A told her first joke yesterday. A, C and I were all wolfing down our grilled cheese sandwiches at lunch, silently for once as everyone was starved. A finished up first, threw her plate on the floor and then clear as a bell said "I Mama!" and then started laughing hysterically.
I'm still giggling.
Today was one of my church mommy days. You see, when I married my husband, I agreed that our children would be raised Christian (OK, I can't even SPELL IT, I flipped back and forth between a and e before googling it and finding out there was an i too). To me this meant that he would arrange for their baptism, take them to church every Sunday and basically handle that part of their lives. How foolish was I. It seems that my nature is such that I can't just leave him to do what he wants (or doesn't want) to do.
Last summer, enrolling C in Sunday School somehow made it onto my to do list as M was dragging his heels about it. I think I was under the illusion that if I enrolled C, he would ride off with Daddy to church and Mommy would laze around in her PJ's and sip coffee. Instead, it turned out that this is a co-op Sunday School and mommies (not daddies) ran it. Now, a rational mommy would have told the Sunday School coordinator that she was not in fact baptized and let them work out the details of who covered my teaching hours. Instead, I somehow ended up running Sunday school eight Sundays a year plus "extra curricular" activities such as the Turkey Drive and (gulp) Christmas pageant.
How did this happen you ask? Well, part of me was worried that C would be upset that everyone else's mommy showed up for Sunday school but not his. A small part of me felt somewhat obligated to volunteer if that was what it took because I had promised to raise my kids in the church. A not so small part of me figured that if I was teaching him about religion I could put my two cents in about the things I felt strongly about (like Darwin. And did I mention that Jesus was an oops baby?).
A year into it, I have to say it is not as horrid as I thought it would be. The church is a lovely church and the people have grown on me, as has the priest (or is he a minister...). I am enjoying getting a chance to see C interact in a "classroom" environment. Perhaps most importantly, it makes my husband so happy to have us all troop to church together. His family memories from his childhood are few and far between, but going to church is one that has stuck with him. As he graciously puts up with my family's liberalness, which I have a feeling might be more painful for him than listening to 20 minutes of a well written talk once a week is for me, I feel I should reciprocate by doing something that clearly means a lot to him (even if you couldn't tell that by his lack of initiative in the Sunday School registration process).
All that having been said, I think I need to get myself to Ann Taylor as I DO NOT have an appropriate church mommy wardrobe these days. Turns out you can wear jeans and sweats all week, but on Sundays you need a dress. Go figure.
Actually helpful to look back and see the date A had the strange rash...now it seems like it is not in fact a strange rash but allergies. Too far into the allergy saga to post the whole deal, but awaiting the blood work from the doctor. I guess my half hearted attemps at blogging serve a purpose...
So Ellen isn't even on, it is the French Open. Someone out there really has it in for me today.
We are in day 4 of A has a rash that may or may not be the chickenpox land, and it is not going well. It is cold, it is raining, and we started our day at oh, about 3:30am. It is only 10:30, and I am done. Done done done. So done that when M called to chat as he was early to a meeting several states away and was bored, I completely lost it.
I am very unclear as to how I am to fill our day. A is prone on the floor crying hysterically about 9/10ths of the time as she has been up since 3:30am and I am NOT reinstituting the morning nap, and C is ripping toys from her right and left. I am almost at the point that I am going to lock everyone in the playroom and put on some Mommy TV as I just want to throw something through a window. Perhaps a little Ellen will make it all better....
I love my daughter dearly but have decided that she does not do illness well. For the first 6 months of her life, she had nary a sniffle, cough, or fever. I applauded myself for having such a healthy child. Big mistake, as soon after it all went wrong.
Her first cold turned into a sinus infection. Her first cough turned into pneumonia. Her first tummy bug almost landed her in the hospital for dehydration. Now she has a bizarre rash that may or may not be hives, may or may not be a really bad reaction to the chicken pox vaccine, or may or may not be a random virus of some other unknown variety. The Dr. is unwilling to commit.
So I am stuck with a child with a rash/pox/hives that appears and disappears with the drop of a hat, a fever that similarly comes and goes, and not a clue when I can take her out into the world again.
I figured this was as good a time as any to return to blogging and try to find the humor in it all.
Humor, where are you?
Not a month after my bumper car incident, I awoke this am to find that some idiot had plowed off the road this morning, taken out all the shrubs in front of our driveway, and hit my husband's parked car. Now we are down both cars as mine is STILL not fixed. I think I should start a pool on how sky high our premiums are going to go....
Too tired to take action on any of these right now, A is NOT sleeping well. But figured I would throw them on here and maybe I'll get back to them someday.
Why I Shlep 30 Minutes to my Pediatrician
The Keurig One Cup Coffee Maker Rocks
One (Well Educated) Mommy's Love Affair with Reality TV, Soaps, and Talk Shows
Am I Really Old Enough to be Mrs. E?????
Playgroup Politics
It has been a long couple of days. C was just diagnosed with apraxia of speech after a very long, very slow evaluation process. We have always known that his speech was "not quite right" and starting at about a year I started making noises that I felt something needed to be done. Finally, when he turned 2 and 1/2, everyone involved agreed that we should start the evaluation process.
Our first stop was the state's early intervention program, which determined that while he was delayed in articulation, he was so far ahead in receptive and expressive language that he did not qualify for the program. I went back to our pediatrician, who immediately referred us to the speech therapy department of a local hospital. They refused to even contemplate seeing him until he had a hearing test, so we took the child who can hear an airplane a county over or a whisper two rooms away to have his hearing evaluated. No surprise to anyone, he passed with flying colors.
I then called the speech folks back to schedule an appointment, which took another six weeks. Tuesday we finally had the evaluation, and at the end of it all the evaluator told me it was apraxia and she was recommending two sessions a week. I had never heard the term apraxia before, but how she described it didn't sound too horrid to me, so I nodded and said OK, and went home happy that someone had finally agreed that my son needed therapy and was willing to provide it.
The written report arrived in the mail on Friday, and while I didn't understand a lot of it, the words "severely impaired articulation skills" and "severe articulation disorder" jumped out at me. I briefly debated starting to research it all, and then decided that I had wanted him to get into speech therapy, he was in speech therapy, and I would go from there once we met a therapist. When I relayed this decision to B, she acted surprised, as I am a research it all to the nth degree type. I held to my guns, and insisted that I was happy with where we were and going trolling for more info on the web would just lead to trouble.
Less than an hour later I was in tears at my computer as the first few sites I found started talking about using a computer for assisted speech and children never learning to communicate verbally. I should have stuck with my first instinct and waited for the therapist's opinion. Since I had plunged in, however, I had to keep plunging.
After hysterical phone calls to B and my mother, both of whom talked me down from my panicked state, I dove back into my research with a determination that I was going to solve this before we ever saw the therapist.
After reading tons and corresponding with several speech therapists/language pathologists (thank you again if you are reading this!) online, I am less convinced that apraxia is our issue, although he obviously stills needs therapy. The diagnosis is less important than the final outcome, obviously, but I want to make sure that he gets the right therapy for his particular issue instead of wasting even more time on unproductive approaches. And, quite honestly, apraxia scares me. If that's what it is then that's what it is, but somehow a phonological disorder (the other suggested diagnosis) seems less scary.
Regardless of the terminology, however, I am now faced with the challenge of fighting tooth and nail to make sure that he gets what he needs, and that is going to be the hardest part for me. By nature, I tend to defer to the experts (I let the wedding folks plan my wedding, let my OB call the shots regarding my pregnancy and delivery, let the lawn guys prune as they wish, etc.) Now that it my son on the line, however, I feel the need to insist that I know every detail of every decision. Not having ever ventured down this path before, however, I'm a little unclear on how to be a mama bear. I've been practicing in the mirror "Tell me again why you want to do that (grrr)" and "Explain exactly what that means and how it impacts my son (grrr)" and "I don't agree, I want another opinion (grr, grrr)."
Come Monday I am sure I will be logging many hours on the phone talking to therapists and insurance companies, but for now I just want to spend the weekend snuggling my absolutely adorable son. Which I apparently do not do enough of as everytime I hug him and kiss him and tell him how much I love him, he pulls back and looks at me and asks if I'm OK. I'm OK sweetie as long as I have you.
I have been bad about keeping up. Very bad. I will post a new one soon, I promise. As soom as A starts sleeping for more than 30 minutes at a clip. Perhaps tomorrow.
Tomorrow is C's preschool holiday party and I am in charge of "treats," which is a pretty broad term in my book. I much prefered the Thanksgiving party as I was in charge of "four apples, sliced in eighths and one bunch of grapes, sliced lengthwise." Nice and precise, no questions or concerns about what was expected of me. "Treats" on the other hand, could mean any number of things. Cupcakes (but maybe those are reserved for birthday celebrations only?) cookies (if so, how many per child?) brownies (not terrible festive, are they)...the list goes on and on forever. After some debate I settled on cookies. Festive, but not too much sugar or mess. Now the big question remained, do I bake them or buy them? After much internal struggle I decided that I would make gingerbread Christmas trees with C as he had so much fun making them when we had done them as a holiday activity over the weekend. I could perhaps regain some of the domestic diva points I had lost during the cookie exchange fiasco last week.
I rolled, C wielded the cookie cutter, and we baked. All was good in the land of domestic divadom. I didn't burn them, they all looked exactally the same cooling on the counter (as in a class of ten 2 and 1/2 year olds, all things must be EXACTALLY the same), and they actually tasted perfectly homemade.
As I was making dinner, however, I heard a crash, shatter, "mamaaaaaa." C has dragged his step stool over to the counter to inspect the cookies and accidentally knocked half of them onto the floor. I no longer had ten cookies that looked exactally the same, but rather seven cookies almost intact and several broken ones. I silently sighed while reassuring C that it was all OK, accidents happen, and we'll just think of something. He tearfully looked up at me and said "That's OK Mommy, you go buy more at the grocery store." No "we'll make some more, right?" or "you'll fix them, right?" but "you'll buy them." How sad is it that my son knew exactally what I was going to do, as at 8:45 at night I joined the line of other last minute mommies at the local grocery store casing the cookie display.
I think it might be time for me to scream uncle to the domestic diva gods. But for now I'm off to try to make pumpkin bread (from a mix) for C's teachers. Wish me luck....
So last night I had a desperate housewife moment. M, still in Vegas, thanks for asking, was gone, and I was snuggled in bed watching Desperate Housewives. A woke up with an ear piercing "I am in PAIN" scream. I raced to her room, assessed that there was actually nothing really wrong, and placed her back in her crib. She hollered again. I debated briefly, then scooped up my somewhat suprised child and brought her back to bed with me so I could finish watching the show (and as an added bonus, TIVO had recorded enough that I didn't have to watch any more commercials). She thought it was an adventure for about 10 minutes, then snuggled in and went back to sleep next to me. I got to finish watching my show, everyone won. And I am only slightly embarrassed to admit it all....
I am so very tired. M is in Vegas this weekend (pleasure trip, a whole other entry could be written to describe the bitterness I feel) and I am running on a fuel of diet coke and coffee. Which is a double edge sword since I am still nursing A, and am just waiting for her to wake up wired. So far I've been lucky, but my luck never lasts long with these things.
C droppped his nap right about the time A was born (go figure) but still desperately needs it. So at 1pm pretty much on the dot my child goes from lovable cuddly happy child to hell on wheels. And from 1 until I can finally get him in bed at about 6:45, I am fighting a losing battle trying to keep him from hurting himself or others (particularly A) as his self control is gone gone gone.
About once a week I finally cave and force a nap on him by lying down with him when M is home on the weekends, and that seems to buy me a day or two of relative peace. Today I tried to swing it by myself and we just ended up waking A so I drove both kids around town for an hour so they could nap. The upside, I found our next neighborhood and narrowed down the houses I would like to a small handfull :-). The downside, C is still up and it is 9:10. There will be no sleep for the weary.
I have no idea how to resolve this situation, and frankly I don't think there is a blessed thing I can do about it besides soldier on and wait for him to grow up enough so he doesn't need as much sleep. Silly me thought it would be a transition of a few weeks, tops. I now think we are looking at many more months, if not years.
I keep looking at A and thinking there is something I can do to make her a better sleeper. And she is marginally better than C was at here age, but just marginally. I have a feeling that I will be tired for many more years to come. M has promised me two weekends away in exchange for this trip to Vegas (I think the guilt kicked in, finally) and quite honestly there is no place I want to go besides bed. Alone. With my pillow. And that is where I am now headed, as I think C has finally drifted off.
At 8:38 this morning God's gift to the weary arrived on my doorstep, the Stop and Shop Peapod delivery man. I ordered my groceries for the week online yesterday, and for the very very cheap sum of $5.95, they were deposited in my kitchen by a man I very nearly kissed.
The grocery store ranks up there with laundry on my list of things I hate most. It used to be the perfect outing when C could be contained in the cart. Now that he can unclip himself, climb out and take off, it is my worst nightmare. People who used to coo happily at us as we cruised the aisles chatting happily now part like the Red Sea or run when they see us coming. I screach, he cries, and we often go home empty handed.
I haven't quite figured out how Peapod makes money and have a niggling suspicion that they probably charge more for the same item, but quite honestly, I could care less right now. My food was delivered packaged by category, I didn't have to fight with my children in public, and we will be able to eat for a week. Life is good.
This is a somewhat whiney post as my boobs are currently bleeding since A has achieved teeth and decided to use them. B (yes, you are deserving of a literary letter :-) ) always said this was the dirty little secret of breastfeeding, and indeed it is. By the time the teeth come in you are generally committed for the long haul and slog on through, figuring why discourage others behind you by giving the painful details of what sharp little teeth not yet worn down by chewing can actually do to your nipples. And I suppose it is the right thing to do as at week 5 with C, had someone told me what was to come, I might have run and never turned back instead of becoming the slightly over zealous breastfeeding mommy that I am.
I had actually forgotten the teeth issue but at the first brush of those little sharp prongs it all came flooding back. "Ooooh. Not good," I thought with a mental sigh as I settled deeper into the glider in anticipation of what was to come.
This evening was particularly bad as I think she is working on her top teeth (fun fun and more fun). As I kept poping her off and doing the firm "No" routine, C leaned over her and wagged his finger back and forth saying "Baby, don't bite Mommy. Not nice. You drink mommy milk like good baby." Which cracked me up to no end as his biting phase makes her look like a meek little kitten.
When C started biting I shleped us to the lactation consultant because he would bite, I would scream and he would then refuse to nurse. I was convinced she would have some magical cure as she had done so well by me in the beginning. When she gingerly suggested that he was self weaning, I suprised myself (and her) by freaking out among all the poor horrified new mommies in the room dealing with latch issues. "I am NOT weaning this child after all we have been through. He is going to nurse until I say it is over and it is NOT over." I huffed out and never went back. We eventually worked through it (C likes to eat, and when push came to shove, food won) and happily kept nursing for many more months.
This time around I had no such illusions that the stage would miraculously go away and instead pulled out the lanolin and soothies. Fortunately, A is more of a nibbler. She chomps and then pops off to look at me as if to ask, "How about that? Is that OK?" This first time she did it the look she gave me was so amusing I made the mistake of laughing so she chowed down until I screamed. She seems to be responding to the pop off routine fairly well, which is giving me false hope that she will also respond well to all sorts of disciplining techniques as she grows up (a mommy can always hope, can't she?). But for now I guess I should just count my blessings that my boobs may survive this in slightly better shape than they did the last time...
Tomorrow will hallmark two domestic diva failures for me. It is the day of the great holiday cookie exchange at which I can almost guarantee I will be offering up store bought cookies unless some divine intervention appears in my kitchen before the morning. It is also the day that I finally cave and try to deal with my housecleaner situation and admit that I need at least weekly help.
The cookie failure is particularly irksome. I am currently working on batch number 3 of meringues, and they show only slightly more promise than batches one and two. Batch one did not even pretend to look like meringues should look, it was more of an egg white and sugar soup. Batch number two showed early promise, and then fell (literally). Batch number 3 made it into the oven, but at last peek only loosly resembled meringues in a "if you squint really hard and look slightly to the left" sort of way. I am currently debating if the 4th would be worth the effort or if I should just throw in the towel and head to the store after dropping C off at school tomorrow. It's a close call. Either way I need to go to the store as we are out of eggs, and when faced with the lovely looking store cookies or the potential of failing yet again, there is fairly good odds that I will cave to the powers that be. I should just admit that I cannot bake and move on.
On the housekeeper front, I currently have a lovely woman who comes every other week and does an adequate job of cleaning, a fabulous job of babysitting, and an above and beyond the call of duty job of catsitting when asked. In theory, I should be doing an equally adequate if not better cleaning the weeks that she does not come, in reality I will sometimes whip out the vacumn if the dust bunnies start rolling across the room.
I do not know how the Martha Stewart's and Bree's of the world do it. As I told M tonight, it is a good day if I can get all three of us dressed, cleaned, and fed. Dinner consists of a bagged salad and some sort of mystery meat most nights, and I couldn't even begin to tell you when the last time I pulled out the windex was. But the chaos is wearing me down, so I will throw in the towel and see if she can come every week. So much for being a SAHM saving us money...between the cleaning lady and the multiple batches of cookies, today has turned out to be pretty damn expensive.
(12/5/04 Note: this is one of the many entries that was started and not finished because someone woke up, Elmo ended, or I just got too tired to continue. I was told to post them anyway, so excuse any glaring errors)
As I write I am pondering the purchase of yet another stroller. I currently own a single jogger, a double jogger, a travel "system" stroller and an umbrella stroller. The umbrella stroller's sun canopy lost a fight with my husband's golf clubs in his trunk, however, and the company wants to charge me $50 for a new one. BUT, for only $112 (including shipping) I can purchase the Maclaren Volo and accessory pack which I have been coveting for well over a year.
I admit, I have a problem. I am in search of the perfect stroller for every occasion and the perfect diaper bag for every outing (I am currently eying the Loom Bandicots as they have a separtate mommy bag that detaches for the oh so many times I go out without my children). My husband has forbidden another diaper bag from entering the house (perhaps if my sister would like to buy me a gift for the holidays, hint hint), but the stroller was agreed to as really, it was his fault that the old one broke.
The guilt weighs upon me a little, however, as the travel system stroller is perfectly adequate, just huge and heavy and a pain to push and lug. But A DOES use her stroller almost daily between the preschool drop off and pick up runs, the jaunts downtown, and the soon to be trips to the gym (yes, I did in fact join again AND prepaid for 11 babysitting sessions to try and force myself to leave A). I salivate at the thought of pushing a lightweight stroller again and being able to easily hoist it in and out of the car. But plenty of mommies use bulky heavy strollers daily and have lived to tell the tale, and I am sure I could too.
There is another component to the guilt, however, as the money to buy it technically isn't mine. I know many people will flame me for this, but there is a very large part of me that feels that since I did not earn it, I need to be somewhat frugal in my spending. There is also a not so small part of me that feels that since I have given up my career to stay home, partially because my husband is a firm beliver in the SAHM (but also because I am a control freak, see my previous entry) if buying a lightweight stroller makes me happy, I should do so. M frequently buys himself $100 "toys" such as a new golf club, so why shouldn't I be able to do so as well.
Th stroller will sit in a cart someplace on the web waiting for me to reach a decision, but for now I am going to fantasize about my new back to work plan, becoming a WAHM so I can still have input into the minutia of my children's lives...
Well, the phone call came in from Vegas and not one but two children woke up screaming. I wonder where I put the phone number of the latest nanny recomendation...
OK, just realized that about 45 minutes ago I was too tired to blog, but somehow am still logged on surfing. Back to blogs to remember: what did the SAHM do without the Internet?
