The Child has an infection of some sort. 105.3 fever a couple of nights ago, and I almost panicked myself to death. I did have the presence of mind to call the doctor before calling 911, and they told me to bring her in the next morning, and only to worry if it climbed to 106. So we loaded her up with ibuprofen and Tylenol, she slept like a rock all night, and was much better in the morning (though still very hot).
I took her in, chatted with her on the way about how the doctor would have to look in her eyes and ears and mouth, and listen to her chest and back, but that he was her friend, and he was trying to figure out what was making her sick. On the way in, she was chattering away at me, and said, "We're going to the doctor to get sick!" No amount of correction would dispel that notion. Sigh.
She was her usual shy self at first, but the first nurse to wave at her, she turned the charm on. I wish I could make nurses and doctors and other highly educated people fawn over me just by touching my hairdo and declaring, "This is Naomi's pigtail!"
She is most likely fine, though we have to wait on some cultures to be sure. They put her on antibiotics, which is super awesome because she refuses yogurt. Sometimes she'll drink it in smoothie form, if we're lucky. So, I have to get to the store sometime today to pick up some probiotics. Yaay.
Jeremy and I have recently been thinking of awesome superpowers at a price. Like, if you had Fire Hands, but you had to scream constantly whenever your turned your power on.
We play too many video games, I think.
Also, Little Golden Books. I like them because they don't usually have A Message. They're just cute little stories. But I like to give them A Message. For instance, The Poky Little Puppy.
Synopsis:
Five puppies keep digging under the fence and are gone all day, exploring and doing little puppy things. They keep getting home in time for supper, but their mother sends them straight to bed because they dug a hole under the fence. The Poky Little Puppy is a dawdler, so he gets home after everyone is asleep and eats up all the dessert. The third time this happens, his brothers fill up the hole under the fence instead of just going to bed, and their mother rewards them by giving them the dessert. The Poky Little Puppy has to squeeze in through a slat in the fence, and goes to bed with nothing to eat.
Moral of the story:
If you break the rules, more often than not, you'll get a family-sized portion of dessert.
Or The Shy Little Kitten. Synopsis:
A shy little kitten wanders off by herself her first day out of the barn, meets new people, and eventually wanders back to the farmyard, where her mother gives her a bath, and they all go on a picnic.
Moral of the story:
If you wander away from your house, be sure to talk to strangers, go on long walks until you get lost, but be home in time to get a bath and some delicious food.
Also, I would like to know what the parents are doing in these stories. If my kids were consistently destroying property, I'd probably do more than just withhold supper, you know?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
I am so glad I did not wear shorts
(I wrote this yesterday, but then Blogger exploded)
Let's talk about how dumb I am. Yaaay! Our favorite topic!
Apparently, being closer to the sun means you burn more easily. Who would have thought?? Genius.
See, in Wisconsin, I can spend almost an entire day outside and not even tan. When we went to the zoo a couple of weeks ago (a few hours of alternating sun and shade), I came home, lounged around during the girls' nap, and this BURN appeared on my shoulders two hours later.
First, I would like to know what's with the delay in sunburns. Since when does a burn take TWO HOURS to appear?
Second, ow.
Third, duh.
Moving on.
Today we went to a park and walked around a lake. It's a newish park, so all the trees are little babies, and there is no shade. None. We live in a desert. Of course there aren't any trees just springing up for the fun of it in the middle of the valley. I'm not Jonah, for crying out loud.
For some reason, I just assumed that this time, it would be different. Like, the laws of physics and biology in Utah would have changed (OF COURSE!) for my white Wisconsin-raised self.
I came home after this two-hour walk outside. Next to a lake. In blazing sun. With no trees. Did I mention no trees? I did not see a sunburn when I arrive home twenty minutes later. I didn't even see one an hour later after the girls went to bed.
Two hours later, a brilliant cherry red blossomed all over my shoulders, arms, and face. I look like I just got done with a REALLY intense workout. Or maybe I chewed up an habañero pepper, and then took it out of my mouth and rubbed it all over my body. Or maybe I took a nap in the oven.
So you can all laugh. And I will stock up on lightweight cotton long-sleeved shirts. And scarves. And long gaucho pants.
Incidentally, did you ever wonder how Prince Feisal and all the other black-clothing-wearing people didn't melt in the fiery desert of Arabia?
Let's talk about how dumb I am. Yaaay! Our favorite topic!
Apparently, being closer to the sun means you burn more easily. Who would have thought?? Genius.
See, in Wisconsin, I can spend almost an entire day outside and not even tan. When we went to the zoo a couple of weeks ago (a few hours of alternating sun and shade), I came home, lounged around during the girls' nap, and this BURN appeared on my shoulders two hours later.
First, I would like to know what's with the delay in sunburns. Since when does a burn take TWO HOURS to appear?
Second, ow.
Third, duh.
Moving on.
Today we went to a park and walked around a lake. It's a newish park, so all the trees are little babies, and there is no shade. None. We live in a desert. Of course there aren't any trees just springing up for the fun of it in the middle of the valley. I'm not Jonah, for crying out loud.
For some reason, I just assumed that this time, it would be different. Like, the laws of physics and biology in Utah would have changed (OF COURSE!) for my white Wisconsin-raised self.
I came home after this two-hour walk outside. Next to a lake. In blazing sun. With no trees. Did I mention no trees? I did not see a sunburn when I arrive home twenty minutes later. I didn't even see one an hour later after the girls went to bed.
Two hours later, a brilliant cherry red blossomed all over my shoulders, arms, and face. I look like I just got done with a REALLY intense workout. Or maybe I chewed up an habañero pepper, and then took it out of my mouth and rubbed it all over my body. Or maybe I took a nap in the oven.
So you can all laugh. And I will stock up on lightweight cotton long-sleeved shirts. And scarves. And long gaucho pants.
Incidentally, did you ever wonder how Prince Feisal and all the other black-clothing-wearing people didn't melt in the fiery desert of Arabia?
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Jean does not have a future in therapy
We have been having some trouble getting the girls' medical records transferred to our new pediatrician. I have filled out all the forms twice, to no avail. So I finally called our old pediatrician's office today.
Lady: Blah Blah Pediatrics, how may I help you?
Me: I've been having some trouble getting our daughters' records transferr--
Lady: Oh, let me just stop you right there. I need to transfer you to records, so you don't have to explain it all twice.
Me: Oh, thanks!
Lady: Hold just a minute.
::bad music::
::more bad music::
::still more bad mu--:
Jean: Blah Blah Medical Records; this is Jean. How may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been having some trouble getting our daughters' records transferred to our new pediatrician, specifically the--
Jean: Name please?
Me: Last name Whine--W-H-I-N-E--, first names Grace and Emmeline--E-M--
Jean: Emily?
Me: No, Emmeline. E-M-M--
Jean: How do you spell that?
Me: [For serious?] E-M-M-E-L-I-N-E
(Oh, I love the name, but I'm so sick of spelling it; poor child has a rough life ahead of her with the Americanized German atrocity that is our last name. Get married quick, 2.0!)
Jean: Okay... here it is. It shows we sent 34 pages on February 9, 2011.
Me: Hmm. Well, the main problem was the immunization records. I'm pretty sure they got the--
Jean: Well, we sent it. 34 pages.
Me: Okay, well, I'll just call and double check. Her last visit was shortly after that, so maybe they hadn't been processed yet.
Jean: Okay. Bye!
She wasn't mean, just brusque. I still wanted to shake her. She's in such a hurry to do her job, let me finish a sentence! It would have gone much more quickly.
So I called our new pediatrician's office (almost an hour later, since they close for lunch), got transferred to records again, after more bad music. The nicest lady works in that office:
Kim: New Blah Medical Records; this is Kim. How may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been having some trouble getting our daughters' records transferred here; she has an appointment coming up, and I want to make sure they made it.
Kim: Okay, name please?
Me: Last name Whine--W-H-I-N-E--, first names Grace and Emmeline--E-M-M-E-L-I-N-E. [SEE HOW MUCH FASTER THAT WENT, JEAN?]
Kim: Okay, I have 34 pages here, but I'm not finding the immunization records. I'll just look through it for you quick...
[...
"quick" being a relative term, I suppose
...]
Kim: Hmm... Okay, there's nothing here. All I've got are two sheets saying they got their flu shots.
Me: Argh. Okay. I'll call them again. Thank you!
Me: [to self] Okay, why don't I just find the number for Blah Blah Records and call them directly so I don't have to get transferred again.
Lady2: Blah Blah Records, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, I'm calling again about my daughters' records. I'm having trouble getting them transferred.
Lady2: Name please?
Me: Last name Whine--W-H-I-N-E--, first names Grace and Emmeline--E-M-M-E-L-I-N-E.
Lady2: ...Oh, is this for pediatrics?
Me: Yes, I found the number on your website. It was the only one for records.
Lady2: Sorry; this is just the hospital; I'll need to transfer you to pediatrics.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't realize.
Lady2: That's fine; no problem!
::bad music::
::more bad music::
::still more bad mu--:
Jean [breathing fire]: Mrs. Whine? WHY did you call the hospital's records?
Me: Bwah? This is the only number for records on Blah Blah Health Care's website. I thought it would be easier for everyone to call directly. I didn't know--
Jean: WELL. This is pediatrics [imagine this spoken slowly, like I'm two, or Bolivian, or nearly deaf]. The hospital can't give you our records.
Me: Okay...
Jean: Now, I SENT those 34 pages to your pediatrician just now. Why did you call again?
Me: Umm... You did?
Jean: I TOLD you I was sending them.
Me: I'm very sorry. I don't remember you saying that.
Jean: Well, I sent them. Why did you call again?
Me: Excuse me? I've sent this request twice. I wanted to make sure they actually got their records this time. They hadn't. I called here again.
Jean: Okay. Bye [with that note of irritation you leave on the end of a word to let someone know you think she's an idiot].
The whole thing is ridiculous, since they are the ones who botched the whole thing, but the 4th grader in me got off the phone and almost cried. Ridiculous.
But seriously. I know nothing about how offices work. Other than wasting her time (eyeroll), is there some horrible thing about accidentally calling the wrong number in the system?
In other news, I have found some pants that fit me perfectly. Black dress pants, no less, which is good because the pair I got from Old Navy five years ago are now tissue-thin. They are Gloria Vanderbilt, which makes me feel like a 60-something Kohl's aficionado, but hey! They look good on me. They are not high-waisted, pleated, or tapered, so who cares if they're a mom jeans and cardigans kind of brand, right?
Lady: Blah Blah Pediatrics, how may I help you?
Me: I've been having some trouble getting our daughters' records transferr--
Lady: Oh, let me just stop you right there. I need to transfer you to records, so you don't have to explain it all twice.
Me: Oh, thanks!
Lady: Hold just a minute.
::bad music::
::more bad music::
::still more bad mu--:
Jean: Blah Blah Medical Records; this is Jean. How may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been having some trouble getting our daughters' records transferred to our new pediatrician, specifically the--
Jean: Name please?
Me: Last name Whine--W-H-I-N-E--, first names Grace and Emmeline--E-M--
Jean: Emily?
Me: No, Emmeline. E-M-M--
Jean: How do you spell that?
Me: [For serious?] E-M-M-E-L-I-N-E
(Oh, I love the name, but I'm so sick of spelling it; poor child has a rough life ahead of her with the Americanized German atrocity that is our last name. Get married quick, 2.0!)
Jean: Okay... here it is. It shows we sent 34 pages on February 9, 2011.
Me: Hmm. Well, the main problem was the immunization records. I'm pretty sure they got the--
Jean: Well, we sent it. 34 pages.
Me: Okay, well, I'll just call and double check. Her last visit was shortly after that, so maybe they hadn't been processed yet.
Jean: Okay. Bye!
She wasn't mean, just brusque. I still wanted to shake her. She's in such a hurry to do her job, let me finish a sentence! It would have gone much more quickly.
So I called our new pediatrician's office (almost an hour later, since they close for lunch), got transferred to records again, after more bad music. The nicest lady works in that office:
Kim: New Blah Medical Records; this is Kim. How may I help you?
Me: Hi, I've been having some trouble getting our daughters' records transferred here; she has an appointment coming up, and I want to make sure they made it.
Kim: Okay, name please?
Me: Last name Whine--W-H-I-N-E--, first names Grace and Emmeline--E-M-M-E-L-I-N-E. [SEE HOW MUCH FASTER THAT WENT, JEAN?]
Kim: Okay, I have 34 pages here, but I'm not finding the immunization records. I'll just look through it for you quick...
[...
"quick" being a relative term, I suppose
...]
Kim: Hmm... Okay, there's nothing here. All I've got are two sheets saying they got their flu shots.
Me: Argh. Okay. I'll call them again. Thank you!
Me: [to self] Okay, why don't I just find the number for Blah Blah Records and call them directly so I don't have to get transferred again.
Lady2: Blah Blah Records, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, I'm calling again about my daughters' records. I'm having trouble getting them transferred.
Lady2: Name please?
Me: Last name Whine--W-H-I-N-E--, first names Grace and Emmeline--E-M-M-E-L-I-N-E.
Lady2: ...Oh, is this for pediatrics?
Me: Yes, I found the number on your website. It was the only one for records.
Lady2: Sorry; this is just the hospital; I'll need to transfer you to pediatrics.
Me: Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't realize.
Lady2: That's fine; no problem!
::bad music::
::more bad music::
::still more bad mu--:
Jean [breathing fire]: Mrs. Whine? WHY did you call the hospital's records?
Me: Bwah? This is the only number for records on Blah Blah Health Care's website. I thought it would be easier for everyone to call directly. I didn't know--
Jean: WELL. This is pediatrics [imagine this spoken slowly, like I'm two, or Bolivian, or nearly deaf]. The hospital can't give you our records.
Me: Okay...
Jean: Now, I SENT those 34 pages to your pediatrician just now. Why did you call again?
Me: Umm... You did?
Jean: I TOLD you I was sending them.
Me: I'm very sorry. I don't remember you saying that.
Jean: Well, I sent them. Why did you call again?
Me: Excuse me? I've sent this request twice. I wanted to make sure they actually got their records this time. They hadn't. I called here again.
Jean: Okay. Bye [with that note of irritation you leave on the end of a word to let someone know you think she's an idiot].
The whole thing is ridiculous, since they are the ones who botched the whole thing, but the 4th grader in me got off the phone and almost cried. Ridiculous.
But seriously. I know nothing about how offices work. Other than wasting her time (eyeroll), is there some horrible thing about accidentally calling the wrong number in the system?
In other news, I have found some pants that fit me perfectly. Black dress pants, no less, which is good because the pair I got from Old Navy five years ago are now tissue-thin. They are Gloria Vanderbilt, which makes me feel like a 60-something Kohl's aficionado, but hey! They look good on me. They are not high-waisted, pleated, or tapered, so who cares if they're a mom jeans and cardigans kind of brand, right?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
My clever idea. Clever-ish. Maybe.
So many of you are so crafty and good with your hands; I'm almost embarrassed to post this since I cheated by going through CafePress. But I designed an apron (design? hah! I slapped some text over a picture of an apron and called it done. I did spend some time agonizing over the font, I guess...). Now, some people may not care for it, but it's been a joke between me and Jeremy for a long time, and someone suggested I actually put it up for sale. So I did!
Anyway, go check it out, if you don't mind. Even if you won't buy one, share it on your Facebook wall if you like it. I'd love to just sell ten of these!
Thanks!
Barefoot in the Kitchen
(I wrote a real entry earlier today)
Anyway, go check it out, if you don't mind. Even if you won't buy one, share it on your Facebook wall if you like it. I'd love to just sell ten of these!
Thanks!
Barefoot in the Kitchen
(I wrote a real entry earlier today)
This and that
I sit down to write something at least five times a day and then blank out. This is the busiest (good busy) I've been in years, and somehow I have nothing to talk about.
I have continued to lose weight. This is nice, but it also means I'm slowly shrinking out of even my older standbys. Buy a new wardrobe, suffer self-loathing for all the money I've needlessly spent, or don't buy a new wardrobe and suffer self-loathing for how horrible I look all the time? It's a conundrum.
(Don't worry. "Self-loathing" is hyperbole, folks. My ego is far too healthy--some might even say "fat"--to do any such thing to me.)
It's very odd because I'm still 15 pounds heavier than I was right after I had Emmy (the tiniest I've been since before I got pregnant with Grace, believe it or not; eating nothing but lettuce through an entire pregnancy does wonders for your post-pregnancy body... sadly, nursing had me packing it right back on), but all my clothing from then is really loose one me. Even the stuff that was old and stretched out already. I know I've put on muscle, but I'm certain it's not fifteen pounds' worth.
You know the other disadvantage to losing weight? (WARNING: OVERSHARE AHEAD) Bloat. Yeah. Turns out, if you lose a whole bunch of water weight, it comes back every time you're on your cycle. Bonus points if yours comes every two weeks (lucky me!). Now, it's really nice to feel lighter and smaller every other week, but it's also really frustrating to go up half a pants size for four days out of every fourteen. Yech.
Utah's weather may be better, but it still likes to drag out winter for a looong time. While it's much warmer here on average than in Wisconsin, 59 degrees and windy with rain is just not happy spring weather. We get a teaser every couple of days, and then Pbbbbt, says Utah, and snots all over us.
Yesterday was one such glorious day. We were going to grill out and then couldn't figure out how to light the stupid thing. This involved Jeremy running to WinCo with Grace to buy a long-handled lighter while Emmy and I hung out on the grill patio behind the clubhouse. She's so funny. When Grace goes anywhere without her, she'll cry for five minutes. And then once she gets over it, she turns into the happiest baby. Not that she's unhappy when Grace is around, but I think she relishes her few moments alone with a parent. Yesterday, I set her down in the grass to see how she'd react. Much like Grace, she Did Not Appreciate it, and sat there crying for a few minutes. Then she gingerly stood up and took a few tentative steps, stumbled, fell, and realized how much fun it is to fall in grass. That's pretty much all she did until Jeremy came back. If anyone noticed, I'm sure they thought I was feeding my toddler beer.
In Wisconsin, that would probably earn me a hearty, "Atta girl! Start 'em young!" from most people. Not so sure about Utah.
My sister and family are coming to visit next week. I am so excited I could squeal. In fact, I have squealed. Several times. It will be an adventure to have four adults and four (five, maybe, I'm not sure) children under one roof, but I am not worried. Especially not if the weather cooperates. Hi, sister! If you are reading this. I am giddy!
With that, I leave you. We have people coming over tonight, and while there's not a LOT to do, I know that I will regret it if I procrastinate any more.
I have continued to lose weight. This is nice, but it also means I'm slowly shrinking out of even my older standbys. Buy a new wardrobe, suffer self-loathing for all the money I've needlessly spent, or don't buy a new wardrobe and suffer self-loathing for how horrible I look all the time? It's a conundrum.
(Don't worry. "Self-loathing" is hyperbole, folks. My ego is far too healthy--some might even say "fat"--to do any such thing to me.)
It's very odd because I'm still 15 pounds heavier than I was right after I had Emmy (the tiniest I've been since before I got pregnant with Grace, believe it or not; eating nothing but lettuce through an entire pregnancy does wonders for your post-pregnancy body... sadly, nursing had me packing it right back on), but all my clothing from then is really loose one me. Even the stuff that was old and stretched out already. I know I've put on muscle, but I'm certain it's not fifteen pounds' worth.
You know the other disadvantage to losing weight? (WARNING: OVERSHARE AHEAD) Bloat. Yeah. Turns out, if you lose a whole bunch of water weight, it comes back every time you're on your cycle. Bonus points if yours comes every two weeks (lucky me!). Now, it's really nice to feel lighter and smaller every other week, but it's also really frustrating to go up half a pants size for four days out of every fourteen. Yech.
Utah's weather may be better, but it still likes to drag out winter for a looong time. While it's much warmer here on average than in Wisconsin, 59 degrees and windy with rain is just not happy spring weather. We get a teaser every couple of days, and then Pbbbbt, says Utah, and snots all over us.
Yesterday was one such glorious day. We were going to grill out and then couldn't figure out how to light the stupid thing. This involved Jeremy running to WinCo with Grace to buy a long-handled lighter while Emmy and I hung out on the grill patio behind the clubhouse. She's so funny. When Grace goes anywhere without her, she'll cry for five minutes. And then once she gets over it, she turns into the happiest baby. Not that she's unhappy when Grace is around, but I think she relishes her few moments alone with a parent. Yesterday, I set her down in the grass to see how she'd react. Much like Grace, she Did Not Appreciate it, and sat there crying for a few minutes. Then she gingerly stood up and took a few tentative steps, stumbled, fell, and realized how much fun it is to fall in grass. That's pretty much all she did until Jeremy came back. If anyone noticed, I'm sure they thought I was feeding my toddler beer.
In Wisconsin, that would probably earn me a hearty, "Atta girl! Start 'em young!" from most people. Not so sure about Utah.
My sister and family are coming to visit next week. I am so excited I could squeal. In fact, I have squealed. Several times. It will be an adventure to have four adults and four (five, maybe, I'm not sure) children under one roof, but I am not worried. Especially not if the weather cooperates. Hi, sister! If you are reading this. I am giddy!
With that, I leave you. We have people coming over tonight, and while there's not a LOT to do, I know that I will regret it if I procrastinate any more.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
I need a good slap in the head
There has been a *babyspolsion among my friends in the last couple of months. It is making me positively feverish, which I know is complete lunacy. I can barely make it through most days without ripping my hair out in frustration. The girls just happen to be at two very irritating phases.
*(I love this typo. Instead of mashing "baby" up with "explosion," I mashed it up with a misspelled "expulsion," which is pretty hilarious if you think about it.)
If I might get all math geeky on you, it's like two sine wave added together. Each of their overall behavior patterns looks like one of the top two:
But when you add them together there are spikes and dips and craziness all over the place. Each by herself is a pretty easy child with a few irritating quirks. But when they line up juuuust right, it's a week of tooth-gnashing and hair-tearing.
Grace has recently made a few huge leaps in development. She's suddenly very eager to do things like go down the slide or go for walks in the wind, and I think she's on the verge of understanding the relationships among letters and words and reading. She also recently started telling stories about things she's done, which is, in my opinion, a pretty big leap. But her milestones have always coincided with some seriously high-maintenance behavior, and this time is no exception.
Emmy, on the other hand, has had the most horrible diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. Cherry-red, broken skin, something that looks like yeast bumps, maybe some burning and hives mixed in, and nothing (NOTHING) worked on it. Gobs of Desitin, stripping the diapers, switching to disposables, cutting out any possible allergen candidates from her diet, Lotrimin, coconut oil, lots of naked time. You name it, we tried it. Two weeks of this, and we were thisclose to calling the pediatrician, when it was suddenly better this morning. I'm still baffled.
Both of them have also become even pickier eaters recently. I tell my friends with picky eaters to just let their kids choose to eat what's on the table, that it's okay if they don't eat supper once in a while (as a pediatrician and several other people have told me: "It's your job to offer a good variety of foods at each meal, and it's their job to pick and choose."). I've been pretty Zen about the whole thing for a while; I've had to with Grace, lest I go completely mad or start feeding her French fries for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But with two needy, high-maintenance children, it is just exhausting to sit through yet another dinner where they poke at the four different kinds of food laid out for them, eating nothing and occasionally whimpering. I work hard to make a variety of foods to keep things interesting, and nothing. When Grace gets a little older, she will have to start trying one small bite of each thing if she's never had it before. But she's a bit young for that yet.
Anyway, with all of this, I still feel the baby fever brimming up inside of me. Our apartment is far too small for another body, and until we get rid of our house, we really shouldn't even think about another baby anyway. Plus, imagine if you added another sine wave to the graph above. It'd look like a cocaine-addled heart rate monitor.
I know that if an "accident" happened (I know that a baby would not be an accident at all, but I'm speaking from our perspective, not God's), we would deal. Things would work out, we would pare down our expenses and be okay. But it would be really hard. And the interesting set of challenges presented by children 16 months apart (especially when the older one is needy and shy and clingy like Velcro, and the younger one is hell-bent on killing herself at every opportunity, and both of them are about ten pounds heavier than any child their age has any right to be, and you can't carry both of them at the same time anymore) would be absolute insanity with the next one just 23 months later.
What I need is a local friend with a newborn. I could go hang out at her house for a week and be reminded of all the fun involved in those early days. I'm sure that would cure me immediately. Maybe. Newborns are awfully squishy. And they smell good.
*(I love this typo. Instead of mashing "baby" up with "explosion," I mashed it up with a misspelled "expulsion," which is pretty hilarious if you think about it.)
If I might get all math geeky on you, it's like two sine wave added together. Each of their overall behavior patterns looks like one of the top two:
But when you add them together there are spikes and dips and craziness all over the place. Each by herself is a pretty easy child with a few irritating quirks. But when they line up juuuust right, it's a week of tooth-gnashing and hair-tearing.
Grace has recently made a few huge leaps in development. She's suddenly very eager to do things like go down the slide or go for walks in the wind, and I think she's on the verge of understanding the relationships among letters and words and reading. She also recently started telling stories about things she's done, which is, in my opinion, a pretty big leap. But her milestones have always coincided with some seriously high-maintenance behavior, and this time is no exception.
Emmy, on the other hand, has had the most horrible diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. Cherry-red, broken skin, something that looks like yeast bumps, maybe some burning and hives mixed in, and nothing (NOTHING) worked on it. Gobs of Desitin, stripping the diapers, switching to disposables, cutting out any possible allergen candidates from her diet, Lotrimin, coconut oil, lots of naked time. You name it, we tried it. Two weeks of this, and we were thisclose to calling the pediatrician, when it was suddenly better this morning. I'm still baffled.
Both of them have also become even pickier eaters recently. I tell my friends with picky eaters to just let their kids choose to eat what's on the table, that it's okay if they don't eat supper once in a while (as a pediatrician and several other people have told me: "It's your job to offer a good variety of foods at each meal, and it's their job to pick and choose."). I've been pretty Zen about the whole thing for a while; I've had to with Grace, lest I go completely mad or start feeding her French fries for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But with two needy, high-maintenance children, it is just exhausting to sit through yet another dinner where they poke at the four different kinds of food laid out for them, eating nothing and occasionally whimpering. I work hard to make a variety of foods to keep things interesting, and nothing. When Grace gets a little older, she will have to start trying one small bite of each thing if she's never had it before. But she's a bit young for that yet.
Anyway, with all of this, I still feel the baby fever brimming up inside of me. Our apartment is far too small for another body, and until we get rid of our house, we really shouldn't even think about another baby anyway. Plus, imagine if you added another sine wave to the graph above. It'd look like a cocaine-addled heart rate monitor.
I know that if an "accident" happened (I know that a baby would not be an accident at all, but I'm speaking from our perspective, not God's), we would deal. Things would work out, we would pare down our expenses and be okay. But it would be really hard. And the interesting set of challenges presented by children 16 months apart (especially when the older one is needy and shy and clingy like Velcro, and the younger one is hell-bent on killing herself at every opportunity, and both of them are about ten pounds heavier than any child their age has any right to be, and you can't carry both of them at the same time anymore) would be absolute insanity with the next one just 23 months later.
What I need is a local friend with a newborn. I could go hang out at her house for a week and be reminded of all the fun involved in those early days. I'm sure that would cure me immediately. Maybe. Newborns are awfully squishy. And they smell good.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
No Man's Land
Picture yourself, high on the knowledge that you have sloughed yet another size off yourself, walking into Savers with a plan and a dream. A dream of a cheap wardrobe. A cheap wardrobe that must be cheap because (you hope) you won't be stopping at this size for long. But a fabulous wardrobe, one that will encourage you to keep going! We are going to have so much fun, Savers, you and me, old pal.
SHIRTS: They come in several forms.
1. Cute at a size 8, not so cute at a 10 or 12. Because a size 10 or 12 person is not the same shape as a size 8 person. If you were a size 8, the shirt would fit nicely--snug in the right spots, just barely skimming the wrong spots. When you are a size 10 or 12, it is snug in the right spots and SNUG in the wrong spots. It draws giant arrows pointing to the parts of your body you are dissatisfied with and says, "LOOK HERE, EVERYBODY! I'D SAY IT'S ABOUT TEN POUNDS!"
2. Cute at size 14 and up, does not exist at size 10 or 12. I love Lane Bryant. LOVE that store. Their clothing says, "I am maybe a little hefty, but I am still a woman and want to look beautiful and feminine." But sizes 10 and 12 are not allowed into that little club.
3. Cut right for size 10 or 12, but not cute at all in any size whatsoever. This shirt says, "I GIVE UP ON EVER LOOKING LIKE A WOMAN AGAIN."
4. Flimsy jersey knit, the bane of my existence, and the fabric every single manufacturer in the world is CRAZY over these last couple of years. I cannot find clothing that is not jersey knit. It simply does not exist. I mean, yeah, it's soft and comfortable, but it magnifies every single roll. That little baby pouch that you're still carrying around? At the part where it touches your shirt, it looks like Mount Everest. It is the most unforgiving fabric, and it is everywhere. Unless I want to dress head to toe in business casual every single day. Which I don't. I really hate ironing.
I hate you, Savers. I hate you and your stupid clothing.
SHIRTS: They come in several forms.
1. Cute at a size 8, not so cute at a 10 or 12. Because a size 10 or 12 person is not the same shape as a size 8 person. If you were a size 8, the shirt would fit nicely--snug in the right spots, just barely skimming the wrong spots. When you are a size 10 or 12, it is snug in the right spots and SNUG in the wrong spots. It draws giant arrows pointing to the parts of your body you are dissatisfied with and says, "LOOK HERE, EVERYBODY! I'D SAY IT'S ABOUT TEN POUNDS!"
2. Cute at size 14 and up, does not exist at size 10 or 12. I love Lane Bryant. LOVE that store. Their clothing says, "I am maybe a little hefty, but I am still a woman and want to look beautiful and feminine." But sizes 10 and 12 are not allowed into that little club.
3. Cut right for size 10 or 12, but not cute at all in any size whatsoever. This shirt says, "I GIVE UP ON EVER LOOKING LIKE A WOMAN AGAIN."
4. Flimsy jersey knit, the bane of my existence, and the fabric every single manufacturer in the world is CRAZY over these last couple of years. I cannot find clothing that is not jersey knit. It simply does not exist. I mean, yeah, it's soft and comfortable, but it magnifies every single roll. That little baby pouch that you're still carrying around? At the part where it touches your shirt, it looks like Mount Everest. It is the most unforgiving fabric, and it is everywhere. Unless I want to dress head to toe in business casual every single day. Which I don't. I really hate ironing.
I hate you, Savers. I hate you and your stupid clothing.
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