I am writing an entry just to make myself write. I feel like I've lost my mojo in the last couple months, and I can't get it back. Maybe I spend too much of it writing what I think are hilarious Facebook status updates, and then when I come here, there's nothing left.
I am doing Cough to 5k (COUCH. I meant COUCH.). I'm repeating pretty much every week. My body is so unfamiliar with the impact of running that my shin bones are curling up into themselves and shrieking after every run. It's okay. I've had them checked out. They are not injured, just really, really pansified.
However! The week I started running, swimming got a hundred times easier. I was stuck at 2000 yards for a long time, and now I'm up to 2500-2700. Woo!
Jeremy will be gone again soon. It's been a while, so I don't mind. Also, the weather is good, I'm not fighting off seasonal affective disorder (or whatever happens to me every year between November and February), and the kids are to the age where they aren't horrible at least 50% of the time. But I still need a project, or something to do. The hottest parts of the day are HOT here, and we don't have shade. I think we will be spending a lot of time in the apartment pool.
I think I'm going to pretend we're moving soon (even though we're not; thanks a lot, roosters) and empty the apartment of anything unnecessary. I have a bunch of clothes that are too big now, so that will be fun. Perhaps a bonfire is in order.
Jeremy will come home to five outfits, three computer games, and seven empty wine bottles, and he will just have to like it.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Stupid chickens
We have looked at many houses over the last week. We had a short window of time to find something. Most places are rented out within a few weeks of being posted, so not much was available before now for the end of July.
We haven't found anything--at least, not anything that would make a move worthwhile. There have been a few houses that were kind of okay but had one or two big things we didn't like.
There was one house that was perfect in layout and number of rooms. It was obviously cared-for, very clean, had a fenced-in yard and a new back deck. But it was in a seedy neighborhood. Which is still okay with me (you can't win everything on our budget). And kind of far from Jeremy's work and most of our friends. Still, it was that great of a house that we were thinking of moving anyway.
But then. THEN! We went out to look at the backyard, and the neighbors behind us have these gigantic roosters. These things could eat Emmy whole.
Apparently she saw that, too, because as soon as they started crowing (and crowing and crowing and crowing), she burst into tears and hightailed it for the house.
I have nothing against farm animals. I'm from the boonies of South Dakota, which has more farm animals than people. But in the middle of the city, you don't really expect or want aggressive roosters for backyard neighbors.
So we'll be staying here until March. If we wait too much longer to re-sign the lease, someone will rent our apartment, and then we'll most likely have to settle for something we don't especially love. In the meantime, we hope our house will sell so we can raise the budget a little bit (so many great-looking houses just $100/month or so above our absolute upper limit). Or maybe a tornado will eat it.
I have been going to a chiropractor for a couple of months now, and boy do I wish I'd gone sooner. I no longer feel like an old woman from the hips up. He also does physical therapy, which I did not know until I asked him if he could help me with a shoulder thing. "Sure!" he says, and starts poking around my shoulder muscles like he's testing a half-cooked roast. It... hurt.
He says, "I think this blah blah blah thing will help." Where "blah blah blah" is some medical-ish sounding business that also means, "five minutes of excruciating pain while I pinch this shortened muscle." But it totally worked. I have better range of motion in that shoulder than I have in, oh, ever. I can also now lift more with that arm than I can the other. Perhaps my right shoulder will be "bothering" me next time I go in.
I hope my chiropractor doesn't turn out to be Norman Bates-y, too.
Emmy was sick for the last week. Those crayons are what caused it, I think, because no one else had any problems. She got to the point where I said, "Okay, tomorrow I'm calling the doctor," so of course she woke up the next day completely fine.
Then yesterday she swallowed a marble.
We haven't found anything--at least, not anything that would make a move worthwhile. There have been a few houses that were kind of okay but had one or two big things we didn't like.
There was one house that was perfect in layout and number of rooms. It was obviously cared-for, very clean, had a fenced-in yard and a new back deck. But it was in a seedy neighborhood. Which is still okay with me (you can't win everything on our budget). And kind of far from Jeremy's work and most of our friends. Still, it was that great of a house that we were thinking of moving anyway.
But then. THEN! We went out to look at the backyard, and the neighbors behind us have these gigantic roosters. These things could eat Emmy whole.
Apparently she saw that, too, because as soon as they started crowing (and crowing and crowing and crowing), she burst into tears and hightailed it for the house.
I have nothing against farm animals. I'm from the boonies of South Dakota, which has more farm animals than people. But in the middle of the city, you don't really expect or want aggressive roosters for backyard neighbors.
So we'll be staying here until March. If we wait too much longer to re-sign the lease, someone will rent our apartment, and then we'll most likely have to settle for something we don't especially love. In the meantime, we hope our house will sell so we can raise the budget a little bit (so many great-looking houses just $100/month or so above our absolute upper limit). Or maybe a tornado will eat it.
I have been going to a chiropractor for a couple of months now, and boy do I wish I'd gone sooner. I no longer feel like an old woman from the hips up. He also does physical therapy, which I did not know until I asked him if he could help me with a shoulder thing. "Sure!" he says, and starts poking around my shoulder muscles like he's testing a half-cooked roast. It... hurt.
He says, "I think this blah blah blah thing will help." Where "blah blah blah" is some medical-ish sounding business that also means, "five minutes of excruciating pain while I pinch this shortened muscle." But it totally worked. I have better range of motion in that shoulder than I have in, oh, ever. I can also now lift more with that arm than I can the other. Perhaps my right shoulder will be "bothering" me next time I go in.
I hope my chiropractor doesn't turn out to be Norman Bates-y, too.
Emmy was sick for the last week. Those crayons are what caused it, I think, because no one else had any problems. She got to the point where I said, "Okay, tomorrow I'm calling the doctor," so of course she woke up the next day completely fine.
Then yesterday she swallowed a marble.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
The Biggest News of the Year
So my kids' pediatrician may have murdered his wife last fall. For a week after I found this out, I scoured the Internet for every news article about her death, and it does not look good. Either he did it, and he's a very messed up individual, or he's innocent, and his son is a liar and a horrible person. That's not really a win-win situation.
But he's a fantastic doctor. So we'll keep going. I don't imagine he'll start offing patients anytime soon. I suppose I could be wrong, but I think the chances are greater that I'll get hit by a car on the way to a well-child appointment.
In the meantime I handle it by making really tasteless jokes about it to Jeremy. You would be appalled. I can't help it. There's the doctor I know: warm, caring, gentle with children. Then there's the father his son describes: unstable, vicious, crazy up to eleven. I have to relieve the dissonance somehow, so I make not-funny wisecracks about the Murderer Pediatrician.
Emmy ate a bunch of bath crayons a few days ago and has since had some... issues. I will not tell you how I know it was more than one bath crayon. She still talks about it. "My crayon! Is gone! I had a crayon, and now it's gone!"
Sometimes I think her disdainful independence and strange ways of doing things are a sign of great intelligence. And then other times I think it's just all the brain damage from crawling into so much furniture at a young age.
So we may be seeing Dr. Murder sooner rather than later. I am strangely looking forward to it.
Oh, AND! You may remember my niece who has been through so much going back and forth between my sister's home and her bio dad's home and all the stupid insanity child services put them through.
She was officially adopted by my sister and her husband yesterday.
But he's a fantastic doctor. So we'll keep going. I don't imagine he'll start offing patients anytime soon. I suppose I could be wrong, but I think the chances are greater that I'll get hit by a car on the way to a well-child appointment.
In the meantime I handle it by making really tasteless jokes about it to Jeremy. You would be appalled. I can't help it. There's the doctor I know: warm, caring, gentle with children. Then there's the father his son describes: unstable, vicious, crazy up to eleven. I have to relieve the dissonance somehow, so I make not-funny wisecracks about the Murderer Pediatrician.
Emmy ate a bunch of bath crayons a few days ago and has since had some... issues. I will not tell you how I know it was more than one bath crayon. She still talks about it. "My crayon! Is gone! I had a crayon, and now it's gone!"
Sometimes I think her disdainful independence and strange ways of doing things are a sign of great intelligence. And then other times I think it's just all the brain damage from crawling into so much furniture at a young age.
So we may be seeing Dr. Murder sooner rather than later. I am strangely looking forward to it.
Oh, AND! You may remember my niece who has been through so much going back and forth between my sister's home and her bio dad's home and all the stupid insanity child services put them through.
She was officially adopted by my sister and her husband yesterday.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
I love planes
I spent the weekend in Denver. It was, of course, fantastic.
My sister and I went to the zoo with the kids on Friday. I always love the zoo in theory, but then hate it when I get there and realize I have to deal with other people. Also, other people's children. People who wander around aimlessly in traffic like sun-poisoned camels. I am sure I am guilty of this myself at times, so I haven't yet stabbed anyone, but I've come close.
There's a little play area with a creek for the kids to splash in at this zoo. It's a neat idea. I hung out there for a while with my sister's kids. When I first got there, I sat down on the edge of one end with my niece and quickly realized I'd intruded on a mommies group of some kind. This isn't a bad thing all by itself. Most of my favorite people are moms.
But these were... well, I kept getting looks like, "Are you one of us? No, you couldn't possibly. You don't have that organic raw vegan healthy glow about you. And that child with you has a smudge on her dress. Hmm. Maybe you're someone's cousin." This was mildly amusing to me, but it got really hilarious when they started talking about their children and preschools and wait lists. At first I thought they meant the children who were with them, the tiny toddlers splashing at their feet.
And then I realized that all these women were pregnant--some not even showing yet--, and they were talking about their unborn children. I almost had a brain aneurysm. Is this a thing? I mean, is there a preschool that is actually so FANTASTIC that you need to wait-list your -7 month old? Really?
I also got to watch my sister kick some butt on the Tough Mudder in Beaver Creek. It was almost a half marathon up and down a mountain (twice), with obstacles. Some were easy, or so says my sister, who is a machine. And some were hard. Like a vat of ice that you had to dive into and then under a wall, and then haul your frozen rear back out by the power of your arms and the adrenaline induced by the fear of dying in a vat of ice.
It was not a spectator-friendly event. I only got to watch about five of the 25-odd obstacles. This mostly involved taking a ski lift up to the top of a mountain, waiting in line for a beer, and then running up and down half the mountain in a panic several times wondering if I'd missed her going by. I hadn't. It was just a lot longer of a course than it was supposed to be.
Did you know that using twice the amount of sunscreen you normally do is not enough if you're at twice the elevation you're used to? I did not. I also didn't think to wear a hat. I now appear to have mange and a dirty forehead. But really it's just seared flesh. Nothing catching. If I'm ever at 10,000 feet all day again, I will drape myself in muslin from head to toe.
I flew back home Monday afternoon. A lady came and sat down in the terminal across from me about an hour before boarding. She got out her laptop and headphones, which I thought meant quiet.
But no. She was Skyping. Loudly. About Gary, who just gives her so much b***s***, and she's so sick of it, and it's over between them. Why can't she find a guy who isn't so skittish or annoyed by her career? She needs to live, you know. And MOM. Oh my goodness, MOM is just being so awful about the whole thing. Mom wants her to quit her job and find something else so she can get a man, but she REALLY isn't looking for a man right now, you know? And so on. For an hour. Or so I presume. I moved after ten minutes, but she was still yakking away when boarding started. I felt sorry for her. What girl hasn't been there, right? But for a grown woman to be so unaware of her surroundings is baffling.
I arrived safe and sound (obviously), and all day for two days now, all I've heard is, "Mommy, I missed you!" and had tiny arms flung around my neck, leg, arm, and torso. I missed them, too. Like, really missed them, which I didn't even realize until Jeremy picked me up and I saw them in the back seat. I could have happily stayed longer, but it's good to be home.
My sister and I went to the zoo with the kids on Friday. I always love the zoo in theory, but then hate it when I get there and realize I have to deal with other people. Also, other people's children. People who wander around aimlessly in traffic like sun-poisoned camels. I am sure I am guilty of this myself at times, so I haven't yet stabbed anyone, but I've come close.
There's a little play area with a creek for the kids to splash in at this zoo. It's a neat idea. I hung out there for a while with my sister's kids. When I first got there, I sat down on the edge of one end with my niece and quickly realized I'd intruded on a mommies group of some kind. This isn't a bad thing all by itself. Most of my favorite people are moms.
But these were... well, I kept getting looks like, "Are you one of us? No, you couldn't possibly. You don't have that organic raw vegan healthy glow about you. And that child with you has a smudge on her dress. Hmm. Maybe you're someone's cousin." This was mildly amusing to me, but it got really hilarious when they started talking about their children and preschools and wait lists. At first I thought they meant the children who were with them, the tiny toddlers splashing at their feet.
And then I realized that all these women were pregnant--some not even showing yet--, and they were talking about their unborn children. I almost had a brain aneurysm. Is this a thing? I mean, is there a preschool that is actually so FANTASTIC that you need to wait-list your -7 month old? Really?
I also got to watch my sister kick some butt on the Tough Mudder in Beaver Creek. It was almost a half marathon up and down a mountain (twice), with obstacles. Some were easy, or so says my sister, who is a machine. And some were hard. Like a vat of ice that you had to dive into and then under a wall, and then haul your frozen rear back out by the power of your arms and the adrenaline induced by the fear of dying in a vat of ice.
It was not a spectator-friendly event. I only got to watch about five of the 25-odd obstacles. This mostly involved taking a ski lift up to the top of a mountain, waiting in line for a beer, and then running up and down half the mountain in a panic several times wondering if I'd missed her going by. I hadn't. It was just a lot longer of a course than it was supposed to be.
Did you know that using twice the amount of sunscreen you normally do is not enough if you're at twice the elevation you're used to? I did not. I also didn't think to wear a hat. I now appear to have mange and a dirty forehead. But really it's just seared flesh. Nothing catching. If I'm ever at 10,000 feet all day again, I will drape myself in muslin from head to toe.
I flew back home Monday afternoon. A lady came and sat down in the terminal across from me about an hour before boarding. She got out her laptop and headphones, which I thought meant quiet.
But no. She was Skyping. Loudly. About Gary, who just gives her so much b***s***, and she's so sick of it, and it's over between them. Why can't she find a guy who isn't so skittish or annoyed by her career? She needs to live, you know. And MOM. Oh my goodness, MOM is just being so awful about the whole thing. Mom wants her to quit her job and find something else so she can get a man, but she REALLY isn't looking for a man right now, you know? And so on. For an hour. Or so I presume. I moved after ten minutes, but she was still yakking away when boarding started. I felt sorry for her. What girl hasn't been there, right? But for a grown woman to be so unaware of her surroundings is baffling.
I arrived safe and sound (obviously), and all day for two days now, all I've heard is, "Mommy, I missed you!" and had tiny arms flung around my neck, leg, arm, and torso. I missed them, too. Like, really missed them, which I didn't even realize until Jeremy picked me up and I saw them in the back seat. I could have happily stayed longer, but it's good to be home.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Bad Liars and Bad Drivers
One of the most irksome and most wonderful things about living here is that there are so many bad drivers that I look good by comparison. I look like Jeff Gordon (is he still a thing? probably not). Every area has its quirks. For instance, in Madison, Wisconsin, no one knows how to merge. But Salt Lake is like a grocery store full of senile old people, and instead of carts we have two-ton death machines.
Turn signals are completely optional. Someone once explained to me that this is because if you're on a multi-lane road, and you turn on your signal, people will move to NOT let you in. This explains changing lanes, but it doesn't explain not using turn signals when you're actually turning. And THEN! Half the time, when I do see a turn signal, it's not even reliable. People use them so seldom that when they do actually turn them on, they completely forget about them for the next three miles.
Saturday on my way home, I watched a lady drift slowly across three lanes of traffic, wander directly in front of me, THEN turn on her right signal. A few seconds later (with the blinker still on), she drifted back to the lane to left of her. I honked, and she didn't even flip me off. She didn't even hear me, she was so engrossed in her phone conversation. I knew she was on the phone because she had it held up in front of her face like a microphone.
I love it when people hold their phones up in front of their faces when they talk instead of putting them on speakerphone, or holding them up to their ear. It's like the telephone equivalent of holding a gun sideways in the movies. You think you look cool, but you really just look kind of weird.
Emmy continues to do everything she can to make me insane. I kind of don't mind because she does it so hilariously. Like the not sleeping thing. Things Emmy has said to get out of her crib at night:
I pinched my tongue!
I bonked my tummy!
I'm done singing!
Iiiiii'm poooop! [she's not]
I need some water! [she doesn't]
I need some chocolate!
No dogs allowed!
Hold still!
Move back up!
She push me! [Grace is sound asleep]
Mom! Mommy! Mom! Mama! Mom! Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! Mommy! Mama!
I gave birth to Stewie's soulmate.
Turn signals are completely optional. Someone once explained to me that this is because if you're on a multi-lane road, and you turn on your signal, people will move to NOT let you in. This explains changing lanes, but it doesn't explain not using turn signals when you're actually turning. And THEN! Half the time, when I do see a turn signal, it's not even reliable. People use them so seldom that when they do actually turn them on, they completely forget about them for the next three miles.
Saturday on my way home, I watched a lady drift slowly across three lanes of traffic, wander directly in front of me, THEN turn on her right signal. A few seconds later (with the blinker still on), she drifted back to the lane to left of her. I honked, and she didn't even flip me off. She didn't even hear me, she was so engrossed in her phone conversation. I knew she was on the phone because she had it held up in front of her face like a microphone.
I love it when people hold their phones up in front of their faces when they talk instead of putting them on speakerphone, or holding them up to their ear. It's like the telephone equivalent of holding a gun sideways in the movies. You think you look cool, but you really just look kind of weird.
Emmy continues to do everything she can to make me insane. I kind of don't mind because she does it so hilariously. Like the not sleeping thing. Things Emmy has said to get out of her crib at night:
I pinched my tongue!
I bonked my tummy!
I'm done singing!
Iiiiii'm poooop! [she's not]
I need some water! [she doesn't]
I need some chocolate!
No dogs allowed!
Hold still!
Move back up!
She push me! [Grace is sound asleep]
Mom! Mommy! Mom! Mama! Mom! Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! Mommy! Mama!
I gave birth to Stewie's soulmate.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Happy Mother's Day
I got strep for Mother's Day. Now, now wait. It wasn't so bad. Yes, I know it sounds crazy. But it was like the mildest case of strep EVER, and I got to lie in bed for an entire weekend.
Thursday I started getting a sore throat. I've always gotten them frequently, even when I'm not sick, and since we've moved to Pollution Valley, they're even more frequent. So I just figured it was from taking a very long walk in dry, dusty air with the kids.
Friday, a friend had a potluck at her house. I was tired, but it was a long week. I didn't think anything of it. Then BAM, I suddenly just CRAVED my bed. On the way home, I started aching all over, my throat went from mildly sore to IMMA CLAW MY WAY OUT YOUR NECK PARTS AND EAT YOUR FACE, and then I wanted to die. But Friday was the worst of it. I was juuust sick enough to need to lie around all day Saturday and Sunday, but not sick enough that I was completely miserable. And I'm pretty sure I didn't pass it on to anyone else.
It was the perfect illness.
Today, with Jeremy back at work, I was a bit worried; but I woke up feeling tired yet not horrible and spent most of the day cleaning or shopping. Clean apartment and new electric blue shoes. Not the worst Monday ever.
We went to Target. I only spent $55, and only $10 of that was even moderately frivolous (the aforementioned shoes).
Now, we had to go to Target; I avoid that place because everything is so tempting. But Emmy got a handful of splinters last week on our semi-regular walk to see Ernst the Disgruntled Duck: "Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy. Off the fence. No, Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy, stop climbing the fence. Emmy, you'll get splinters. Stop climbing the fence." I sound like Rain Main. Literally nothing I can do deters her, other than picking her up and carrying her, which is exactly what she wants.
So I let her get the splinters this last time. She was PISSED. I got the accusatory glare of You're a Terrible Mother, Why Didn't You Tell Me? Those tear-filled eyes followed me all the way home. She would occasionally throw herself to the ground and moan dramatically. But this is what she does if I tell her, "No, you can't run into the marsh," or, "No, I won't let you cookies for breakfast," so I just kept walking. Sucks to be a second child.
We finally got home--a 30-second walking turning into a 10-minute walk--, and I picked them out and cleaned off her hand. I apparently missed one; a couple days later she had a blister with a splinter floating in it.
So I cleaned it up again, picked it out, cleaned it some more, and then had no way to cover it or keep it clean. Toddlers are not known for cleanliness or allowing things to get in the way of their constant pawing at whatever object strikes their fancy, and this thing was right in the middle of her paw. I would've had to duct tape her entire arm to her body.
It healed for a couple of days, got ugly, required a doctor visit, and so I HAD to go to Target today. Thanks, Emmy.
You know what else she did last week? She took a swan dive off the changing table. She's familiar with gravity. She's familiar with methods for descending from high places without too much injury. This is not a baby who doesn't know any better than to just roll off the table. This is a near-girl with extensive experience in the laws and consequences of physics.
I bent over for about three seconds to wipe Grace's face, and when I stood up, Emmy was poised for her grand dismount with such a look of glee and confidence on her face that I almost believed she could fly.
You know how in comedies, everything slows down when an accident is about to happen, and the character's voice goes slo-mo as he yells, "Nooo!" and reaches for the idiot who's about to hurt himself? Yes. That is exactly what happened.
She did not fly.
She smatted right into the linoleum. I knew it was bad, but oh, I could not help but laugh. It was heartbreakingly funny. I laughed over her shoulder while I hugged her. I don't want her to grow up with any more mother issues than any one person ought to have. The whole right side of her face was red and puffy, and her lips were bleeding in about five places. She looked like Rocky.
She calmed down after twenty minutes of rocking and soothing. I knew she wasn't faking it because she was hiccuping the whole time.
Then she napped for a record length of time and woke up with no bruises and no fat lips. Amazing. I wonder if we could exploit this superpower for profit.
I have nothing of note to say about Grace. Fat, toddling Emmy makes for some great stories, but Grace is pretty near perfect lately. Which makes for some pretty boring stories. "Today Grace smiled a lot and folded all the diapers without me asking." "Today Grace ate kale without being cajoled." Wonderful to me, of course; not so much to an audience.
Thursday I started getting a sore throat. I've always gotten them frequently, even when I'm not sick, and since we've moved to Pollution Valley, they're even more frequent. So I just figured it was from taking a very long walk in dry, dusty air with the kids.
Friday, a friend had a potluck at her house. I was tired, but it was a long week. I didn't think anything of it. Then BAM, I suddenly just CRAVED my bed. On the way home, I started aching all over, my throat went from mildly sore to IMMA CLAW MY WAY OUT YOUR NECK PARTS AND EAT YOUR FACE, and then I wanted to die. But Friday was the worst of it. I was juuust sick enough to need to lie around all day Saturday and Sunday, but not sick enough that I was completely miserable. And I'm pretty sure I didn't pass it on to anyone else.
It was the perfect illness.
Today, with Jeremy back at work, I was a bit worried; but I woke up feeling tired yet not horrible and spent most of the day cleaning or shopping. Clean apartment and new electric blue shoes. Not the worst Monday ever.
We went to Target. I only spent $55, and only $10 of that was even moderately frivolous (the aforementioned shoes).
Now, we had to go to Target; I avoid that place because everything is so tempting. But Emmy got a handful of splinters last week on our semi-regular walk to see Ernst the Disgruntled Duck: "Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy. Off the fence. No, Emmy, get off the fence. Emmy, stop climbing the fence. Emmy, you'll get splinters. Stop climbing the fence." I sound like Rain Main. Literally nothing I can do deters her, other than picking her up and carrying her, which is exactly what she wants.
So I let her get the splinters this last time. She was PISSED. I got the accusatory glare of You're a Terrible Mother, Why Didn't You Tell Me? Those tear-filled eyes followed me all the way home. She would occasionally throw herself to the ground and moan dramatically. But this is what she does if I tell her, "No, you can't run into the marsh," or, "No, I won't let you cookies for breakfast," so I just kept walking. Sucks to be a second child.
We finally got home--a 30-second walking turning into a 10-minute walk--, and I picked them out and cleaned off her hand. I apparently missed one; a couple days later she had a blister with a splinter floating in it.
So I cleaned it up again, picked it out, cleaned it some more, and then had no way to cover it or keep it clean. Toddlers are not known for cleanliness or allowing things to get in the way of their constant pawing at whatever object strikes their fancy, and this thing was right in the middle of her paw. I would've had to duct tape her entire arm to her body.
It healed for a couple of days, got ugly, required a doctor visit, and so I HAD to go to Target today. Thanks, Emmy.
You know what else she did last week? She took a swan dive off the changing table. She's familiar with gravity. She's familiar with methods for descending from high places without too much injury. This is not a baby who doesn't know any better than to just roll off the table. This is a near-girl with extensive experience in the laws and consequences of physics.
I bent over for about three seconds to wipe Grace's face, and when I stood up, Emmy was poised for her grand dismount with such a look of glee and confidence on her face that I almost believed she could fly.
You know how in comedies, everything slows down when an accident is about to happen, and the character's voice goes slo-mo as he yells, "Nooo!" and reaches for the idiot who's about to hurt himself? Yes. That is exactly what happened.
She did not fly.
She smatted right into the linoleum. I knew it was bad, but oh, I could not help but laugh. It was heartbreakingly funny. I laughed over her shoulder while I hugged her. I don't want her to grow up with any more mother issues than any one person ought to have. The whole right side of her face was red and puffy, and her lips were bleeding in about five places. She looked like Rocky.
She calmed down after twenty minutes of rocking and soothing. I knew she wasn't faking it because she was hiccuping the whole time.
Then she napped for a record length of time and woke up with no bruises and no fat lips. Amazing. I wonder if we could exploit this superpower for profit.
I have nothing of note to say about Grace. Fat, toddling Emmy makes for some great stories, but Grace is pretty near perfect lately. Which makes for some pretty boring stories. "Today Grace smiled a lot and folded all the diapers without me asking." "Today Grace ate kale without being cajoled." Wonderful to me, of course; not so much to an audience.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Don't mock. Too hard.
A friend invited me over to an essential oils class/party thing yesterday.
Normally, I'm really skeptical about any kind of doctor conspiracy!/pharmaceuticals are out to get us! kinds of products, but I'll tell you what. When I used to get migraines, sometimes the only thing that was effective was this peppermint oil I bought for a bazillion dollars an ounce and rubbed on my temples and under my nose. I still don't think that all the doctors have a conspiracy going, and I still think that pharmaceutical companies that spend billions of dollars on failed medicines have to make up for that research by charging lots of money for the few successes they do have.
But some stuff? I think some good stuff really is discounted just because it's for hippies and Europeans.
So I went with an open mind. And not only did I like this stuff; I loved it. I tried some sore muscle cream on my poor aching legs (er, I went in the bathroom for this). Pain nearly gone in less than five seconds. It was amazing.
I only spent $10, but I would have loved to have bought one of the kits. They're too expensive, unfortunately, but I think I'm going to save up for one.
Meeting new friends outside of school or work or church is very awkward for me. I sometimes feel like my brain operates on a completely different set of rules than the rest of the world sometimes, so I'm constantly second-guessing myself. Am I too exuberant? Too flippant? Too sarcastic? Too helpful? Too people-pleasing?
This is really fun at the park. I constantly feel like I'm being judged, even when I know I'm not, and this is not helped by the fact that no one is better at judgy than judgy moms. Side note: if you say "judge" enough, it starts to sound fake. So until very recently, I haven't said "hi" or made small talk or anything with other women who are there at the playground with their kids.
And then a few weeks ago, something in my brain broke, and I was like, "This is the dumbest thing ever. Just say hi, you insecure moron." And now I'm making new friends left and right. Not let's-braid-each-others'-hairs kinds of friends, but people who I can smile and wave at without assuming they're thinking, "Ugh, why does SHE keep talking to me?" And even if I do get that vibe from them, I don't care. It's amazing. Thank you, Lord.
I still have a whole heap of Crazy stashed in a back closet of my brain--Crazy I wasn't even aware I had until after Grace was born, but it was there, lurking, all along. But it seems like lately, they're being lifted off me, one by one. And maybe someday I'll be able to talk on the phone without breaking out the anti-nausea medicine. And do you know what that means? This means I will be calling all of you people who have kindly given me your number over the years. MWAHAHAH.
(Don't hold your breath; it will probably be 2020 before I get to that point.)
(Did anyone else read "2020" in a Barbara Walters voice?)
Normally, I'm really skeptical about any kind of doctor conspiracy!/pharmaceuticals are out to get us! kinds of products, but I'll tell you what. When I used to get migraines, sometimes the only thing that was effective was this peppermint oil I bought for a bazillion dollars an ounce and rubbed on my temples and under my nose. I still don't think that all the doctors have a conspiracy going, and I still think that pharmaceutical companies that spend billions of dollars on failed medicines have to make up for that research by charging lots of money for the few successes they do have.
But some stuff? I think some good stuff really is discounted just because it's for hippies and Europeans.
So I went with an open mind. And not only did I like this stuff; I loved it. I tried some sore muscle cream on my poor aching legs (er, I went in the bathroom for this). Pain nearly gone in less than five seconds. It was amazing.
I only spent $10, but I would have loved to have bought one of the kits. They're too expensive, unfortunately, but I think I'm going to save up for one.
Meeting new friends outside of school or work or church is very awkward for me. I sometimes feel like my brain operates on a completely different set of rules than the rest of the world sometimes, so I'm constantly second-guessing myself. Am I too exuberant? Too flippant? Too sarcastic? Too helpful? Too people-pleasing?
This is really fun at the park. I constantly feel like I'm being judged, even when I know I'm not, and this is not helped by the fact that no one is better at judgy than judgy moms. Side note: if you say "judge" enough, it starts to sound fake. So until very recently, I haven't said "hi" or made small talk or anything with other women who are there at the playground with their kids.
And then a few weeks ago, something in my brain broke, and I was like, "This is the dumbest thing ever. Just say hi, you insecure moron." And now I'm making new friends left and right. Not let's-braid-each-others'-hairs kinds of friends, but people who I can smile and wave at without assuming they're thinking, "Ugh, why does SHE keep talking to me?" And even if I do get that vibe from them, I don't care. It's amazing. Thank you, Lord.
I still have a whole heap of Crazy stashed in a back closet of my brain--Crazy I wasn't even aware I had until after Grace was born, but it was there, lurking, all along. But it seems like lately, they're being lifted off me, one by one. And maybe someday I'll be able to talk on the phone without breaking out the anti-nausea medicine. And do you know what that means? This means I will be calling all of you people who have kindly given me your number over the years. MWAHAHAH.
(Don't hold your breath; it will probably be 2020 before I get to that point.)
(Did anyone else read "2020" in a Barbara Walters voice?)
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