Sunday, September 02, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Now and then
I used to have natural blonde hair…but then I experienced pregnancy hormones.
I used to have a (relatively) flat stomach…but then I got pregnant.
I used to think I was tough…but then I gave birth.
I used to think I knew what it was to be tired…but then I had a newborn.
I used to think I knew what love was…but then I had Rebecca.
I used to have a (relatively) flat stomach…but then I got pregnant.
I used to think I was tough…but then I gave birth.
I used to think I knew what it was to be tired…but then I had a newborn.
I used to think I knew what love was…but then I had Rebecca.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Musings
Am finishing up (hopefully) my final week of part-time work at The Really Big Company. The project may extend into next week, but golly gee, I kinda hope not. My small taste of working and motherhood has made this much clear to me: I don't know how working moms do it. You all have my respect and utter awe, because this is TOUGH. I'm frazzled. The house is in shambles. The Banker is on edge. Becca is constipated. The dogs and cat are pissed. How do you women do this? You are incredibly disciplined and your talents need to be sung from the roof tops. There should be a national appreciation day JUST FOR YOU.
In other tough news, can I just say that this weaning thing is dang uncomfortable?!? So blessedly welcomed, but really difficult nonetheless. Part of me is going to miss this stage, the way Becca clings to me and makes happy chugging noises, the way that this one thing can make all right for her even in her worst of moods. But it's time. My body was slowly giving up before I even made the decision to start this process. Still, this is just one more sign that my newborn isn't so much of a newborn anymore. More like an adorable, vocal, stubborn little person. I don't know how it happened--and so fast!--but it's happened. What a ride.
In other tough news, can I just say that this weaning thing is dang uncomfortable?!? So blessedly welcomed, but really difficult nonetheless. Part of me is going to miss this stage, the way Becca clings to me and makes happy chugging noises, the way that this one thing can make all right for her even in her worst of moods. But it's time. My body was slowly giving up before I even made the decision to start this process. Still, this is just one more sign that my newborn isn't so much of a newborn anymore. More like an adorable, vocal, stubborn little person. I don't know how it happened--and so fast!--but it's happened. What a ride.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Close up
Little starfish hands spread wide to gently touch my cheek,
her skin so achingly soft.
Lashes arch above the deepest innocence,
eyes seal grey one minute, hazel the next.
The most perfect rosebud lips
emit heavenly sighs and sweet giggles.
her skin so achingly soft.
Lashes arch above the deepest innocence,
eyes seal grey one minute, hazel the next.
The most perfect rosebud lips
emit heavenly sighs and sweet giggles.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Just for Fun
| Star Wars Horoscope for Libra |
 You convey the art of persuasion through force. You always display your supreme intelligence. You have a great talent in obtaining balance between yourself and your surroundings. Star wars character you are most like: Obi Wan Kenobie |
What Is Your Star Wars Horoscope?
| You are Betty Grable |
 You're the perfect girl for most guys Pretty yet approachable. Beautiful yet real. |
What Famous Pinup Are You?
My parenting skills
I typically take most of what The Banker’s family has to say with a rather large grain of salt. While I care for each and every one of them, I don’t have a great deal in common with most of his family members. (For that matter, often neither does The Banker!)
So when The Banker’s older brother insinuated in an e-mail that we were selfish parents, I initially brushed the comment off. After all, he’s an annoying, talkative know-it-all, whose wife dresses him funny and won’t let him have a dog.
But somehow the jibe rooted into some corner of my brain and it’s begun to ferment, growing in acidity and becoming harder and harder to ignore. I’ve tried to be many things in my short tenure as a parent, but selfish sure as hell isn’t one of them. It’s an insult that cuts to the heart of most any parent—that they put their own well being before that of their child.
The source of the comment was The Banker and my pending vacation to hike up to Machu Picchu. With the recent earthquake in Peru, The Banker’s family is in an uproar. (For the record, they are disdainful of foreign countries, most notably ones that don’t speak English or reside in the “safety” of Europe.)
The trip is only a shadow of the adventure we’d planned before I’d discovered I was pregnant, but I cannot express how much I’m looking forward to this excursion. It will be a breathe of fresh air, offering beautiful sights, a peek into an entirely different culture, not to mention some much-needed time for just The Banker and me. Becoming parents, while incredibly rewarding, is also hard on a marriage—it’s sometimes exhausting and isolating. (Why people would ever have children to “save” a marriage is beyond me! The lack of sleep, private time, quality communication, and more can take a toll.) But now I’m saddled with the idea that this trip, with its small, small “dangers,” qualifies me as selfish.
I made the hard decision to give up working (short of special projects and freelance writing), to spend every day with my daughter, raising her myself and trying not to let the monotony drive me mad. With only one income, we’ve learned to live on a much tighter budget. The occasional treats I granted myself (facials, horseback riding), are now a distant memory. Not feeling that 10 months was long enough to give up my body, I’ve spent an additional six months nursing Becca—a good portion of that going lactose-free. I try to put only the healthiest of foods in my body and hers, try to provide a home that’s safe, clean, inviting, fun, and friendly.
But it’s not enough. The Banker and I have been labeled as selfish parents, and while part of me thinks this is just damn ridiculous, the other part of me wonders if maybe there’s some truth to that insult.
So when The Banker’s older brother insinuated in an e-mail that we were selfish parents, I initially brushed the comment off. After all, he’s an annoying, talkative know-it-all, whose wife dresses him funny and won’t let him have a dog.
But somehow the jibe rooted into some corner of my brain and it’s begun to ferment, growing in acidity and becoming harder and harder to ignore. I’ve tried to be many things in my short tenure as a parent, but selfish sure as hell isn’t one of them. It’s an insult that cuts to the heart of most any parent—that they put their own well being before that of their child.
The source of the comment was The Banker and my pending vacation to hike up to Machu Picchu. With the recent earthquake in Peru, The Banker’s family is in an uproar. (For the record, they are disdainful of foreign countries, most notably ones that don’t speak English or reside in the “safety” of Europe.)
The trip is only a shadow of the adventure we’d planned before I’d discovered I was pregnant, but I cannot express how much I’m looking forward to this excursion. It will be a breathe of fresh air, offering beautiful sights, a peek into an entirely different culture, not to mention some much-needed time for just The Banker and me. Becoming parents, while incredibly rewarding, is also hard on a marriage—it’s sometimes exhausting and isolating. (Why people would ever have children to “save” a marriage is beyond me! The lack of sleep, private time, quality communication, and more can take a toll.) But now I’m saddled with the idea that this trip, with its small, small “dangers,” qualifies me as selfish.
I made the hard decision to give up working (short of special projects and freelance writing), to spend every day with my daughter, raising her myself and trying not to let the monotony drive me mad. With only one income, we’ve learned to live on a much tighter budget. The occasional treats I granted myself (facials, horseback riding), are now a distant memory. Not feeling that 10 months was long enough to give up my body, I’ve spent an additional six months nursing Becca—a good portion of that going lactose-free. I try to put only the healthiest of foods in my body and hers, try to provide a home that’s safe, clean, inviting, fun, and friendly.
But it’s not enough. The Banker and I have been labeled as selfish parents, and while part of me thinks this is just damn ridiculous, the other part of me wonders if maybe there’s some truth to that insult.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Best ever
Sometimes when Becca hasn't seen me for a few hours--say first thing in the morning or after I've left her with one of her grandmothers for a bit--she gives me this look: Her brows lift, her eyes get wide and her mouth opens in the biggest, most ecstatic smile. Then, she hunches her shoulders, squints her eyes, shoves her fist in her mouth, and turns her body away as if she can't contain herself. Okay, it's crap to explain, but let me tell you, it's awesome to know that I get that reaction.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Feast or famine
Only a month ago I was whining about not having enough freelance work. Okay, stupid, now don't complain about getting what you asked for. I currently have four articles due before the month's end, which is a decent load for me to handle.
But then out of the blue, The Really Big Company called. There's a special project they'd like my help with over the next three weeks, for about 15 hours a week. Hooray! Much needed money and mind stimulation. But how in the heck am I going to get all this accomplished?
And more importantly, how is Becca going to do with her grandmas for five hours a day? And why in the world am I procrastinating here when I should be getting a jump on those articles?! Argh!
But then out of the blue, The Really Big Company called. There's a special project they'd like my help with over the next three weeks, for about 15 hours a week. Hooray! Much needed money and mind stimulation. But how in the heck am I going to get all this accomplished?
And more importantly, how is Becca going to do with her grandmas for five hours a day? And why in the world am I procrastinating here when I should be getting a jump on those articles?! Argh!
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Becca's First Foray into Veggies
I put both containers in front of her: Gerber's organic carrots and Gerber's organic green beans. She reached toward the unnaturally bright orange concoction.
"Okay, baby girl. It was your choice. Carrots it is."
And with that, we moved from cereal to vegetables. And Becca's reaction? First there was the cringe:
And then there was the spitting:
And finally there was the royal flippin' mess, followed by crying:
So, Becca prefers the sweet carbohydrates. No news there--she's clearly my daughter. We'll try again tomorrow, with what I hope will be better results.
Congratulations, baby girl. Welcome to the world of veggies! I know, they suck. But after you get these things down, we'll move onto the fun stuff. Like ice cream. Chocolate and peanut butter. And wine.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Modest Me
It's official. When did I get so old?
A friend of mine had asked if I wanted to attend the Modest Mouse concert last night. Having, in my life B.C., been quite the concert-goer, I said yes. (Aerosmith, Green Day--their first big tour, Van Halen, Tom Petty, Nine Inch Nails...it barely mattered the type of music, I just attended.) And The Banker gladly gave me the night off, in turnabout for his day of golf a few weeks ago.
The concert was outside in 280% humidity and a balmy 80 degrees--at 8 p.m. It felt like I'd dressed myself in a wet wool sweater, despite my t-shirt, capris, and flip-flops. Maybe the insufferable heat caused so many young'uns to run about half naked. But it doesn't explain the teetering high heels. I mean, ladies, there's no place to sit down. In this heat. On the sweltering blacktop. For four hours.
But the clear answer to this insane climate is to mount each other in public, right? Yes, clearly gratuitous signs of PDA will stem off the rolling beads of sweat and the general stink of a thousand people slowly boiling.
And while I acknowledge that Modest Mouse caters to the alternative crowd, I was still caught off guard by generally attractive people with huge pegs in their ears, so as to stretch them out to attain the look of some African tribe in National Geographic. I wanted to take these people aside and assure them that with time, things will sag of their own accord--no mutilation required!
See how I sound like a grumpy old lady? Once upon a time, I was in a mosh pit. I crowd surfed. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and made myself ill. I had that look of entitlement, that screw-you exterior. So why begrudge the next generation their time? Maybe it's a bit of jealousy mixed with hindsight's ever-clear view. Whatever it is, the evening left me feeling damn old. And the concert was just so-so. The band didn't play one of my favorite songs and struggled with feedback issues the entire evening.
The only upside? I was carded for beer and some young gentleman kindly offered me his bong. Even though I turned him down, it was still nice to be asked. Because you wouldn't offer your pot to someone who looked like your mom, would you? So maybe I'm not quite that old. Just yet.
A friend of mine had asked if I wanted to attend the Modest Mouse concert last night. Having, in my life B.C., been quite the concert-goer, I said yes. (Aerosmith, Green Day--their first big tour, Van Halen, Tom Petty, Nine Inch Nails...it barely mattered the type of music, I just attended.) And The Banker gladly gave me the night off, in turnabout for his day of golf a few weeks ago.
The concert was outside in 280% humidity and a balmy 80 degrees--at 8 p.m. It felt like I'd dressed myself in a wet wool sweater, despite my t-shirt, capris, and flip-flops. Maybe the insufferable heat caused so many young'uns to run about half naked. But it doesn't explain the teetering high heels. I mean, ladies, there's no place to sit down. In this heat. On the sweltering blacktop. For four hours.
But the clear answer to this insane climate is to mount each other in public, right? Yes, clearly gratuitous signs of PDA will stem off the rolling beads of sweat and the general stink of a thousand people slowly boiling.
And while I acknowledge that Modest Mouse caters to the alternative crowd, I was still caught off guard by generally attractive people with huge pegs in their ears, so as to stretch them out to attain the look of some African tribe in National Geographic. I wanted to take these people aside and assure them that with time, things will sag of their own accord--no mutilation required!
See how I sound like a grumpy old lady? Once upon a time, I was in a mosh pit. I crowd surfed. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and made myself ill. I had that look of entitlement, that screw-you exterior. So why begrudge the next generation their time? Maybe it's a bit of jealousy mixed with hindsight's ever-clear view. Whatever it is, the evening left me feeling damn old. And the concert was just so-so. The band didn't play one of my favorite songs and struggled with feedback issues the entire evening.
The only upside? I was carded for beer and some young gentleman kindly offered me his bong. Even though I turned him down, it was still nice to be asked. Because you wouldn't offer your pot to someone who looked like your mom, would you? So maybe I'm not quite that old. Just yet.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Ridiculous
I know it's absurd. Honestly, I do. But ever since I finished the final installment of Harry Potter last night at the exhausting hour of 1:30, I've suffered from the deepest melancholy. Funny how a book can so pull me into it's world, so utterly blot out what goes on outside. And today of all days, I needed the escape.
The Jeep's window, which refused to work yesterday led to a discovery of a fuel line leak. Over $500 to fix that sucker. And then the call from "The Prick" at my old insurance company, from when I worked at The Really Big Company. It seems there's a state law that The Banker and I had never heard of that specifies that since The Banker's birthday was before mine and since he was employed at the time of Becca's birth, state law demanded that his insurance company provide primary coverage for Peanut and mine secondary. WTF?
Since my coverage was better than The Banker's, we'd opted to cover Becca under my insurance. When we decided I'd remain at home, we switched Becca and myself to The Banker's coverage. But now my old insurance company is trying to duck out of paying Becca's bills, due to this unheard of "state law." Essentially, the old insurance company is going to haggle with The Banker's insurance company over every cent it paid out since Becca's birth. But Becca wasn't covered under his insurance! And who do you think will be responsible for the charges that both companies refuse to cover?
I HATE insurance companies. And I hate that I can't turn to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get my mind off all this shit. It looks like I'll be turning to Little Children--the latest book club choice--for a much-needed vacation from all this. 'Cause I seriously, seriously need a break right about now.
The Jeep's window, which refused to work yesterday led to a discovery of a fuel line leak. Over $500 to fix that sucker. And then the call from "The Prick" at my old insurance company, from when I worked at The Really Big Company. It seems there's a state law that The Banker and I had never heard of that specifies that since The Banker's birthday was before mine and since he was employed at the time of Becca's birth, state law demanded that his insurance company provide primary coverage for Peanut and mine secondary. WTF?
Since my coverage was better than The Banker's, we'd opted to cover Becca under my insurance. When we decided I'd remain at home, we switched Becca and myself to The Banker's coverage. But now my old insurance company is trying to duck out of paying Becca's bills, due to this unheard of "state law." Essentially, the old insurance company is going to haggle with The Banker's insurance company over every cent it paid out since Becca's birth. But Becca wasn't covered under his insurance! And who do you think will be responsible for the charges that both companies refuse to cover?
I HATE insurance companies. And I hate that I can't turn to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to get my mind off all this shit. It looks like I'll be turning to Little Children--the latest book club choice--for a much-needed vacation from all this. 'Cause I seriously, seriously need a break right about now.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Taste of the town
Peanut has been tackling cereal for almost two weeks now, first rice and then barley. It's times like these where having four hands would be helpful: one to hold the spoon, two to hold each of Becca's hands--keeping them from her mouth--and the final hand to swoop in with a wet paper towel when her hands inexplicably escape my grasp and rush to her full mouth.
Still, it's so amusing to watch her, especially now that she sorta hums during the feeding and opens her mouth wide for the spoon like a guppy. Or a piranha (which is how she used to view nursing).
This past weekend Sister #1 and her husband were in town, and while the boys golfed, she spent the day with the Screaming Siren and me. She was busy snapping pictures as I gave Becca her afternoon snack of rice cereal to send to Sister #2, who's in Paraguay at the moment. In the midst of the feeding, curiosity got the better of me, and I tried a tiny morsel of the cereal.
"It's sweet," I say in surprise. "I don't know if it's the rice cereal or the breast milk I mix it with..."
Sister #1 comes over and takes the spoon from me, and before I can even utter an "Uhhhg" she tries a bit also. Slack jawed I look at her.
"What's in this?" she suddenly asks, eyes wary. Umm, were you not here, say TWO SECONDS AGO?!?!
And then it clicks. Her eyes bulge, face drains of color, and she runs to the bathroom retching. And like any good sister, I explode into laughter.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
A change in view
The other weekend my parents, The Banker, and Becca and I crammed into our car and drove to visit my dad's parents in Bella Vista. My grandparents had only seen Becca once since her birth and were anxious to see her again. With my Grammy fighting cancer and heart problems and my PopPop losing ground to Alzheimer's, we'd urged them not to make the drive to see us but to be patient and we'd make a weekend trip to visit. Finally we found the time in every one's packed schedules to make the trip.
I was on pins and needles about the whole thing. An infant in the car for HOW long? Hours at the grandparents' house? Dinner at a restaurant? And then a stay at a hotel? And a visit to my grandparents' church so they could show off their great-granddaughter? There were so many ways this could have gone badly.
But it didn't.
Becca was a champ, thoroughly behaving herself in a fashion she never does at home. She was happy, patient, and cute as a button. Why she can't pull out that attitude more for us, I'll never know. But the important thing is that the visit went incredibly well and meant the world to my grandparents.
I think the trip may have been harder on me than on Peanut. Stressful and tiring, yes. But it was more than that. My grandparents talked about moving into an assisted living facility, a decision whose time has truly come. But it forces me to look again at what I've been trying to avoid seeing---that my grandparents are old and aren't as invincible as a child thinks they are.
What's more is that my Grammy said that once they move what they'll need into the facility (whenever they get around to finding one), the grand kids need to come and pick out what they want from the house before it all goes in an estate sale. When I was young, there was nothing like going to my grandparents' house. There were so many cool nick-knacks, countless collectibles, and an assortment of tchotchkes. (Both my grandparents are serious collectors...er, hoarders.)
But somewhere, somehow, the allure of my grandparents' house started to diminish. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but all their trinkets started to look, well, junky. And on this latest visit, as I looked around, I was hard pressed to find much that I would willingly haggle over between the other grand kids. It made me sad, how the sparkle of that house had dulled. I really wish I could go back and have that feeling again--that surge of excitement and wonder as I looked around at all their stuff--instead of the sinking feeling of much work ahead and a lot of sad, abandoned items at an estate sale.
I was on pins and needles about the whole thing. An infant in the car for HOW long? Hours at the grandparents' house? Dinner at a restaurant? And then a stay at a hotel? And a visit to my grandparents' church so they could show off their great-granddaughter? There were so many ways this could have gone badly.
But it didn't.
Becca was a champ, thoroughly behaving herself in a fashion she never does at home. She was happy, patient, and cute as a button. Why she can't pull out that attitude more for us, I'll never know. But the important thing is that the visit went incredibly well and meant the world to my grandparents.
I think the trip may have been harder on me than on Peanut. Stressful and tiring, yes. But it was more than that. My grandparents talked about moving into an assisted living facility, a decision whose time has truly come. But it forces me to look again at what I've been trying to avoid seeing---that my grandparents are old and aren't as invincible as a child thinks they are.
What's more is that my Grammy said that once they move what they'll need into the facility (whenever they get around to finding one), the grand kids need to come and pick out what they want from the house before it all goes in an estate sale. When I was young, there was nothing like going to my grandparents' house. There were so many cool nick-knacks, countless collectibles, and an assortment of tchotchkes. (Both my grandparents are serious collectors...er, hoarders.)
But somewhere, somehow, the allure of my grandparents' house started to diminish. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but all their trinkets started to look, well, junky. And on this latest visit, as I looked around, I was hard pressed to find much that I would willingly haggle over between the other grand kids. It made me sad, how the sparkle of that house had dulled. I really wish I could go back and have that feeling again--that surge of excitement and wonder as I looked around at all their stuff--instead of the sinking feeling of much work ahead and a lot of sad, abandoned items at an estate sale.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Where did it go?
There are days like today when I miss the girl I was so much that it's a palpable ache and temporarily debilitating.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Who moved my cheese?
And milk? And all the rest of the gloriously lactose-laden foods? Becca's pediatrician has recommended I go lactose free to see if it will improve Becca's fussy periods--given the fact that they should have naturally subsided now that she's almost four months old.
The good news? She seems to have improved somewhat. The bad news? There are so many items off my diet, it's ridiculous. Back before children (B.C.), I could subsist on wine, cheese, and bread alone. Now that two of those have been taken away, I've begun to grow a bit grouchy.
But then you look at this and think, "Yeah, I could do this for a few months more."
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Then again...
So I'm going to follow Trudi's advice on this one. I don't know who Trudi is, but maybe she's right. I need to vent. I need to confess. And I need to forgive myself. Because last night, a decision I made left Becca terribly ill.
I'm having a tough time balancing two of the requirements of my body: a source of food for Becca and the need to regain my old figure and get into shape for the upcoming hike up to Machu Picchu that The Banker and I are planning to take (again). If I work out too vigorously and consume too little (which is easy to do given how dang hectic my days seem to be), I don't produce enough milk for Becca. To boot, she currently suffers from a nasty case of acid reflux--the cause for our earlier emergency room visit and the reason she's now on Prilosec--so in general our evenings can be very rough. Read: much crying, achy tummies, and the rest.
Last night Becca was fussing during a feeding and crying while I tried to burp her--an indication she hadn't enough to eat. Since I had no milk thawed and seemed to be spent myself, I gave her two ounces of ready-made formula, which she'd had during her first couple of weeks to supplement her diet until my milk came in.
Within two hours she was vomiting up the formula. Once those two ounces had been expelled, angry yellow bile bubbled up, even while she slept, racking her poor little frame. We telephoned the on-call doctor and were told to freeze a teaspoon of regular Coca-Cola and give her a teaspoon. Apparently, it has anti-nausea qualities. After that stays down we were to try giving her an ounce or two of Pedialite.
I was less than thrilled to give a three-month-old soda, but the Coke came right back up, along with more bile than you could imagine an infant's stomach could hold. She was limp, exhausted. And it was my fault.
The Banker decided to go with his gut and gave Becca a little syringe worth of Pedialite slowly, slowly over an hour. It stayed down. Then we mixed some of the liquid with breast milk and let her sip on it a little at a time. Finally, success!
We've had three good feedings since last night, but the guilt lingers. This parenting gig is so damn hard. No one ever tells you that your best intentions can have the most disastrous implications. I feel totally out of my league time and time again. How did my parents make this look so easy?
I'm having a tough time balancing two of the requirements of my body: a source of food for Becca and the need to regain my old figure and get into shape for the upcoming hike up to Machu Picchu that The Banker and I are planning to take (again). If I work out too vigorously and consume too little (which is easy to do given how dang hectic my days seem to be), I don't produce enough milk for Becca. To boot, she currently suffers from a nasty case of acid reflux--the cause for our earlier emergency room visit and the reason she's now on Prilosec--so in general our evenings can be very rough. Read: much crying, achy tummies, and the rest.
Last night Becca was fussing during a feeding and crying while I tried to burp her--an indication she hadn't enough to eat. Since I had no milk thawed and seemed to be spent myself, I gave her two ounces of ready-made formula, which she'd had during her first couple of weeks to supplement her diet until my milk came in.
Within two hours she was vomiting up the formula. Once those two ounces had been expelled, angry yellow bile bubbled up, even while she slept, racking her poor little frame. We telephoned the on-call doctor and were told to freeze a teaspoon of regular Coca-Cola and give her a teaspoon. Apparently, it has anti-nausea qualities. After that stays down we were to try giving her an ounce or two of Pedialite.
I was less than thrilled to give a three-month-old soda, but the Coke came right back up, along with more bile than you could imagine an infant's stomach could hold. She was limp, exhausted. And it was my fault.
The Banker decided to go with his gut and gave Becca a little syringe worth of Pedialite slowly, slowly over an hour. It stayed down. Then we mixed some of the liquid with breast milk and let her sip on it a little at a time. Finally, success!
We've had three good feedings since last night, but the guilt lingers. This parenting gig is so damn hard. No one ever tells you that your best intentions can have the most disastrous implications. I feel totally out of my league time and time again. How did my parents make this look so easy?
Sunday, June 10, 2007
On the fence...
So I'd high hopes that I could chronicle the ups and downs of this new phase in my life: the challenge of switching a cubicle for a burp rag, the oddities of breastfeeding, the new-found empathy for my mom...in other words, the joys and headaches of parenting. But I haven't really accomplished any of that. I rarely manage to post anymore and am wondering if there's a point to continuing with this blog. I was crappy at keeping a diary as a child and am not faring any better now.
That emergency trip to the hospital? Nope, failed to share that. The trauma of our first night away from Becca? Nothing on that, either. Maybe it's because I'm worn to the bone most days. Or perhaps it's because there are countless blogs that capture this chaotic lifestyle better than I ever could. I dunno. Whatever it is, I think I need to find some more energy and a drive to keep typing, because otherwise the dust and cobwebs will soon take over this tiny spot on the web.
That emergency trip to the hospital? Nope, failed to share that. The trauma of our first night away from Becca? Nothing on that, either. Maybe it's because I'm worn to the bone most days. Or perhaps it's because there are countless blogs that capture this chaotic lifestyle better than I ever could. I dunno. Whatever it is, I think I need to find some more energy and a drive to keep typing, because otherwise the dust and cobwebs will soon take over this tiny spot on the web.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
A Lifestyle Change
So I called the really big company I work for and told my boss I wouldn't be returning. And maybe that makes me certifiably insane. After all, this really big company pays really well, has incredible benefits, and only accepts a tiny percentage of applicants. People work for years to get into that place!
The Banker and I'd discussed the potential for me to go back part-time (and my boss was sort of looking into it, in a really ineffective way), but it didn't make much sense financially. Sure, I'd be bringing home double what I could make in freelance in a month, but was that worth missing out on all of Becca's little amazing moments? Like when she started to try to put her binky back in her mouth all by herself? Or how she smiles so sweetly after blowing out her diaper? This is the good stuff, folks!
My boss and I are trying to find out if there's any work I can do from home or if I can come in and work on special projects. But in the meantime, I've got to do something I'm really, really crappy at doing. I've got to put myself out there and find some decent freelance gigs. And pronto. Zippy, my beloved 350Z, isn't selling as quickly as we'd hoped. And my brain is kinda turning to mush. So I need to establish this balance between mom and writer and editor. And see if I can bring in a few bucks along the way. Because this decision is going to require a major lifestyle change.
The Banker and I'd discussed the potential for me to go back part-time (and my boss was sort of looking into it, in a really ineffective way), but it didn't make much sense financially. Sure, I'd be bringing home double what I could make in freelance in a month, but was that worth missing out on all of Becca's little amazing moments? Like when she started to try to put her binky back in her mouth all by herself? Or how she smiles so sweetly after blowing out her diaper? This is the good stuff, folks!
My boss and I are trying to find out if there's any work I can do from home or if I can come in and work on special projects. But in the meantime, I've got to do something I'm really, really crappy at doing. I've got to put myself out there and find some decent freelance gigs. And pronto. Zippy, my beloved 350Z, isn't selling as quickly as we'd hoped. And my brain is kinda turning to mush. So I need to establish this balance between mom and writer and editor. And see if I can bring in a few bucks along the way. Because this decision is going to require a major lifestyle change.
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