susan, some kids are mobile. Others are verbal."
And thus began life at the Terry household.
As I've mentioned numerous times before, we were a family full of nerds and not very athletic. For me, it wasn't merely that I couldn't play sports. I could barely get from one end of the house to the other without falling and breaking something. By the time I got to middle school, I had broken my collarbone, both wrists, and the main bone in the top of my foot. I was a walking accident.
The trend continued into college and graduate school, where I distinctly remember a 6-month period of time when I fell and sprained my ankle on four separate occasions. That ankle still gives me a bit of trouble when I jog (which is rare, admittedly), and every now and then will swell inexplicably. Wonderful.
I had hoped that in entering my third decade, I would be putting that everlasting awkward phase behind me. My hopes, however, were dashed just a few short days ago.
Picture, if you will, a cafeteria like all other cafeterias. It's high school lunch period, and I've made my way through the line, the salad bar, and the drink dispenser. I'm feeling quite sassy (and comfortable) in my little empire-waisted, knee-length dress and sandals, and I've said my hellos to fellow teachers and former students that have crossed my path. I'm now headed for the teacher's table at the very back of the room, weaving my way between tables and chairs filled with unbelievably gorgeous and graceful teenagers (no kidding; I don't think there's a kid here with a zit on his face).
Suddenly, my little sandaled foot hits a puddle of water. It slides slowly, but uncontrollably, in front of my body. My other foot stays in place. For the first time in my life, I've successfully completed a split. The only problem is that I'm in the middle of a bunch of 16-year-olds and in my once cute (now impractical) empire-waisted dress. In a split formation. On the floor. With a tray in my hand, surrounded by a puddle of pink lemonade and taco salad.
The room got quiet. (It really did!) Finally, one of the girls at the table nearby looked down at me and asked if I were alright, then quietly admitted that she's nearly done the same thing a million times. Nearly, being the operative word. I had ACTUALLY done it.
I mustered up as much dignity as I could manage, struggled out of the painfully awkward position I was in, stood up (all the while trying to keep my dress down), and gathered my tray and silverware. Next stop: the kitchen, where I had to let the cafeteria staff know that there was a mess that had to be cleaned up. Chef Joe is still teasing me about it.
The bright spots: I'm okay. I landed in a split, but still upright enough to not have flashed my undies to all interested parties. I've provided a reason for others to smile, laugh even.
I never thought I'd say it, but I'm currently looking forward to my forties. I'm bound to outgrow this phase sooner or later. For now, I'm off to attend a pep rally in the gym. Wish me luck with those bleachers ...
8.10.2008
Another summer gone
Well, folks, tomorrow starts year #6 at my school. Hard to believe that I've lived in Macon that long (remember when I was only moving here for a year, till I could get a more glamorous job in a more glamorous place?), or that I've been away from Athens for more than, oh, 6 months. Where has the time gone?
So what did I do with my last day of summer? After church, I spent 3 hours (literally) trying to get a virus off of Cal's computer and another 2 hours filming and editing this video, a task that my odd husband HAD to have accomplished before he could peacefully turn in for the night.*
It's 9:30 now, and I'm about to head to bed at my earliest time in two months. And tomorrow? I'll be getting up at my earliest time since our morning flight out of Atlanta for our trip to Puerto Rico. Ahh... memories. Sigh.
*What Cal didn't mention on his blog was that our truck was parked just out of view of the camera. That's right, people. We DROVE half a mile so that the man could run up the hill for his video. He even did a few jumping jacks before we left the house so that he'd look sweaty, like he'd really been working hard. Nice.
So what did I do with my last day of summer? After church, I spent 3 hours (literally) trying to get a virus off of Cal's computer and another 2 hours filming and editing this video, a task that my odd husband HAD to have accomplished before he could peacefully turn in for the night.*
It's 9:30 now, and I'm about to head to bed at my earliest time in two months. And tomorrow? I'll be getting up at my earliest time since our morning flight out of Atlanta for our trip to Puerto Rico. Ahh... memories. Sigh.
*What Cal didn't mention on his blog was that our truck was parked just out of view of the camera. That's right, people. We DROVE half a mile so that the man could run up the hill for his video. He even did a few jumping jacks before we left the house so that he'd look sweaty, like he'd really been working hard. Nice.
7.29.2008
The financial ramifications of a bad mood.
The other day, I ventured out of my cozy, semi-cool house to brave the sweltering heat of Macon in July. I know, I know -- that statement doesn't seem to represent a real exciting newsbreak. However, if you know me-in-the-summer, you also know that my leaving home is, in fact, a rare occasion. I like to fully enjoy my break from school, and for me that means sleeping late, keeping on my pajamas, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray, reading a good book, and, well, not stepping foot out the door. At all. I could quite honestly go for the entirety of my two-month summer without a breath of fresh air except for the fact that I would end up drinking soured milk in my cereal and eating molded bread on my pb&j's.
Anyway, I digress. So I agreed to leave my comfort zone the other day and accompany Cal (he had taken the afternoon off) to his favorite summertime hangout, Targetworld. Macon's Target is in one of those huge shopping strips that include other great stores such as Ross, Marshall's, Old Navy, Dick's Sporting Goods (hee hee), Michael's, Best Buy, etc. When we go, we usually make a day of it. I, in the midst of my summer-long downtime, wasn't prepared.
After lunch at Margarita's and 2 1/2 hours of cinematic entertainment (The Dark Knight), we headed to Best Buy to look at cameras. I was prepared for this stop, as we had discussed it earlier in the day. When we were done, my hands --which had been gone from home for, at this time, four hours-- automatically started to turn the car towards our neighborhood.
Cal interjected. "Let's go to the GNC across the street." He's on a major "health jag", complete with herbal supplements and excess vitamins. I agreed, but wanted to sit in the car. "Come on in with me!" he encouraged, trying persistently to include me in his interests. I did, but felt the rumblings of a pout in the depths of my being.
GNC happens to be right next door to Target, so, of course, that was his next idea. I think he assumed that when we walked in and I was confronted with the flourescent lights, trendy bags, cute cheap clothes, and rather attractive house decor, I would be okay. It works normally, and I can entertain myself for hours there. Not today.
I stuck miserably close to his side as he wandered toward the unsalted almonds and dried fruit aisle. "Are we almost done?" I whined. He glanced my way and shrugged. "I'm thirsty." More whine.
"Here," he said, still very patiently. "I'll buy you a diet coke."
I pouted some more. If we were going home soon, there was no need to spend the money on a diet coke. I had two cases of them there. I was, you see, still hoping for the best. We bought the diet coke. Pout pout pout.
We left Target and headed towards Sam's. By this time, I was in top form.
Me (pout pout pout): "I can't go in Sam's with this diet coke. They'll think I stole it."
Him: "Just stick it in your purse like you always do."
Me (pout pout pout): "I'll just sit in the car."
Him (beginning to get aggravated): "It's 102 degrees out here. Just forget the diet coke."
Me (accelerated pout pout pout): "But we paid $1.50 for it!"
Him (fully exasperated now): "SO WHAT? IT WAS JUST $1.50!"
Me (full fledged wail): "HOW CAN WE EVER PAY FOR OUR KIDS' COLLEGES IF WE BUY COKES FOR 1.50????"
Needless to say, that was the climax of the argument and the peak of my bad mood. As the statement was coming out of my mouth, I could hear how ridiculous I sounded. Seriously? College tuition? Cal looked at me, completely baffled, as if to say "Do we have kids that I don't know about?"
The good that came out of the situation was that Cal assumed that I must be hard-pressed for money if I was crying over spending $1.50 on a coke (when actually I was just using that as an excuse to be miserable), and it forced "the talk" about savings, retirement, etc. I emailed my uncle, a stock broker/financial guy down in Thomasville about opening that Roth IRA that my parents have been hounding me about for 10 years. Just today, with trembling hands and a whole lot of immature regret, I'm sending my forms off with instructions to directly transfer funds out of my account and into the IRA every month so I can't opt out of contributing when, say, I find 16 great buys at Target, Ross, and Marshall's the next time I agree to leave the house. A monthly reminder, in other words, that I should've just drunk the stupid diet coke.
Currently, I'm back to lazing around the house in my pj's, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray. I hope this behavior will last the duration of the next week and a half, which is all the vacation I have left. I don't think my teacher's salary will cover the consequences of another summertime outing.
Anyway, I digress. So I agreed to leave my comfort zone the other day and accompany Cal (he had taken the afternoon off) to his favorite summertime hangout, Targetworld. Macon's Target is in one of those huge shopping strips that include other great stores such as Ross, Marshall's, Old Navy, Dick's Sporting Goods (hee hee), Michael's, Best Buy, etc. When we go, we usually make a day of it. I, in the midst of my summer-long downtime, wasn't prepared.
After lunch at Margarita's and 2 1/2 hours of cinematic entertainment (The Dark Knight), we headed to Best Buy to look at cameras. I was prepared for this stop, as we had discussed it earlier in the day. When we were done, my hands --which had been gone from home for, at this time, four hours-- automatically started to turn the car towards our neighborhood.
Cal interjected. "Let's go to the GNC across the street." He's on a major "health jag", complete with herbal supplements and excess vitamins. I agreed, but wanted to sit in the car. "Come on in with me!" he encouraged, trying persistently to include me in his interests. I did, but felt the rumblings of a pout in the depths of my being.
GNC happens to be right next door to Target, so, of course, that was his next idea. I think he assumed that when we walked in and I was confronted with the flourescent lights, trendy bags, cute cheap clothes, and rather attractive house decor, I would be okay. It works normally, and I can entertain myself for hours there. Not today.
I stuck miserably close to his side as he wandered toward the unsalted almonds and dried fruit aisle. "Are we almost done?" I whined. He glanced my way and shrugged. "I'm thirsty." More whine.
"Here," he said, still very patiently. "I'll buy you a diet coke."
I pouted some more. If we were going home soon, there was no need to spend the money on a diet coke. I had two cases of them there. I was, you see, still hoping for the best. We bought the diet coke. Pout pout pout.
We left Target and headed towards Sam's. By this time, I was in top form.
Me (pout pout pout): "I can't go in Sam's with this diet coke. They'll think I stole it."
Him: "Just stick it in your purse like you always do."
Me (pout pout pout): "I'll just sit in the car."
Him (beginning to get aggravated): "It's 102 degrees out here. Just forget the diet coke."
Me (accelerated pout pout pout): "But we paid $1.50 for it!"
Him (fully exasperated now): "SO WHAT? IT WAS JUST $1.50!"
Me (full fledged wail): "HOW CAN WE EVER PAY FOR OUR KIDS' COLLEGES IF WE BUY COKES FOR 1.50????"
Needless to say, that was the climax of the argument and the peak of my bad mood. As the statement was coming out of my mouth, I could hear how ridiculous I sounded. Seriously? College tuition? Cal looked at me, completely baffled, as if to say "Do we have kids that I don't know about?"
The good that came out of the situation was that Cal assumed that I must be hard-pressed for money if I was crying over spending $1.50 on a coke (when actually I was just using that as an excuse to be miserable), and it forced "the talk" about savings, retirement, etc. I emailed my uncle, a stock broker/financial guy down in Thomasville about opening that Roth IRA that my parents have been hounding me about for 10 years. Just today, with trembling hands and a whole lot of immature regret, I'm sending my forms off with instructions to directly transfer funds out of my account and into the IRA every month so I can't opt out of contributing when, say, I find 16 great buys at Target, Ross, and Marshall's the next time I agree to leave the house. A monthly reminder, in other words, that I should've just drunk the stupid diet coke.
Currently, I'm back to lazing around the house in my pj's, watching Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray. I hope this behavior will last the duration of the next week and a half, which is all the vacation I have left. I don't think my teacher's salary will cover the consequences of another summertime outing.
7.19.2008
A long way to go
My friend Carrie is passing through town tonight on her way from Tallahassee back to Athens, and she decided to stop over for the night in order to break up her trip.
This is the very first time that an out-of-town friend of mine (not relative) has come to stay (Macon isn't exactly a tourist town), and in my excitement, I went a little overboard in tonight's supper preparations. The produce aisle at Kroger was chock full of tempting summer vegetables, and rather than make decisions, I just decided to cook everything that looked appetizing.
Her arrival is due within the hour, and awaiting us in the kitchen are chicken and rice, cream peas, squash casserole, blueberry AND blackberry muffins, sauteed okra (Cal's fave), and a tomato/cucumber/feta salad. For dessert, it's strawberry shortcake.
I was feeling like quite the Southern hostess, complete with fresh sheets in the guestroom; clean, folded towels on the bed; a variety of lotions and bath goodies in the guest bathroom; and, best of all, a summer feast to satisfy even the hungriest appetite.
That is, until I got an email from my sister, a how-to on making my mother's delicious homemade strawberry fig jam. It ended in this, matter-of-fact way:
I'm breaking out into a cold sweat just reading it. Forget my vain thoughts from earlier in the day. If being a Southern girl depends on one's ability to sterilize and seal jam jars, this girl-from-the-South is farther from her arrival than she originally thought. Sigh.
This is the very first time that an out-of-town friend of mine (not relative) has come to stay (Macon isn't exactly a tourist town), and in my excitement, I went a little overboard in tonight's supper preparations. The produce aisle at Kroger was chock full of tempting summer vegetables, and rather than make decisions, I just decided to cook everything that looked appetizing.
Her arrival is due within the hour, and awaiting us in the kitchen are chicken and rice, cream peas, squash casserole, blueberry AND blackberry muffins, sauteed okra (Cal's fave), and a tomato/cucumber/feta salad. For dessert, it's strawberry shortcake.
I was feeling like quite the Southern hostess, complete with fresh sheets in the guestroom; clean, folded towels on the bed; a variety of lotions and bath goodies in the guest bathroom; and, best of all, a summer feast to satisfy even the hungriest appetite.
That is, until I got an email from my sister, a how-to on making my mother's delicious homemade strawberry fig jam. It ended in this, matter-of-fact way:
To sterilize jars and seals: Boil seals and tops, tongs, and whatever instrument you use to pour the jelly from the pot into the jar. Then put the jars in the dishwasher and run it. It needs to coincide with the jam on the stove. Need to keep the jars hot. So, if the dishwasher gets done early, keep it on a heat dryer cyle. Take jars out one at a time, fill it with jam, and then wipe down the lip of the jar and around. Using the tongs get a top and seal and place on the
jar. Twist it on but not too tight and then turn it upside down. Leave it upside down for about a minute and then flip it back over. Always replace the tong back into the pot of water to resterilize them between each use. Repeat.
I'm breaking out into a cold sweat just reading it. Forget my vain thoughts from earlier in the day. If being a Southern girl depends on one's ability to sterilize and seal jam jars, this girl-from-the-South is farther from her arrival than she originally thought. Sigh.
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