Having a two year old is a wonder. Mine is cranky one day, screaming and disagreeable to everything. The next day he is so sweet, so loving , and a joy to be around every second. Yesterday he was sheer splendor.
Turner is my little helper. He likes to be involved in everything I do, whether it's fixing my hair in the morning or cooking with me in the afternoon. Yesterday was a typical Monday for us. Up with Papa for breakfast, watch the news and Sesame St., get dressed to head to the gym, play at Becky's house, lunch together, nap, cook supper, eat together, and get ready for bed. A whole lot of wonderful was crammed into what could've been just another day.
When Turner rolls out of the right side of the bed, life just don't get much better. He wakes up with a smile and ready to hug me and Papa. He and I talk all day, it feels like we always have. I talked to him all day before he could answer, but I always knew what he would've been saying. Now he comes up with some of the funniest things I have ever heard. What would I do with a whole day with out my best friend?
I have theories on why "Mother's of Boys" are crazy. My sister and I have discussed this at length. We have both dealt with several "Mothers of Boys" in the course of our dating lives. We were, after all, the evil girls who'd never be good enough for their precious princes. All MOB's are a little delusional, myself now included in this group. As the mother of these tiny men, you see them from the moment they are born, a beautiful clean slate. Upon these little innocent babies we MOB's bestow all the hopes and dreams of making the world's first perfect man. We raise them to the best of our ability, and fall hopelessly more in love with them everyday.
Turner is a prime example. He is a kind, funny, tragically handsome man to be, who'll never find a woman worthy of his greatness. Yes, the delusional part of being a mom to one of these creatures is tough. You must be left with enough sense to function in normal society, but be completely blinded to any faults your son could ever have. I try to teach Turner all the things I wish my husband had learned as a child. To be nonjudgmental, kind, to have empathy, to not take things so seriously that he forgets to enjoy life, and all the other lesson's that are far too much for a toddler. But, the longer I am with Brad, the more I realize his mom tried to do all of that with Brad. Despite my mother-in-laws best efforts, my husband still became his own person with his own views and personality traits, both good and bad.
Boys become "Mama's boys" for a reason. In Turner I see everything good that has ever been within my husband, but also all the room that is left for other things that make a truly great person. Brad is wonderful, but maybe Turner will listen more, or is that my favorite delusion? It's the pitfall of raising a boy. They love you so wholeheartedly it's almost painful. I don't know if I can do any wrong in Turner's eyes, yet. I know the day is coming when mom will be one of the dumbest people he has ever met, but please let it be held off for as long as possible.
I relish the days now when my kiss can cure any ailment and I am his very best friend. Turner makes me happier than I thought humanly possible. Seeing my husband through the eyes of our son has blessed my marriage. To Turner Papa can lift any weight, fix anything that's broken, and right any wrong. In our day to day life I forgot that about Brad, I thank Turner for reminding me.
So today, I am off to find out if this little baby in my belly is a son or daughter. I'll be blessed either way. I already have an embarrassment of riches. The best thing that ever happened to me is dressed in Superman PJ's watching Sesame St. down the hall. If he only knew what super powers he has that no one else ever will.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Who's that sleeping in my bed?
I got to sleep in til seven o'clock this morning. I feel sluggish and hung over from sleeping that much. Turner has been sick this week. Nothing serious, just a cough and cold. But anyone with a chap knows that a minor cold turns into near pneumonia when the sun goes down. The first night he was up at one, and I brought him in our bed so I could make sure he was breathing OK. He fell back asleep, Brad fell back to snoring, but with two lil noise makers I just sat up and listened to the duet.
The second night we had his nebulizer out and he sounded better. After his breathing treatment he went to bed, all was well. At two am I heard him start coughing. I got up stumbled to the kitchen, loaded the medicine dropper with cough syrup and went to give it to him. I walked in to see Turner not awake, but still miserable looking. He was balled up, cover all shoved down, and an ominous half a Huggie sticking up out of his butt crack. I whispered to him and he sat up and took his medicine. He laid right back down to go to sleep, such a sweet baby. But, I ran a hand down along his belly, oh no, not tonight. He was soaking wet. The diaper had come undone at some point, and once Willy was freed he watered the entire bed.
Turner was wet, so I stripped him naked and wiped him down. Put new jammies on my sleepy eyed prince. I surveyed the damage. Could I just change the bottom sheet and mattress pad? Oh no. The blankets were wet. He had some how managed to get pee on his pillow and half of the bears he sleeps with. I sorted out one dry bear and loaded them up and packed them into our room. I told Brad to move over and put Turner down in the middle.
My husband snores, a fact that I live with. I am appreciative that he is still when he sleeps. If I can't have quiet at night at least he's not tossing and turning. Turner snores when he is sick, just can't be helped. Turner is not a still sleeper. His hands and feet are in perpetual motion the entire night. The only place he could find to put his feet was right in my kidneys. Fine, I was just going to lay there and try to go to sleep. Thing about trying to sleep: The harder I try, the less I sleep. So I sat up for the rest of the night pissed that I was yet again awake. Just practice for the upcoming new born I suppose.
Last night, with all beds having clean sheets, we all headed to bed early. Didn't take long and we were all asleep in our respective beds. Three am rolls around, I hear coughing, get up, and go to get his medicine. I found him still mostly asleep, he took his medicine and laid back down into his warm dry bed. Hallelujah! I stumble back to my room and into bed with my most beloved slumbering grizzly bear. I went back to sleep, sweet, sweet sleep.
I slept until ten to six. Normally getting up this early is no problem. Brad was not going in to work quiet as early this morning though. So I got up and tried to pull the wool over my son's eyes. "Hi Mommy!" the definition of bright eyed and bushy tailed greets me. I whisper to him that it's night-night time, but he can come into mommy's bed if he's quiet. Off to crawl back in my bed, please just twenty more minutes? I know Brad is not asleep because the room is quiet when we come back in. He's already moved over and is acting asleep to help lure Turner into mom's lie that it is still night time. We lay there and it is clear that Turner's feet, hands and his whispering little mouth do not believe that it is time to be asleep.
Brad, who really deserves a few minutes of extra sleep, gets up and takes Turner with him. Have I said how much I love that man? I am a little more tired than normal, the whole pregnancy thing taking effect I suppose. Brad knows this and leaves me to sleep a few minutes more. I actually fell completely back asleep, dreamed it was the last day of school and I was cleaning out my locker. I slept til seven, got up and found my boys watching cartoons, eating waffles together. What a wonderful sight for two dreary eyes. So today for his heroic acts, Brad will be rewarded with a freshly baked cake. I believe in posistive reinforcment. He can have his cake and eat it too. I can make it through the day with eyes that are a little less blood shot. Best of all, Turner has the benifit of two happy, semi-rested parents. Life is good.
The second night we had his nebulizer out and he sounded better. After his breathing treatment he went to bed, all was well. At two am I heard him start coughing. I got up stumbled to the kitchen, loaded the medicine dropper with cough syrup and went to give it to him. I walked in to see Turner not awake, but still miserable looking. He was balled up, cover all shoved down, and an ominous half a Huggie sticking up out of his butt crack. I whispered to him and he sat up and took his medicine. He laid right back down to go to sleep, such a sweet baby. But, I ran a hand down along his belly, oh no, not tonight. He was soaking wet. The diaper had come undone at some point, and once Willy was freed he watered the entire bed.
Turner was wet, so I stripped him naked and wiped him down. Put new jammies on my sleepy eyed prince. I surveyed the damage. Could I just change the bottom sheet and mattress pad? Oh no. The blankets were wet. He had some how managed to get pee on his pillow and half of the bears he sleeps with. I sorted out one dry bear and loaded them up and packed them into our room. I told Brad to move over and put Turner down in the middle.
My husband snores, a fact that I live with. I am appreciative that he is still when he sleeps. If I can't have quiet at night at least he's not tossing and turning. Turner snores when he is sick, just can't be helped. Turner is not a still sleeper. His hands and feet are in perpetual motion the entire night. The only place he could find to put his feet was right in my kidneys. Fine, I was just going to lay there and try to go to sleep. Thing about trying to sleep: The harder I try, the less I sleep. So I sat up for the rest of the night pissed that I was yet again awake. Just practice for the upcoming new born I suppose.
Last night, with all beds having clean sheets, we all headed to bed early. Didn't take long and we were all asleep in our respective beds. Three am rolls around, I hear coughing, get up, and go to get his medicine. I found him still mostly asleep, he took his medicine and laid back down into his warm dry bed. Hallelujah! I stumble back to my room and into bed with my most beloved slumbering grizzly bear. I went back to sleep, sweet, sweet sleep.
I slept until ten to six. Normally getting up this early is no problem. Brad was not going in to work quiet as early this morning though. So I got up and tried to pull the wool over my son's eyes. "Hi Mommy!" the definition of bright eyed and bushy tailed greets me. I whisper to him that it's night-night time, but he can come into mommy's bed if he's quiet. Off to crawl back in my bed, please just twenty more minutes? I know Brad is not asleep because the room is quiet when we come back in. He's already moved over and is acting asleep to help lure Turner into mom's lie that it is still night time. We lay there and it is clear that Turner's feet, hands and his whispering little mouth do not believe that it is time to be asleep.
Brad, who really deserves a few minutes of extra sleep, gets up and takes Turner with him. Have I said how much I love that man? I am a little more tired than normal, the whole pregnancy thing taking effect I suppose. Brad knows this and leaves me to sleep a few minutes more. I actually fell completely back asleep, dreamed it was the last day of school and I was cleaning out my locker. I slept til seven, got up and found my boys watching cartoons, eating waffles together. What a wonderful sight for two dreary eyes. So today for his heroic acts, Brad will be rewarded with a freshly baked cake. I believe in posistive reinforcment. He can have his cake and eat it too. I can make it through the day with eyes that are a little less blood shot. Best of all, Turner has the benifit of two happy, semi-rested parents. Life is good.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Whose that man?
As I have said before, I am a complete nerd. I have never tried to hide it, so why start now? What today proves my nerdiness? The fact that one of my effin fish died and I am really sad over it. It's just a fish. But, I am pregnant and nothing is what it seems.
My emotions run the gamut. I remember this phase when I was caring Turner. Very attached, very lovey. The sun must be in the house of Venus, or what ever bull shit line of astrology you believe. I love my husband today in a he walks on water and can do no wrong sort of way. I love my son the same way as always, completely and totally. But today I am intoxicated with both of them. Either Brad is a whole lot nicer this pregnancy or I am delusional. Either way I'll take it.
From the minute I found out I was pregnant with Turner Brad was a little, shall we say, distant. He would not come with in ten feet of me. This only lasted the entire pregnancy and for about four of five months after. I didn't think that I looked so terribly different. I lost all my weight with in a couple weeks of giving him his son. But the whole transformation from "my old lady" to "mother of my children" threw him for a loop. I, on the other hand, thought Brad was the most handsome thing to walk the earth. Anyone whose been in the second trimester knows what I am talking about.
It's a whole different story this time around. He doesn't seem to notice that I am pregnant and starting to "show" or it doesn't bother him. He made my whole week when he came home from work early yesterday. He scooped up Turner hugged him and played for a minute, then walked into the kitchen and pinched my butt. I was flattered. Still being wanted when you are loosing control of your appearance is heaven. Maybe he just realized that I won't break and I am still me, there's just more of me.
I am enthralled with Turner because he is two. Along with the "terrible" part of being two is the wonderful part of being two. His personality is all his own. He is intelligent and inquisitive. He is so much fun to be with. Another reason my husband is on my good side, he sees all of our sons changes and is just as in love with Turner as I am.
I bet I answered the question "What's that?!" a hundred times today. I loved it. We sing together to the radio in the mornings on the way to the gym. We talk about who he played with and what we see on our ride home. Our weekly visit to the library is an adventure all our own. He is starting to realize that the world, not only he, has rules. He now shares them with everyone. He hushed another toddler in the library today. He yells at Brad to make him buckle up. He's my little bossy boy and I love him.
So my thought was to chronicle this most excellent of days and save it for later. Tomorrow two fish may be dead and the world may be a crappy place. Today it's great and am so happy to be where I never knew to wish to be.
My emotions run the gamut. I remember this phase when I was caring Turner. Very attached, very lovey. The sun must be in the house of Venus, or what ever bull shit line of astrology you believe. I love my husband today in a he walks on water and can do no wrong sort of way. I love my son the same way as always, completely and totally. But today I am intoxicated with both of them. Either Brad is a whole lot nicer this pregnancy or I am delusional. Either way I'll take it.
From the minute I found out I was pregnant with Turner Brad was a little, shall we say, distant. He would not come with in ten feet of me. This only lasted the entire pregnancy and for about four of five months after. I didn't think that I looked so terribly different. I lost all my weight with in a couple weeks of giving him his son. But the whole transformation from "my old lady" to "mother of my children" threw him for a loop. I, on the other hand, thought Brad was the most handsome thing to walk the earth. Anyone whose been in the second trimester knows what I am talking about.
It's a whole different story this time around. He doesn't seem to notice that I am pregnant and starting to "show" or it doesn't bother him. He made my whole week when he came home from work early yesterday. He scooped up Turner hugged him and played for a minute, then walked into the kitchen and pinched my butt. I was flattered. Still being wanted when you are loosing control of your appearance is heaven. Maybe he just realized that I won't break and I am still me, there's just more of me.
I am enthralled with Turner because he is two. Along with the "terrible" part of being two is the wonderful part of being two. His personality is all his own. He is intelligent and inquisitive. He is so much fun to be with. Another reason my husband is on my good side, he sees all of our sons changes and is just as in love with Turner as I am.
I bet I answered the question "What's that?!" a hundred times today. I loved it. We sing together to the radio in the mornings on the way to the gym. We talk about who he played with and what we see on our ride home. Our weekly visit to the library is an adventure all our own. He is starting to realize that the world, not only he, has rules. He now shares them with everyone. He hushed another toddler in the library today. He yells at Brad to make him buckle up. He's my little bossy boy and I love him.
So my thought was to chronicle this most excellent of days and save it for later. Tomorrow two fish may be dead and the world may be a crappy place. Today it's great and am so happy to be where I never knew to wish to be.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Bare-Ass-Bandit
I am in the battle if my life: Potty training a two year old. I am desperate for any tips that may work, so I posed the question to my mom's group. It's an on line mom's group that posts messages and there are about two play groups per week. Turner and I go to a play group about once every other week. I post messages sporadically. I posted and asked for advice on potty training tips recently. I told them Turner is twenty-seven months old, pees in the toilette almost a hundred percent of the time, and that he loves to take a big greasy dump in his underwear.
The responses I got infuriated me. They were all pretty much along the lines of "Well you are just starting entirely too early". " My little Jr. didn't start potty training til he was four" "Little Bill absolutely refused to look at the potty til he was almost four, then he made the decision to potty train himself". Give me a break.
Am I to believe that no boy in the world is ready to crap on the pot til age three and a half or four? I absolutely refuse. I understand that some children are physically unable to potty train at the age of two. I also understand that Turner is not among them. How do I know this? Well, if he knows he's about to poop and has enough time to slip into another room, hide between the coffee table and the couch, then he should know in enough time to mention it to me. I also know that when I leave him naked, he takes himself to the potty, sits down and poops without fuss. This strategy works, so why not use it? To put it simply, it's too damn cold. Even with the heat blasting all day it is really chilly to run around bottomless. He's watching Thomas and Friends right now wearing a shirt and a pair of my socks. Why a pair of my socks? Because they go up to his mid thigh and keep more of his leg warm.
I suppose my next few weeks are to be spent in the comfort of my home watching the Flash streak by. I am on a mission to have him toilette trained by June. I do not want to deal with diapers and potty training when I am dealing with a new baby too. I know he can do this. I have to be tough.
Part of the reason I got so pissed about the emails from the mom group is that they are leaving the decisions up to their three and four year old counterparts. I realize that all children develop at different levels and at different paces. But, these are the same women who moan and groan that little Billy didn't go to bed til eleven thirty last night. Well, little Billy knows you don't enforce bedtime, and he can do what he damn well pleases. These are also the women who just don't know how to get little Billy to stop writing on their walls or to quit tearing up everything they own. I try to be loving, but I will not be a push over. Turner does not make our schedule or pick his bedtime. I do leave him choices, but not when it comes to his health and well being. He can pick out his clothes for the day, decide if he wants oatmeal or waffles for breakfast, or he can choose what toys we will play with. What he can not decide is his bedtime. He has written on my walls once. He got a spanking, he helped me clean up his mess, and had his colors taken away for the day. He has not written on my walls since. I leave the colors out all the time. He colors in his coloring books. I am blessed that he is an obedient child. But, I believe part of that comes from him growing up with clear restrictions and rules.
The toilette training is a battle of wills. I know he is capable of doing it. He knows he really likes to lay on the floor to poop. I am not waiting til he is four years old and decides he no longer wishes to crap his pants because all of his friends at preschool make fun of him. Peer pressure is not the angle I am wanting to play on this. No, potty training is not fun. Sending him to the gym playroom in only underwear does cause me to hold my breath for the entire hours he's in there. Cleaning up hot wet crap from his Elmo drawers while in Walmart is not my idea of fun. Carrying a hot stinky pair of balled up, pooped filled pants in my purse and cutting my errand running short to go home an bathe Turner is not ideal for my schedule. This will take determination. I have it. It is hard to give up the freedom that diapers provide. It is so much easier to slap a pull up on and run around town than it is to be stuck inside for a couple weeks at a time with the Bare-Ass-Bandit. We'll just have to buckle down and do it. Nobody said parenting was easy or convenient. At least he has a cute little tush, good thing, since I'll be seeing so much of it over the next few days.
The responses I got infuriated me. They were all pretty much along the lines of "Well you are just starting entirely too early". " My little Jr. didn't start potty training til he was four" "Little Bill absolutely refused to look at the potty til he was almost four, then he made the decision to potty train himself". Give me a break.
Am I to believe that no boy in the world is ready to crap on the pot til age three and a half or four? I absolutely refuse. I understand that some children are physically unable to potty train at the age of two. I also understand that Turner is not among them. How do I know this? Well, if he knows he's about to poop and has enough time to slip into another room, hide between the coffee table and the couch, then he should know in enough time to mention it to me. I also know that when I leave him naked, he takes himself to the potty, sits down and poops without fuss. This strategy works, so why not use it? To put it simply, it's too damn cold. Even with the heat blasting all day it is really chilly to run around bottomless. He's watching Thomas and Friends right now wearing a shirt and a pair of my socks. Why a pair of my socks? Because they go up to his mid thigh and keep more of his leg warm.
I suppose my next few weeks are to be spent in the comfort of my home watching the Flash streak by. I am on a mission to have him toilette trained by June. I do not want to deal with diapers and potty training when I am dealing with a new baby too. I know he can do this. I have to be tough.
Part of the reason I got so pissed about the emails from the mom group is that they are leaving the decisions up to their three and four year old counterparts. I realize that all children develop at different levels and at different paces. But, these are the same women who moan and groan that little Billy didn't go to bed til eleven thirty last night. Well, little Billy knows you don't enforce bedtime, and he can do what he damn well pleases. These are also the women who just don't know how to get little Billy to stop writing on their walls or to quit tearing up everything they own. I try to be loving, but I will not be a push over. Turner does not make our schedule or pick his bedtime. I do leave him choices, but not when it comes to his health and well being. He can pick out his clothes for the day, decide if he wants oatmeal or waffles for breakfast, or he can choose what toys we will play with. What he can not decide is his bedtime. He has written on my walls once. He got a spanking, he helped me clean up his mess, and had his colors taken away for the day. He has not written on my walls since. I leave the colors out all the time. He colors in his coloring books. I am blessed that he is an obedient child. But, I believe part of that comes from him growing up with clear restrictions and rules.
The toilette training is a battle of wills. I know he is capable of doing it. He knows he really likes to lay on the floor to poop. I am not waiting til he is four years old and decides he no longer wishes to crap his pants because all of his friends at preschool make fun of him. Peer pressure is not the angle I am wanting to play on this. No, potty training is not fun. Sending him to the gym playroom in only underwear does cause me to hold my breath for the entire hours he's in there. Cleaning up hot wet crap from his Elmo drawers while in Walmart is not my idea of fun. Carrying a hot stinky pair of balled up, pooped filled pants in my purse and cutting my errand running short to go home an bathe Turner is not ideal for my schedule. This will take determination. I have it. It is hard to give up the freedom that diapers provide. It is so much easier to slap a pull up on and run around town than it is to be stuck inside for a couple weeks at a time with the Bare-Ass-Bandit. We'll just have to buckle down and do it. Nobody said parenting was easy or convenient. At least he has a cute little tush, good thing, since I'll be seeing so much of it over the next few days.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Mr. Webster was right
lux·u·ry (lgzh-r, lksh-)
n. pl. lux·u·ries
1. Something inessential but conducive to pleasure and comfort.
2. Something expensive or hard to obtain.
3. Sumptuous living or surroundings
Luxury as it applies to me: Having a husband who can tell by the dried tears on my terrible two year old's face that mommy might need a break. A husband who says dinner is great, smiles, and takes the two year old to play. A husband who does not think it is doing me a favor to watch our son, but who looks at it as his and Turner's time.
Turner threw a twenty minute long fit today at five fifteen when we walked in from our quick trip to Walmart. He was absolutely going to die if he was not allowed to wear his hat, gloves and mittens inside and sweat to death. We talked, we reasoned, he cried and I held my ground. Brad walked in during the middle of our "discussion".
We all managed to eat dinner with relatively few tears. I cleaned up the kitchen, a normal night. I then realized that I had not been able to stand around and leisurely look for a new book at Walmart. I asked if Brad would mind if I snuk out. He said go, enjoy yourself.
All it was, was a thirty minute trip to Barnes and Noble, but it maya as well have been four hours at a spa. The ability to stand and browse, look at every dust jacket, read the complete blurb on the inside cover- better than a massage. The ride to and from the book store made with my radio up to a level that I would never listen to it at with Turner in the car. Putting on a CD that I no longer listen to because it has a higher rating than the now acceptable "G".
Thirty minutes to myself, by myself doing nothing that needed doing. That is luxury to me. Knowing my son and husband were playing and happy having some guy time, decadent. I think every mom, especially the stay at home ones, deserve a few minutes every now and then to spend with themselves and sing too loud to questionable lyrics. It recharges my batteries. Little moments that keep me going and going and going, that's real luxury.
n. pl. lux·u·ries
1. Something inessential but conducive to pleasure and comfort.
2. Something expensive or hard to obtain.
3. Sumptuous living or surroundings
Luxury as it applies to me: Having a husband who can tell by the dried tears on my terrible two year old's face that mommy might need a break. A husband who says dinner is great, smiles, and takes the two year old to play. A husband who does not think it is doing me a favor to watch our son, but who looks at it as his and Turner's time.
Turner threw a twenty minute long fit today at five fifteen when we walked in from our quick trip to Walmart. He was absolutely going to die if he was not allowed to wear his hat, gloves and mittens inside and sweat to death. We talked, we reasoned, he cried and I held my ground. Brad walked in during the middle of our "discussion".
We all managed to eat dinner with relatively few tears. I cleaned up the kitchen, a normal night. I then realized that I had not been able to stand around and leisurely look for a new book at Walmart. I asked if Brad would mind if I snuk out. He said go, enjoy yourself.
All it was, was a thirty minute trip to Barnes and Noble, but it maya as well have been four hours at a spa. The ability to stand and browse, look at every dust jacket, read the complete blurb on the inside cover- better than a massage. The ride to and from the book store made with my radio up to a level that I would never listen to it at with Turner in the car. Putting on a CD that I no longer listen to because it has a higher rating than the now acceptable "G".
Thirty minutes to myself, by myself doing nothing that needed doing. That is luxury to me. Knowing my son and husband were playing and happy having some guy time, decadent. I think every mom, especially the stay at home ones, deserve a few minutes every now and then to spend with themselves and sing too loud to questionable lyrics. It recharges my batteries. Little moments that keep me going and going and going, that's real luxury.
Monday, January 15, 2007
In need of fur and drool
I am an idiot. Turner and I went to Petsmart after leaving the gym today. We went to go get a new cleaner fish. Nite Nite Snail went on into that final good night. R.I.P. Nite Nite Snail September 2006- January 2007. Thanks for the moment of silence. We now need someone to eat the algae. I walk through the doors and the smell of dog food is overwhelming. Turner runs ahead to go see the birds. I walk slowly past the dog clothing section(Yes they have a K-9 coture section). Idiot me starts tearing up in the middle of Petsmart.
I miss my dog. DeVille has been gone since the end of October but I am still looking around the house for her. I miss her little silent self jumping up in my lap or dancing like a fool when we walk in. I am twenty-eight years old and I have never for one second, up to this point, lived with out a dog. I was born into a home with dogs. I used to nap everyday on the belly of our female Great Dane Gretchen til I started kindergarten. I love big dogs, but when moving and traveling like we do, my small dogs were the perfect fit.
I love all animals. Anything with fur and four feet, that's what my mom said I could fall in love with. There were exceptions, I did adopt a hairless, mange-eaten stray, but his hair grew back. Now I need something furry to sit in my lap. Poor Brad, he lays his head in my lap, but it's not the same. He refuses to dance and yip when I walk through the door. He isn't quit harry enough to satisfy the the "furry" requirement either.
I have been trying to think of alternatives. We could have a big outside dog, but not til Turner's older and can hold himself back from burring his face in a thick coat of heaven. Besides, it was two degrees when we left the house this morning. No dog, not even the super furry, needs to be outside in that.
What about a rabbit? Not loyal or loving enough. A ferret? As cute as they are, they stink. A hamster maybe? Those probably can't fetch. There is no replacement for a dog. That's why cats are called cats, cause they aren't dogs. What about a cat you say? I have one tempremental, slightly bitchy, finikey eater, his name is Brad. I could not bring myself to clean up after one more thing that would pee or poop in my house. Brad and Turner keep me plenty busy on that front.
Why can't I just be happy in a pet free home? Because it's just not natural. We have fish. They are very pretty, but not too cuddley. We did purchase a new cleaner fish. Turner was so excited. He carried the bag out to the car, being so careful and protecting his new pet. We loaded up, buckled up, and Turner broke my heart. "Fish is Turner's buddy Mommy!" I am sure the fish is honored to be my son's buddy. There is nothing wrong with loving a fish. But it broke my heart that he can't have a tail-wagging, drooling, friend til the end dog. At least a dog can love you back.
Dogs are just animals with no capacity to love--BULLSHIT! Dogs love just like we do. They grieve the loss of a friend much the same way people do. They show joy and compassion. Most dogs that I have met also understand frailty and are gentle with those who aren't as stong as they are. A dog has the personality traits we should all strive for- They are non-judgemental, hard to get mad, easy to forgive, and they can love anyone. Turner deserves someone like that who would be more deserving of the title "My Buddy".
I am just not comfortable not having a dog around. Am I bored? No, I have a very active two year old. He's my best friend. We spend everyday together and I love every moment. Am I nuts? Yes, as the Magic Eight Ball would say --It is decidely so. It never bothered me to load up my new baby and two dogs to go to the park. I can stick DeVille in the bottom of our stroller an bring her anywhere on earth. She has never been extra baggage. She was just one of us, and we all do things together. She was so well behaved and still. And she loved me, all of me, even the crazy, tempremental, morning breath dragon that I can sometimes be. I am so blessed. I have a life full of people who love me. I love my job. But no matter how full my life is, there will always be room to sqeaze in someone with a wagging tail.
I miss my dog. DeVille has been gone since the end of October but I am still looking around the house for her. I miss her little silent self jumping up in my lap or dancing like a fool when we walk in. I am twenty-eight years old and I have never for one second, up to this point, lived with out a dog. I was born into a home with dogs. I used to nap everyday on the belly of our female Great Dane Gretchen til I started kindergarten. I love big dogs, but when moving and traveling like we do, my small dogs were the perfect fit.
I love all animals. Anything with fur and four feet, that's what my mom said I could fall in love with. There were exceptions, I did adopt a hairless, mange-eaten stray, but his hair grew back. Now I need something furry to sit in my lap. Poor Brad, he lays his head in my lap, but it's not the same. He refuses to dance and yip when I walk through the door. He isn't quit harry enough to satisfy the the "furry" requirement either.
I have been trying to think of alternatives. We could have a big outside dog, but not til Turner's older and can hold himself back from burring his face in a thick coat of heaven. Besides, it was two degrees when we left the house this morning. No dog, not even the super furry, needs to be outside in that.
What about a rabbit? Not loyal or loving enough. A ferret? As cute as they are, they stink. A hamster maybe? Those probably can't fetch. There is no replacement for a dog. That's why cats are called cats, cause they aren't dogs. What about a cat you say? I have one tempremental, slightly bitchy, finikey eater, his name is Brad. I could not bring myself to clean up after one more thing that would pee or poop in my house. Brad and Turner keep me plenty busy on that front.
Why can't I just be happy in a pet free home? Because it's just not natural. We have fish. They are very pretty, but not too cuddley. We did purchase a new cleaner fish. Turner was so excited. He carried the bag out to the car, being so careful and protecting his new pet. We loaded up, buckled up, and Turner broke my heart. "Fish is Turner's buddy Mommy!" I am sure the fish is honored to be my son's buddy. There is nothing wrong with loving a fish. But it broke my heart that he can't have a tail-wagging, drooling, friend til the end dog. At least a dog can love you back.
Dogs are just animals with no capacity to love--BULLSHIT! Dogs love just like we do. They grieve the loss of a friend much the same way people do. They show joy and compassion. Most dogs that I have met also understand frailty and are gentle with those who aren't as stong as they are. A dog has the personality traits we should all strive for- They are non-judgemental, hard to get mad, easy to forgive, and they can love anyone. Turner deserves someone like that who would be more deserving of the title "My Buddy".
I am just not comfortable not having a dog around. Am I bored? No, I have a very active two year old. He's my best friend. We spend everyday together and I love every moment. Am I nuts? Yes, as the Magic Eight Ball would say --It is decidely so. It never bothered me to load up my new baby and two dogs to go to the park. I can stick DeVille in the bottom of our stroller an bring her anywhere on earth. She has never been extra baggage. She was just one of us, and we all do things together. She was so well behaved and still. And she loved me, all of me, even the crazy, tempremental, morning breath dragon that I can sometimes be. I am so blessed. I have a life full of people who love me. I love my job. But no matter how full my life is, there will always be room to sqeaze in someone with a wagging tail.
In need of fur and drool
I am an idiot. Turner and I went to Petsmart after leaving the gym today. We went to go get a new cleaner fish. Nite Nite Snail went on into that final good night. R.I.P. Nite Nite Snail September 2006- January 2007. Thanks for the moment of silence. We now need someone to eat the algae. I walk through the doors and the smell of dog food is overwhelming. Turner runs ahead to go see the birds. I walk slowly past the dog clothing section(Yes they have a K-9 coture section). Idiot me starts tearing up in the middle of Petsmart.
I miss my dog. DeVille has been gone since the end of October but I am still looking around the house for her. I miss her little silent self jumping up in my lap or dancing like a fool when we walk in. I am twenty-eight years old and I have never for one second, up to this point, lived with out a dog. I was born into a home with dogs. I used to nap everyday on the belly of our female Great Dane Gretchen til I started kindergarten. I love big dogs, but when moving and traveling like we do, my small dogs were the perfect fit.
I love all animals. Anything with fur and four feet, that's what my mom said I could fall in love with. There were exceptions, I did adopt a hairless, mange-eaten stray, but his hair grew back. Now I need something furry to sit in my lap. Poor Brad, he lays his head in my lap, but it's not the same. He refuses to dance and yip when I walk through the door. He isn't quit harry enough to satisfy the the "furry" requirement either.
I have been trying to think of alternatives. We could have a big outside dog, but not til Turner's older and can hold himself back from burring his face in a thick coat of heaven. Besides, it was two degrees when we left the house this morning. No dog, not even the super furry, needs to be outside in that.
What about a rabbit? Not loyal or loving enough. A ferret? As cute as they are, they stink. A hamster maybe? Those probably can't fetch. There is no replacement for a dog. That's why cats are called cats, cause they aren't dogs. What about a cat you say? I have one tempremental, slightly bitchy, finikey eater, his name is Brad. I could not bring myself to clean up after one more thing that would pee or poop in my house. Brad and Turner keep me plenty busy on that front.
Why can't I just be happy in a pet free home? Because it's just not natural. We have fish. They are very pretty, but not too cuddley. We did purchase a new cleaner fish. Turner was so excited. He carried the bag out to the car, being so careful and protecting his new pet. We loaded up, buckled up, and Turner broke my heart. "Fish is Turner's buddy Mommy!" I am sure the fish is honored to be my son's buddy. There is nothing wrong with loving a fish. But it broke my heart that he can't have a tail-wagging, drooling, friend til the end dog. At least a dog can love you back.
Dogs are just animals with no capacity to love--BULLSHIT! Dogs love just like we do. They grieve the loss of a friend much the same way people do. They show joy and compassion. Most dogs that I have met also understand frailty and are gentle with those who aren't as stong as they are. A dog has the personality traits we should all strive for- They are non-judgemental, hard to get mad, easy to forgive, and they can love anyone. Turner deserves someone like that who would be more deserving of the title "My Buddy".
I am just not comfortable not having a dog around. Am I bored? No, I have a very active two year old. He's my best friend. We spend everyday together and I love every moment. Am I nuts? Yes, as the Magic Eight Ball would say --It is decidely so. It never bothered me to load up my new baby and two dogs to go to the park. I can stick DeVille in the bottom of our stroller an bring her anywhere on earth. She has never been extra baggage. She was just one of us, and we all do things together. She was so well behaved and still. And she loved me, all of me, even the crazy, tempremental, morning breath dragon that I can sometimes be. I am so blessed. I have a life full of people who love me. I love my job. But no matter how full my life is, there will always be room to sqeaze in someone with a wagging tail.
I miss my dog. DeVille has been gone since the end of October but I am still looking around the house for her. I miss her little silent self jumping up in my lap or dancing like a fool when we walk in. I am twenty-eight years old and I have never for one second, up to this point, lived with out a dog. I was born into a home with dogs. I used to nap everyday on the belly of our female Great Dane Gretchen til I started kindergarten. I love big dogs, but when moving and traveling like we do, my small dogs were the perfect fit.
I love all animals. Anything with fur and four feet, that's what my mom said I could fall in love with. There were exceptions, I did adopt a hairless, mange-eaten stray, but his hair grew back. Now I need something furry to sit in my lap. Poor Brad, he lays his head in my lap, but it's not the same. He refuses to dance and yip when I walk through the door. He isn't quit harry enough to satisfy the the "furry" requirement either.
I have been trying to think of alternatives. We could have a big outside dog, but not til Turner's older and can hold himself back from burring his face in a thick coat of heaven. Besides, it was two degrees when we left the house this morning. No dog, not even the super furry, needs to be outside in that.
What about a rabbit? Not loyal or loving enough. A ferret? As cute as they are, they stink. A hamster maybe? Those probably can't fetch. There is no replacement for a dog. That's why cats are called cats, cause they aren't dogs. What about a cat you say? I have one tempremental, slightly bitchy, finikey eater, his name is Brad. I could not bring myself to clean up after one more thing that would pee or poop in my house. Brad and Turner keep me plenty busy on that front.
Why can't I just be happy in a pet free home? Because it's just not natural. We have fish. They are very pretty, but not too cuddley. We did purchase a new cleaner fish. Turner was so excited. He carried the bag out to the car, being so careful and protecting his new pet. We loaded up, buckled up, and Turner broke my heart. "Fish is Turner's buddy Mommy!" I am sure the fish is honored to be my son's buddy. There is nothing wrong with loving a fish. But it broke my heart that he can't have a tail-wagging, drooling, friend til the end dog. At least a dog can love you back.
Dogs are just animals with no capacity to love--BULLSHIT! Dogs love just like we do. They grieve the loss of a friend much the same way people do. They show joy and compassion. Most dogs that I have met also understand frailty and are gentle with those who aren't as stong as they are. A dog has the personality traits we should all strive for- They are non-judgemental, hard to get mad, easy to forgive, and they can love anyone. Turner deserves someone like that who would be more deserving of the title "My Buddy".
I am just not comfortable not having a dog around. Am I bored? No, I have a very active two year old. He's my best friend. We spend everyday together and I love every moment. Am I nuts? Yes, as the Magic Eight Ball would say --It is decidely so. It never bothered me to load up my new baby and two dogs to go to the park. I can stick DeVille in the bottom of our stroller an bring her anywhere on earth. She has never been extra baggage. She was just one of us, and we all do things together. She was so well behaved and still. And she loved me, all of me, even the crazy, tempremental, morning breath dragon that I can sometimes be. I am so blessed. I have a life full of people who love me. I love my job. But no matter how full my life is, there will always be room to sqeaze in someone with a wagging tail.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Put it up right.
How does one more adult being home for the day make the mess in my house multiply ten fold? It is one of the wonders of the earth. Brad is a grown up. He knows not to throw the Sunday paper all over the floor when reading it, if he's not planning on picking it up. This irratates me even more because he knows that I like to read the paper too. When I get to the paper before him I fold it neatly back up in the order in which it arrived.
Being controling is exhausting, or is it being obsessive compulsive is exhausting? I think I am neither. Yes, I do have lots of the characteristics of those crazy people, but it's just because I am right all the time and everything should have it's place. I want Brad to help pick up the toy hurricane that hits or living room after he and Turner play for a couple hours. I can not stand it when he does help pick up because he puts all the toys into the wrong spot when he does it. There are two containers in my living room for the toys. Some toys can go in one but not the other. Brad doesn't care, he just chunks toys into what ever recepticle is nearest to him at the time. He also doesn't realize that some of the toys reside in Turner's closet when not in use. I try to not let it bother me. The toys are out of sight out of mind, right?
I have these same rules in my kitchen. How does a man pull the spatula from the same place every time he uses it (which ain't often), then not know where to return the utencil when it is clean? Everything has a place. How do you function if it doesn't? When something is in the wrong place it drives me nuts. Likewise, towels should be folded correctly, clothes hung in order, laundry sorted before being washed, etc.. These are not just made up by me, I think it's from the Bible, look in Genisis. "On the eigth day God perfected the tri-fold".
Why am I so neuortic? I think I was born this way. My mom is a little bit like this, but not nearly to this degree. She just wants my dad to "pick his mess up off her counter". So what receptor in my brain is off the mark and making me crazy? It must be the same part of the brain that lets you know that toothbrushes should alway be positioned on the right side of the bathroom sink.
I am nutty. Maybe I'm nesting. I don't think so, not yet. When that hits I am too big to be bent over for an hour scrubbing the toilets and base boards twice a day, but I do it anyway. So off I go to make the beds and wash the colthes, what fun on a weekend.
Being controling is exhausting, or is it being obsessive compulsive is exhausting? I think I am neither. Yes, I do have lots of the characteristics of those crazy people, but it's just because I am right all the time and everything should have it's place. I want Brad to help pick up the toy hurricane that hits or living room after he and Turner play for a couple hours. I can not stand it when he does help pick up because he puts all the toys into the wrong spot when he does it. There are two containers in my living room for the toys. Some toys can go in one but not the other. Brad doesn't care, he just chunks toys into what ever recepticle is nearest to him at the time. He also doesn't realize that some of the toys reside in Turner's closet when not in use. I try to not let it bother me. The toys are out of sight out of mind, right?
I have these same rules in my kitchen. How does a man pull the spatula from the same place every time he uses it (which ain't often), then not know where to return the utencil when it is clean? Everything has a place. How do you function if it doesn't? When something is in the wrong place it drives me nuts. Likewise, towels should be folded correctly, clothes hung in order, laundry sorted before being washed, etc.. These are not just made up by me, I think it's from the Bible, look in Genisis. "On the eigth day God perfected the tri-fold".
Why am I so neuortic? I think I was born this way. My mom is a little bit like this, but not nearly to this degree. She just wants my dad to "pick his mess up off her counter". So what receptor in my brain is off the mark and making me crazy? It must be the same part of the brain that lets you know that toothbrushes should alway be positioned on the right side of the bathroom sink.
I am nutty. Maybe I'm nesting. I don't think so, not yet. When that hits I am too big to be bent over for an hour scrubbing the toilets and base boards twice a day, but I do it anyway. So off I go to make the beds and wash the colthes, what fun on a weekend.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Where's a can of peas when you it?
My husband has been kidnapped. I argued with him yesterday at four thirty in the morning, yes that means AM. His phone rang at that ungodly hour. We both sat up right and he answered it. He was only on the phone for maybe thirty seconds, he said two yeah's and hung up. I asked what the emergency was? Surley, for someone to call at four thirty in the morning someone was hurt or the plant had just exploded. It was niether. One of his guys from night shift had gotten off early, had a couple drinks and wanted to talk to his buddy Brad. I came unglued. It would be different if this hasn't happened a lot lately. That was the third night in a week that we had been woken up early. Now the other two times they did wait til five or five thirty for the phone to start ringing. But, Brad didn't have to be up til six fifteen those days.
So I lit into my poor husband and demanded the phone. I have never been scared to speak my my and a drunk construction worker would suit me just fine as an audience. We argued, Brad didn't think it a good idea that I call him back and have a dicussionn on propper phone ettiqiuite. I demanded that Brad's phone be shut off at night. He has to be reachable for the night shift, should an actuall emergency occur. I went off about giving his home phone number to one or two sober employees and shutting the phone off. He acted like I was a crazy person. I shut up because I knew he would at least fall back asleep. He did start snorring but only ten minutes before his alarm went off.
I know I am like a pit bull on a pant leg, I don't let go of things easily. So what makes a partially sleepless night better? Waking up to me bitching til I can bitch no more. Brad left for work and as far I as could tell we were no longer speaking to each other. Fine with me. The entire day passed with out a phone call or email between the two of us, though this isn't unusual. I hear him walk in at supper time. He and Turner talk. Brad sees that there is no hot and delicious food ready for consumption. I hear his lumbering foot steps coming down the hall. He comes to the office where I am doing my best wet hen impersonation, perched in the desk chair.
He starts off with "Before you say a word....". At the sound of this my hackles raise. Don't tell me not to talk, I prepare to let him have it. But he strikes me defensless with what came out of his mouth next: " I'm sorry about this morning, you were right. My phone will be off at night from now on." What? What the hell? What do you mean you're sorry? I'm right? Brad are you feeling OK? Brad is that even you? But that was it. He leaned in and gave me a huge hug, told me he loved me and why don't we order take out?
I appologize when I am wrong. I try to steer clear of name calling and yelling. I am seldom wrong though, or is that me admitting that I am bull headed? Either way, I am not used to him applogizing. When he is wrong we both act prickly to one another for a few days then life just kind of gets back to it's routine and we go on about our buisness. I have long told him that if he will just stop being an ass long enough to come over and hug me, I'll stop wanting to bash his head in with that can of peas I fantasize about. He has never used this tactic, until now. It works. I love being hugged by him when it's not me doing the hugging.
Ther is a lot of space in a king size bed. Enough space to let an arguement lay itself right down the middle so neither of you has to look at or think about the asshole you share the bed with. I am great at putting pillows on either side of me, a wall of bitchiness. But if my big bear of a man hugs me, I want to sleep in the middle all wrapped up with him.
Am I weak? Perrish the thought. I do realize that fighting is no fun and if he's willing to meet me half way and say he's sorry then I should let it go and enjoy the time I do get to spend with my husband. What will happen next with this stranger who came in last night and appologized? What's next? Love sonnets, foot massages, going to see chick flicks? God, I hope not. I love his manliness. Even if that includes his arrogance and unwillingness to bend. But, when he bent over last night to hug me, he was sexier than he has ever been. I am not sure if that will ever happen again, but who knows? As long as he doesn't start crying at movies or watching Desperate Housewives I can handle him changing a little for the better.
So I lit into my poor husband and demanded the phone. I have never been scared to speak my my and a drunk construction worker would suit me just fine as an audience. We argued, Brad didn't think it a good idea that I call him back and have a dicussionn on propper phone ettiqiuite. I demanded that Brad's phone be shut off at night. He has to be reachable for the night shift, should an actuall emergency occur. I went off about giving his home phone number to one or two sober employees and shutting the phone off. He acted like I was a crazy person. I shut up because I knew he would at least fall back asleep. He did start snorring but only ten minutes before his alarm went off.
I know I am like a pit bull on a pant leg, I don't let go of things easily. So what makes a partially sleepless night better? Waking up to me bitching til I can bitch no more. Brad left for work and as far I as could tell we were no longer speaking to each other. Fine with me. The entire day passed with out a phone call or email between the two of us, though this isn't unusual. I hear him walk in at supper time. He and Turner talk. Brad sees that there is no hot and delicious food ready for consumption. I hear his lumbering foot steps coming down the hall. He comes to the office where I am doing my best wet hen impersonation, perched in the desk chair.
He starts off with "Before you say a word....". At the sound of this my hackles raise. Don't tell me not to talk, I prepare to let him have it. But he strikes me defensless with what came out of his mouth next: " I'm sorry about this morning, you were right. My phone will be off at night from now on." What? What the hell? What do you mean you're sorry? I'm right? Brad are you feeling OK? Brad is that even you? But that was it. He leaned in and gave me a huge hug, told me he loved me and why don't we order take out?
I appologize when I am wrong. I try to steer clear of name calling and yelling. I am seldom wrong though, or is that me admitting that I am bull headed? Either way, I am not used to him applogizing. When he is wrong we both act prickly to one another for a few days then life just kind of gets back to it's routine and we go on about our buisness. I have long told him that if he will just stop being an ass long enough to come over and hug me, I'll stop wanting to bash his head in with that can of peas I fantasize about. He has never used this tactic, until now. It works. I love being hugged by him when it's not me doing the hugging.
Ther is a lot of space in a king size bed. Enough space to let an arguement lay itself right down the middle so neither of you has to look at or think about the asshole you share the bed with. I am great at putting pillows on either side of me, a wall of bitchiness. But if my big bear of a man hugs me, I want to sleep in the middle all wrapped up with him.
Am I weak? Perrish the thought. I do realize that fighting is no fun and if he's willing to meet me half way and say he's sorry then I should let it go and enjoy the time I do get to spend with my husband. What will happen next with this stranger who came in last night and appologized? What's next? Love sonnets, foot massages, going to see chick flicks? God, I hope not. I love his manliness. Even if that includes his arrogance and unwillingness to bend. But, when he bent over last night to hug me, he was sexier than he has ever been. I am not sure if that will ever happen again, but who knows? As long as he doesn't start crying at movies or watching Desperate Housewives I can handle him changing a little for the better.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Whe did this happen?
Watch out, there's another one. She's sneaky, and she can cook too. As much as I don't like to admit it my baby sister is a grown-up, I think she turned into one with out my permission. I guess she has been one for a while. She's lived on her own since she turned eighteen, but she wasn't a grown-up. Now she's been teaching for four years, but that doesn't make her a grown up. The fact that we share recipes, that makes her a grown-up.
Now, anyone can share recipes. They would probably be your run-of-the-mill type fare. Not my sister and I. You only pass on what you know is good. You cooked it, you've severd it, and your sweetie has made themselves sick from eating too much of it. We can't help it, it's genetic, we were born into a good cooking family. Both of our grandmothers could take a dishrag and make it taste good. Mawmaw was the counrty cook-no measuring, no real recipes, just cook by smell and feel. Gran is a recipe lady, very organized, and tries new exotic foods on a regular basis. Tabba and I are a combination of the two.
I am much less on using recipes. It's why I rarely bake. It just feels wrong to slow yourself down with measuring, use your hands and feel when it's right. Tabba has the patience I lack. She has made the best deserts I have ever eaten. Her talents are not limited to sweets, she cooks it all, and all of it's good.
The fact that I can call her for advice or to swap ideas, that's what is making her a grown-up. I have fought feircely to keep my baby sister little. It broke my heart when she figured out who was the real Santa Claus. It didn't really bother her, but it killed me. She is always supposed to be the beautiful little girl who followed me around when we were little, my best buddy. I think I selfishly wanted her to stay little so I could protect her. But, despite my best efforts, she's now a beautiful woman who follows her own path.
Tabitha will be married this November. I didn't cry at my own wedding, but I don't know if I'll be able to help it at hers. Not sad tears, tears because it's one of those moments where all the past rushes back. Every fort built, every camping trip, every giggle, every boy cried over, every thing that I love about my baby sister all wrapped up in a beautiful white dress.
She deserves the absolute best. She found her true match. I hate to get mushy, but I love Jesse more than I will ever admitt. He makes her happy. He makes us all laugh and he fits with the rest of us. He is also the best Uncle Turner could ever have. He loves my son like he was his own sibling's child. It's really import to me for Turner to have that, I did. My Aunt Marsha and Uncle Larry are that for me. It never occured to me that my Aunt Marsha was not blood related to me. She always loved Tabba and I like we were her sister's kid's. She just fits too. We spent so much time at thier house we could've been their kids. Uncle Larry played with us, he never treated us differently because we were girls. That's what Turner will have from Tabba and Jesse and I am so happy.
OK so I admit maybe the snow falling outside is making me a little mushy. Maybe it's the hormones. Poor Brad, I know I am nutty as a fruit cake when I'm pregnant, and now there's written proof. Oh well, might as well ride the waves of craziness. I am off to eat the best potato soup I've ever tasted, I'll write down the recipe in my book, and when I fill out the "From the Kitchen of" line I'll write down Tabba's new last name.
Now, anyone can share recipes. They would probably be your run-of-the-mill type fare. Not my sister and I. You only pass on what you know is good. You cooked it, you've severd it, and your sweetie has made themselves sick from eating too much of it. We can't help it, it's genetic, we were born into a good cooking family. Both of our grandmothers could take a dishrag and make it taste good. Mawmaw was the counrty cook-no measuring, no real recipes, just cook by smell and feel. Gran is a recipe lady, very organized, and tries new exotic foods on a regular basis. Tabba and I are a combination of the two.
I am much less on using recipes. It's why I rarely bake. It just feels wrong to slow yourself down with measuring, use your hands and feel when it's right. Tabba has the patience I lack. She has made the best deserts I have ever eaten. Her talents are not limited to sweets, she cooks it all, and all of it's good.
The fact that I can call her for advice or to swap ideas, that's what is making her a grown-up. I have fought feircely to keep my baby sister little. It broke my heart when she figured out who was the real Santa Claus. It didn't really bother her, but it killed me. She is always supposed to be the beautiful little girl who followed me around when we were little, my best buddy. I think I selfishly wanted her to stay little so I could protect her. But, despite my best efforts, she's now a beautiful woman who follows her own path.
Tabitha will be married this November. I didn't cry at my own wedding, but I don't know if I'll be able to help it at hers. Not sad tears, tears because it's one of those moments where all the past rushes back. Every fort built, every camping trip, every giggle, every boy cried over, every thing that I love about my baby sister all wrapped up in a beautiful white dress.
She deserves the absolute best. She found her true match. I hate to get mushy, but I love Jesse more than I will ever admitt. He makes her happy. He makes us all laugh and he fits with the rest of us. He is also the best Uncle Turner could ever have. He loves my son like he was his own sibling's child. It's really import to me for Turner to have that, I did. My Aunt Marsha and Uncle Larry are that for me. It never occured to me that my Aunt Marsha was not blood related to me. She always loved Tabba and I like we were her sister's kid's. She just fits too. We spent so much time at thier house we could've been their kids. Uncle Larry played with us, he never treated us differently because we were girls. That's what Turner will have from Tabba and Jesse and I am so happy.
OK so I admit maybe the snow falling outside is making me a little mushy. Maybe it's the hormones. Poor Brad, I know I am nutty as a fruit cake when I'm pregnant, and now there's written proof. Oh well, might as well ride the waves of craziness. I am off to eat the best potato soup I've ever tasted, I'll write down the recipe in my book, and when I fill out the "From the Kitchen of" line I'll write down Tabba's new last name.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
I'm bringing sweaty back
I haven't thrown up in a week! I am still queasy at night, but I have kept down small suppers every night for a week. You would not believe how good you feel when you get to digest food. I have energy again. I have been singing and dancing in the the car. I am back to feeling like a good mom to Turner. I have stayed up til ten pm twice this week. Life is good.
I am back in the gym. Moving up from three days a week to four. The more often I go the better I feel. I am a yoga nut. Yoga is a s close as you can come to a scheduled religious experience. My body was made to be worked. I have always worked out, ever since I was fifteen I have worked out regularly. Now sometimes I wonder why, with all this working out do I not have the body of a fitness model? Well I only do it four days a week, not seven. I also do not eat like a fitness model.
I am one of those really annoying people that believes diet and exercise can cure and prevent most common health problems. I know, I hate those people too. I have low blood pressure. This is not good genitics, both of my parents have high blood pressure. Why don't I? Well I exercise, I eat more fiber than your average Joe, and I sturggle to keep myself at a healthy weight for my height. I am always a little overweight. I'm dense. I weigh more than most people who are my size. Whatever. Weight isn't that important. What is? Feeling good, having energy, being happy with myself when I go to bed at night.
So, I did my venyasa flows, warrior one and two, I suceeded at crow level three, and even while four months pregnant managed to get my behind in the air for stick pose. I sound like a granola eating sandle wearing hippie. I am, in a sense. I really want to live a long healthy life. I want to be able to run and keep up with my grandkids and my great grandkids. That's a tall order considering how old I was when I started having kids. So I go, I sweat, I lift, I contort, and I sing like like a fool the whole way home because I feel good when I am done.
The secret to a happy life according to your's truely: Wake up to a clean kitchen. Make your bed. Try to eat well. Get off your butt and move around.
Now the kitchen thing isn't by way of magic fairies. I have to clean my own kitchen at night. But, I wake up to a fresh start. I make my bed when I get up. Why? Because what is more inviting than a neatly made bed to crawl into at night? Notice I said "try" to eat well. I know I do not come close to having a balanced diet. I hate fruit. But I try to still eat something fruit like. A V-8, a glass of orange juice, dried cranberries, anything that I can stomach that could possibly be good for me. The getting off your butt? That's hard. The more aquainted yor butt is with a chair, the less it wants to leave the chair. The less you move, the less energy you have to move. That's why the begining is so hard when you start something new. Isn't there a law of phisics to back me up on this? Objects at rest will remain at rest and resist motion, or something along those lines.
So perhaps you'll see me in the gym, I'll be the miserable looking one whose out of breath trying like hell to keep up. I never said I felt good at the gym. It's after, when Turner and I are walking out the door that I feel like the Queen of Sheeba. I hold my little man's hand and am ready to tackle the day. And I hope that if I keep trying really hard I 'll be around to hold my greatgrandchilren's hands too.
I am back in the gym. Moving up from three days a week to four. The more often I go the better I feel. I am a yoga nut. Yoga is a s close as you can come to a scheduled religious experience. My body was made to be worked. I have always worked out, ever since I was fifteen I have worked out regularly. Now sometimes I wonder why, with all this working out do I not have the body of a fitness model? Well I only do it four days a week, not seven. I also do not eat like a fitness model.
I am one of those really annoying people that believes diet and exercise can cure and prevent most common health problems. I know, I hate those people too. I have low blood pressure. This is not good genitics, both of my parents have high blood pressure. Why don't I? Well I exercise, I eat more fiber than your average Joe, and I sturggle to keep myself at a healthy weight for my height. I am always a little overweight. I'm dense. I weigh more than most people who are my size. Whatever. Weight isn't that important. What is? Feeling good, having energy, being happy with myself when I go to bed at night.
So, I did my venyasa flows, warrior one and two, I suceeded at crow level three, and even while four months pregnant managed to get my behind in the air for stick pose. I sound like a granola eating sandle wearing hippie. I am, in a sense. I really want to live a long healthy life. I want to be able to run and keep up with my grandkids and my great grandkids. That's a tall order considering how old I was when I started having kids. So I go, I sweat, I lift, I contort, and I sing like like a fool the whole way home because I feel good when I am done.
The secret to a happy life according to your's truely: Wake up to a clean kitchen. Make your bed. Try to eat well. Get off your butt and move around.
Now the kitchen thing isn't by way of magic fairies. I have to clean my own kitchen at night. But, I wake up to a fresh start. I make my bed when I get up. Why? Because what is more inviting than a neatly made bed to crawl into at night? Notice I said "try" to eat well. I know I do not come close to having a balanced diet. I hate fruit. But I try to still eat something fruit like. A V-8, a glass of orange juice, dried cranberries, anything that I can stomach that could possibly be good for me. The getting off your butt? That's hard. The more aquainted yor butt is with a chair, the less it wants to leave the chair. The less you move, the less energy you have to move. That's why the begining is so hard when you start something new. Isn't there a law of phisics to back me up on this? Objects at rest will remain at rest and resist motion, or something along those lines.
So perhaps you'll see me in the gym, I'll be the miserable looking one whose out of breath trying like hell to keep up. I never said I felt good at the gym. It's after, when Turner and I are walking out the door that I feel like the Queen of Sheeba. I hold my little man's hand and am ready to tackle the day. And I hope that if I keep trying really hard I 'll be around to hold my greatgrandchilren's hands too.
Monday, January 8, 2007
There goes my life
Someone please come a make it so I can't listen to sappy country music! I love the song about how someone should put warning labels on sad country songs. It's not the sad ones that have been getting me lately. No, I am a huge tard and am weppy over anything to do with children.
When I was pregnant with Turner I could not make it throught the Kenny Chesney song "There goes my life". I don't even like Kenny Chesny. I think he a short cocky little S.O.B. But, let me be pregnant and I am defenseless against the sappy songs about your kids leaving home or growing up.
I am not the cry over anything type of chick. Some movies, if viewed in the privacy of my own home, will get me to tear up, but I have to be in the mood. I did not cry at my high school graduation. I did not cry at my wedding. I did not cry when Turner was born. I am not a cryer. But lordy let the new Sara Evans song come on about being understanding when her little boy messes up...
I just have to stick to happy pop, offensive rap, and melancholy alternative listening selections from here on out. I love just about any kind of music, I mean any kind. I even think some commercial jingles merrit being sung while mindlessly be-bopping around.
Hormones have made me a twit. Mommy brain is in full control. I thought I had fianlly recovered from it some what. I was still able to hold conversations while pregnant with Turner, but that changed after he was born. It took all my concentration to keep focused on someone's face while they were talking that I couldn't get what they were saying. Must be what a labrodor feels like. " They are talking to me! Oh I am so happy! Wait, what are they saying? Doesn't matter, Because they are talking to me!"
So now it's back, but the baby isn't even here yet. What will I be like in June if my brain is already starting to melt? I have trouble concentrating, forget what it is I am doing, can not complete a thought while speaking out loud. This is only going to get worse.
I remember the feeling of not having slept for three or four months at a time. I loved when my family would call to check on me. I wanted to talk to them so bad, but I forgot that I could call them too. So they'd call, I'd get all excited to talk to them, say hello, they would start talking at supersonic speeds, I would try to keep up, but my brain was going over the last time Tuner had nursed? How many wet and poop diapers had he had today? Had I eaten yet? Brushed my teeth or hair in a day or two? So I would hang on to the conversation as long as I could and try to respond at the appropriate times. I tried so very hard to talk about things other than my baby. I know to anyone who called that first six months it probably never seemed that way, but I tried. I tried to remember to ask my sister about her new job, her cheerleaders, and LATAP. I tried to remeber what she and my mom and dad taught, ask about the most recent hurricane etc. It's why my sister started calling me Random Man. I have the inhuman ability to change any subject to something not related in the least. Watch out it strikes when least expected, like when you are in the middle of a sentence.
Now I feel myself sliding down that same slippery slope of self absorbstion. Not that "I" am not not always on my mind. But now when I do start thinking of things other than Turner, Brad, or myself there is a little twitch in my stomach to remind me to get back on track.
How do these women with seven and eight kids do it? I have always said that breast milk is made up of braincells. Mine was. My IQ actually dropped from a 143 before pregnancy, to a 138 after. I took the test more than once and I can not muster anything in the 140 neighborhood. After we finshed nursing I started to see the world around me again, if in only a limted context. So here I go again. Please bear with me. When you see me or call make sure to speak in a sing song voice pattern and smile a lot. That way if I can't get what you're saying at least I can wag my tail and smile back.
When I was pregnant with Turner I could not make it throught the Kenny Chesney song "There goes my life". I don't even like Kenny Chesny. I think he a short cocky little S.O.B. But, let me be pregnant and I am defenseless against the sappy songs about your kids leaving home or growing up.
I am not the cry over anything type of chick. Some movies, if viewed in the privacy of my own home, will get me to tear up, but I have to be in the mood. I did not cry at my high school graduation. I did not cry at my wedding. I did not cry when Turner was born. I am not a cryer. But lordy let the new Sara Evans song come on about being understanding when her little boy messes up...
I just have to stick to happy pop, offensive rap, and melancholy alternative listening selections from here on out. I love just about any kind of music, I mean any kind. I even think some commercial jingles merrit being sung while mindlessly be-bopping around.
Hormones have made me a twit. Mommy brain is in full control. I thought I had fianlly recovered from it some what. I was still able to hold conversations while pregnant with Turner, but that changed after he was born. It took all my concentration to keep focused on someone's face while they were talking that I couldn't get what they were saying. Must be what a labrodor feels like. " They are talking to me! Oh I am so happy! Wait, what are they saying? Doesn't matter, Because they are talking to me!"
So now it's back, but the baby isn't even here yet. What will I be like in June if my brain is already starting to melt? I have trouble concentrating, forget what it is I am doing, can not complete a thought while speaking out loud. This is only going to get worse.
I remember the feeling of not having slept for three or four months at a time. I loved when my family would call to check on me. I wanted to talk to them so bad, but I forgot that I could call them too. So they'd call, I'd get all excited to talk to them, say hello, they would start talking at supersonic speeds, I would try to keep up, but my brain was going over the last time Tuner had nursed? How many wet and poop diapers had he had today? Had I eaten yet? Brushed my teeth or hair in a day or two? So I would hang on to the conversation as long as I could and try to respond at the appropriate times. I tried so very hard to talk about things other than my baby. I know to anyone who called that first six months it probably never seemed that way, but I tried. I tried to remember to ask my sister about her new job, her cheerleaders, and LATAP. I tried to remeber what she and my mom and dad taught, ask about the most recent hurricane etc. It's why my sister started calling me Random Man. I have the inhuman ability to change any subject to something not related in the least. Watch out it strikes when least expected, like when you are in the middle of a sentence.
Now I feel myself sliding down that same slippery slope of self absorbstion. Not that "I" am not not always on my mind. But now when I do start thinking of things other than Turner, Brad, or myself there is a little twitch in my stomach to remind me to get back on track.
How do these women with seven and eight kids do it? I have always said that breast milk is made up of braincells. Mine was. My IQ actually dropped from a 143 before pregnancy, to a 138 after. I took the test more than once and I can not muster anything in the 140 neighborhood. After we finshed nursing I started to see the world around me again, if in only a limted context. So here I go again. Please bear with me. When you see me or call make sure to speak in a sing song voice pattern and smile a lot. That way if I can't get what you're saying at least I can wag my tail and smile back.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
A new year, a new you
Do you make new year's resolutions? I do. Last year's resolution was to have better posture. Did I keep it? Well I do sit up straighter when I think about it. The year before that I wanted to cut down on my potty mouth. Did that work? Damn straight.
This year's resolution had to be made too. So this year I am resolving to be a better wife. Wait, aren't I already perfect? Why yes, I am. But I am trying to be more organized, write all purchases down in the checkbook, make a weekly menu and shopping list and stick to them both, and I am trying to cut out frivilous spending. A tall order, even for me.
Brad and I won't be in Utah forever. Or, more acuratley, we won't be right here in Utah forever. We're getting a little older and we're getting ready to start thinking about buying our first house. We never thought of buying one before now because we'd never be in one place for more than a couple years. Home ownership as I understood it, would be the building or purchasing of one home, where you would live til you died, and willed it to your children. This is the way everyone I ever knew in Louisiana does it.
Well, we will continue to move around so why buy a house if we can't stay in it? Because rent is like taking money and burning it for heat. We will just have to buy a house, make it a home, live there for two or three years, and sell it. Most of the construction people we know do this, so why not cave to the peir pressure?
My resolution is a self serving one. By making menus and shopping lists, I will stay away from impluse shopping. The more times you go to the store the more money you spend, end of story. If I only go once a week for the major groceries, in theory, I will spend less. I will have to go to Albertson's for at least one extra trip per week. We drink more milk than the average American family. So the two and a hlf gallons I buy on Monday will not make it all the way to Sunday. But, if I go in with cash, keep my head down, and not look at anything, I should be able to get out for under ten bucks.
I am thirfty, don't get me wrong. I will not pay $2.68 for a loaf of Sara Lee Delightful Wheat bread at Walmart. I will go to the bakery outlet once a month. But the Sara Lee for $0.78 a loaf and stock up. We cut coupons, actually Brad cuts them, I redeem them. I have never been above buying something used. I love deals found at store close outs. I frequent yard sales. I aslo make things instead of buy them if I can.
My masterbed room is a fine example of thirftiness in practice. We never bought matching bed room furniture. Up until last year, we never had matching furniture for any room. After tax returns I did get a new living room set. It's beautiful, and more so because we waited for it. But, back to my bedroom. The bed side lamps were bought at an estate sale. The art over the bed was a garage sale find. The furniture was not one set, but matches now because I refinshed all of it. Now we have a beautiful set- King headboard, nightstands(picked up for free from Craigslist.org), and an armoire. I like to refinsh things. Out dining room table and chairs cost me about thirty-seven dollars. I sold the small four seat dinette set that we had outgrown, bought a used set, refinshed it and upolstered it and it is stunning. So I know how to save money, but I know I can do better. The goal of a house is more than enough to inspire me.
So thanks Jenny Craig for use of your catchy slogan. When that new nail polish starts tempting me, I will sing "Anew year, a new you". I will say "No, I do not need this bottle of Desert Sands Sally Hensen, I can go home and use the Desert Sunset Maybeline that I already have". Here's to a New Year and a Newly tweaked Tiffany!
This year's resolution had to be made too. So this year I am resolving to be a better wife. Wait, aren't I already perfect? Why yes, I am. But I am trying to be more organized, write all purchases down in the checkbook, make a weekly menu and shopping list and stick to them both, and I am trying to cut out frivilous spending. A tall order, even for me.
Brad and I won't be in Utah forever. Or, more acuratley, we won't be right here in Utah forever. We're getting a little older and we're getting ready to start thinking about buying our first house. We never thought of buying one before now because we'd never be in one place for more than a couple years. Home ownership as I understood it, would be the building or purchasing of one home, where you would live til you died, and willed it to your children. This is the way everyone I ever knew in Louisiana does it.
Well, we will continue to move around so why buy a house if we can't stay in it? Because rent is like taking money and burning it for heat. We will just have to buy a house, make it a home, live there for two or three years, and sell it. Most of the construction people we know do this, so why not cave to the peir pressure?
My resolution is a self serving one. By making menus and shopping lists, I will stay away from impluse shopping. The more times you go to the store the more money you spend, end of story. If I only go once a week for the major groceries, in theory, I will spend less. I will have to go to Albertson's for at least one extra trip per week. We drink more milk than the average American family. So the two and a hlf gallons I buy on Monday will not make it all the way to Sunday. But, if I go in with cash, keep my head down, and not look at anything, I should be able to get out for under ten bucks.
I am thirfty, don't get me wrong. I will not pay $2.68 for a loaf of Sara Lee Delightful Wheat bread at Walmart. I will go to the bakery outlet once a month. But the Sara Lee for $0.78 a loaf and stock up. We cut coupons, actually Brad cuts them, I redeem them. I have never been above buying something used. I love deals found at store close outs. I frequent yard sales. I aslo make things instead of buy them if I can.
My masterbed room is a fine example of thirftiness in practice. We never bought matching bed room furniture. Up until last year, we never had matching furniture for any room. After tax returns I did get a new living room set. It's beautiful, and more so because we waited for it. But, back to my bedroom. The bed side lamps were bought at an estate sale. The art over the bed was a garage sale find. The furniture was not one set, but matches now because I refinshed all of it. Now we have a beautiful set- King headboard, nightstands(picked up for free from Craigslist.org), and an armoire. I like to refinsh things. Out dining room table and chairs cost me about thirty-seven dollars. I sold the small four seat dinette set that we had outgrown, bought a used set, refinshed it and upolstered it and it is stunning. So I know how to save money, but I know I can do better. The goal of a house is more than enough to inspire me.
So thanks Jenny Craig for use of your catchy slogan. When that new nail polish starts tempting me, I will sing "Anew year, a new you". I will say "No, I do not need this bottle of Desert Sands Sally Hensen, I can go home and use the Desert Sunset Maybeline that I already have". Here's to a New Year and a Newly tweaked Tiffany!
Friday, January 5, 2007
It gets us all sooner or later...
So a few months ago I made Bradley a myspace page. He looked at it after some grumbling. Said " No one I know will be on that shit" and left it alone for a month or two.
I had to go check it for him to let him know he had messages and comments. Well, low and behold, people he knows are on "that shit". Now he digs MySpace. Just like the rest of us. So now he's talked to people he hasn't seen in years, just like the rest of us. He seen their kids and found out "What ever happened to..", just like the rest of us. So my sweetie is even harder to drag into new technology than I am. But, I like when he finally gives in, quits bitching, and enjoys new things.
I love MySpace too. You will only see what flattering pictures I put up. You do it too. Who puts up their bad angle, zit farm photos? Not I. So you won't be seeing any recent pics of yours truely. I am currently employed as a zit farm. Happens to me when I am pregnant. I guess it's not a bad trade off for having had nice skin in my teen years, to be zitty through my twenties. The bad skin trade is a steal if you consider that I get to feel a tiny baby moving around in me.
So what ever happened to Tiffany? She grew up, had fun in her college years, met a man, got married, moved out West, had a baby, and her life is happily ever after ( most of the time
I had to go check it for him to let him know he had messages and comments. Well, low and behold, people he knows are on "that shit". Now he digs MySpace. Just like the rest of us. So now he's talked to people he hasn't seen in years, just like the rest of us. He seen their kids and found out "What ever happened to..", just like the rest of us. So my sweetie is even harder to drag into new technology than I am. But, I like when he finally gives in, quits bitching, and enjoys new things.
I love MySpace too. You will only see what flattering pictures I put up. You do it too. Who puts up their bad angle, zit farm photos? Not I. So you won't be seeing any recent pics of yours truely. I am currently employed as a zit farm. Happens to me when I am pregnant. I guess it's not a bad trade off for having had nice skin in my teen years, to be zitty through my twenties. The bad skin trade is a steal if you consider that I get to feel a tiny baby moving around in me.
So what ever happened to Tiffany? She grew up, had fun in her college years, met a man, got married, moved out West, had a baby, and her life is happily ever after ( most of the time
Monday, January 1, 2007
What he can't have
Turner is asking for things that I can't give him. Tears me up. How to explain to a two year old that I can't bring him to his Tun-Ba's, Mimi K's, or to go see Abba n Jesse? He doesn't understand the constraints of our geography. What he does understand is that he misses all of them very badly. He knows what toys are at every house and who he would like to play with those toys with.
We talked about the airplane ride, how we have to ride an airplane to see all of his buddies. To him the problem has an easy solution: Let's go on airplane mommy!
Reasoning with a two year old is one of the most trying experiences I have ever had. He also doesn't understand why it's not the best idea I've ever heard to wake up every night at midnight-thiry. Why wouldn't I want to talk or, better yet, why I wouldn't I want to let him in my bed? What on earth could be better than a a size nine set of little feet digging in my back for the next six hours?
The night waking thing is just a side effect of being out of our house and out of our routine for a few weeks. He'll sleep in his own bed, all the way throught the night again, I hope. Before having kids I just knew I'd let my children sleep in the bed with me. Having a child changed my mind. I need sleep and so does Turner. Not one of the three of us gets a good night sleep while piled together in the king sized bed. So a few more nights of him yelling about "Mommy's room please" won't kill me.
What does kill me is when he asks in his sweetest voice "Go see Abba?". Leaving home was one of the hardest things I will ever do. When I left Louisiana to go be with Brad it was only supposed to be for a couple months. A couple months has turned into five years. I no longer harbor the hope of moving back. We won't be back any time soon. Brad's career has taken off and we're along for the ride. Once I let go of the resentment and anger about not being "Home" I really started to like living some where new. Now I look forward to the next move. I have no clue where it will be to, but it doesn't matter.
My sister was trying to guilt me while I was home. She said " She loved her family, and wouldn't leave them". Joking aside it hurt, but just for a second. I didn't leave my family. I still talk to most of them a few times a week, if not daily. More importantly, I am with my family everyday. Because we live out here, I am home with my boy. I don't miss a minute of him. It's a luxury I would have never known if we had stayed in Louisiana. I see my husband everyday when he walks in from work. We sit in our dinning room to eat a home cooked meal every night. I wouldn't trade any of it, not even to be back home.
Being a stay at home mom is no bed of roses either. I'll let you in on a little secret: Being a mom is only about twenty percent fun. The rest is hard work and heartache wrapped up in exhaustion. The good times, and there are lots everyday, make you forget sleepless nights. I forget the tantrums, the whining, the poop in the underwear, all of the less than appealing things melt away the second I see his sleepy little self walk out of his room from a nap. Gone is any frustration when he smiles at me and wraps his arms around me for a kiss.
I won't have the option to have a free moment by dropping him off at the gradparents. I take full advantage of it when I'm in Louisiana for a visit. Day to day life is worked around having Turner by my side twenty four seven. Haircuts are gotten if Brad has a day off, if he doesn't, my hair just gets longer. All doctors appointments are with my baby. Now, bringing a two year old to your OB/GYN is something everyone should try at least once. For the past few months Brad has been working six and often seven days a week. That means no weekends, no dentist appointments, no knowing what day it is, because they are all the same.
The down side of our situation is so small in comparison to the perks of my job. While I was throwing up lunch the other day Turner came in and put his arm around me and wispered "Mommy hair pretty". I know the morning sickness will subside, the potty training will one day be finished, I will always have dishes and dusting and laundry, but what will also always be with me are the memories of mine and Turner's days together.
We talked about the airplane ride, how we have to ride an airplane to see all of his buddies. To him the problem has an easy solution: Let's go on airplane mommy!
Reasoning with a two year old is one of the most trying experiences I have ever had. He also doesn't understand why it's not the best idea I've ever heard to wake up every night at midnight-thiry. Why wouldn't I want to talk or, better yet, why I wouldn't I want to let him in my bed? What on earth could be better than a a size nine set of little feet digging in my back for the next six hours?
The night waking thing is just a side effect of being out of our house and out of our routine for a few weeks. He'll sleep in his own bed, all the way throught the night again, I hope. Before having kids I just knew I'd let my children sleep in the bed with me. Having a child changed my mind. I need sleep and so does Turner. Not one of the three of us gets a good night sleep while piled together in the king sized bed. So a few more nights of him yelling about "Mommy's room please" won't kill me.
What does kill me is when he asks in his sweetest voice "Go see Abba?". Leaving home was one of the hardest things I will ever do. When I left Louisiana to go be with Brad it was only supposed to be for a couple months. A couple months has turned into five years. I no longer harbor the hope of moving back. We won't be back any time soon. Brad's career has taken off and we're along for the ride. Once I let go of the resentment and anger about not being "Home" I really started to like living some where new. Now I look forward to the next move. I have no clue where it will be to, but it doesn't matter.
My sister was trying to guilt me while I was home. She said " She loved her family, and wouldn't leave them". Joking aside it hurt, but just for a second. I didn't leave my family. I still talk to most of them a few times a week, if not daily. More importantly, I am with my family everyday. Because we live out here, I am home with my boy. I don't miss a minute of him. It's a luxury I would have never known if we had stayed in Louisiana. I see my husband everyday when he walks in from work. We sit in our dinning room to eat a home cooked meal every night. I wouldn't trade any of it, not even to be back home.
Being a stay at home mom is no bed of roses either. I'll let you in on a little secret: Being a mom is only about twenty percent fun. The rest is hard work and heartache wrapped up in exhaustion. The good times, and there are lots everyday, make you forget sleepless nights. I forget the tantrums, the whining, the poop in the underwear, all of the less than appealing things melt away the second I see his sleepy little self walk out of his room from a nap. Gone is any frustration when he smiles at me and wraps his arms around me for a kiss.
I won't have the option to have a free moment by dropping him off at the gradparents. I take full advantage of it when I'm in Louisiana for a visit. Day to day life is worked around having Turner by my side twenty four seven. Haircuts are gotten if Brad has a day off, if he doesn't, my hair just gets longer. All doctors appointments are with my baby. Now, bringing a two year old to your OB/GYN is something everyone should try at least once. For the past few months Brad has been working six and often seven days a week. That means no weekends, no dentist appointments, no knowing what day it is, because they are all the same.
The down side of our situation is so small in comparison to the perks of my job. While I was throwing up lunch the other day Turner came in and put his arm around me and wispered "Mommy hair pretty". I know the morning sickness will subside, the potty training will one day be finished, I will always have dishes and dusting and laundry, but what will also always be with me are the memories of mine and Turner's days together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)