Monday, February 25, 2008
Sick, again.
As if this past week hasn't been nasty enough, as if this weekend wasn't hard enough given my grandmother's funeral, I'm now sick with the flu. The kind of flu where you shouldn't get out of bed for three or four days. Unless, of course, you have a child. Then you're forced to be up during the day--and if you're super lucky--from 1:30 a.m. on, too.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Sanctuary!
Another blown-out diaper and projectile vomiting. I'm seriously wondering if I have what it takes to be a stay-at-home mom. Because right now, I'd prefer to be almost anyplace but here.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
A sincere thank you
There are days, much like today, when a kind comment can mean the world. Whether it's an encouraging note on a blog, an e-mail just to say hello, or a kind smile for a stranger at the grocery store--these social interactions matter. So thank you. You know who you are. Your supportive comments have such uplifting capabilities. I carry them with me like little nuggets that I can nurture myself when things get hard. Like yesterday, for instance. Or today.
My mom's mom started a steep decline yesterday. My parents, still in Santa Fe, had an evening flight home. I sat by my grandmother's bedside pleading she hold on so my mom could say goodbye. Thank God my parents caught on earlier flight enabling my mom to arrive by midday. I don't think I could have sat bedside, on death watch, by myself. So I put in several hours yesterday and then gratefully, selfishly, handed over the reigns to my mom and one of her sisters.
Then I had to hold it together for The Banker's grandmother's 85th birthday brunch. On our way home, Becca got quite ill. The kind of ill where her diaper was blown, her clothes, jacket, and car seat soaked. Despite the freezing cold, we alternated cracking the windows on the drive back home. It took an immense amount of control not to vomit. Then more heart-wrenching time at the nursing home. Then on to a gala dinner and dance--a bank function The Banker had to attend.
This morning, as I was on my way to bring my mom and her sister coffee, my grandmother finally passed, marking the end to an over-5 year battle with Alzheimer's.
But there's no rest for the weary. Or those with children. Those with a weak stomach, stop reading now. I'm very serious about this. Now.
Becca's virus continued into the night and this morning, just hours after I returned from my final visit to the nursing home, it hit an all-time first. I've seen projectile vomiting, but this was so, so much worse. The Banker was changing her diaper, already leaking from another round, and he called for my help. As he was switching out a clean diaper, Becca projectile diarrhead across the room, into the hallway, and across my body. She shot some 7 feet. It was like a water cannon went off. A water cannon full of liquid poop. The Banker and I looked at each other, our jaws on the floor. (In poop.) Then, because there was nothing else to do, we laughed. Hysterically. As we cleaned the bedspread, the floor, my clothes, and Becca, we laughed. Because the tears had already been spent and all that was left was the maniacal laughter of a mad person.
Now I'm off to rekindle a much-hated talent from my journalistic past: writing an obituary for a woman who was beautiful and adventurous. Who raised a family in Venezuela. Who loved to dance and party. Who lacked maternal instincts. And who always spoke her mind.
My mom's mom started a steep decline yesterday. My parents, still in Santa Fe, had an evening flight home. I sat by my grandmother's bedside pleading she hold on so my mom could say goodbye. Thank God my parents caught on earlier flight enabling my mom to arrive by midday. I don't think I could have sat bedside, on death watch, by myself. So I put in several hours yesterday and then gratefully, selfishly, handed over the reigns to my mom and one of her sisters.
Then I had to hold it together for The Banker's grandmother's 85th birthday brunch. On our way home, Becca got quite ill. The kind of ill where her diaper was blown, her clothes, jacket, and car seat soaked. Despite the freezing cold, we alternated cracking the windows on the drive back home. It took an immense amount of control not to vomit. Then more heart-wrenching time at the nursing home. Then on to a gala dinner and dance--a bank function The Banker had to attend.
This morning, as I was on my way to bring my mom and her sister coffee, my grandmother finally passed, marking the end to an over-5 year battle with Alzheimer's.
But there's no rest for the weary. Or those with children. Those with a weak stomach, stop reading now. I'm very serious about this. Now.
Becca's virus continued into the night and this morning, just hours after I returned from my final visit to the nursing home, it hit an all-time first. I've seen projectile vomiting, but this was so, so much worse. The Banker was changing her diaper, already leaking from another round, and he called for my help. As he was switching out a clean diaper, Becca projectile diarrhead across the room, into the hallway, and across my body. She shot some 7 feet. It was like a water cannon went off. A water cannon full of liquid poop. The Banker and I looked at each other, our jaws on the floor. (In poop.) Then, because there was nothing else to do, we laughed. Hysterically. As we cleaned the bedspread, the floor, my clothes, and Becca, we laughed. Because the tears had already been spent and all that was left was the maniacal laughter of a mad person.
Now I'm off to rekindle a much-hated talent from my journalistic past: writing an obituary for a woman who was beautiful and adventurous. Who raised a family in Venezuela. Who loved to dance and party. Who lacked maternal instincts. And who always spoke her mind.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
All quiet on the blogging front
I'e been meaning to jot down a note or two here, but I've been caught up on this whirlwind that is life and I can't seem to find the time. Or energy. Or motivation. First I was sick with the bug that's been going around, which left me feeling like I'd been jumped in a dark alley or hit by a bus...or both. But as my mom not-so-sympathetically declared, "There are no sick days for moms." And boy was she right. I slept when Becca slept, went to bed as soon as I felt things were under control in the evenings, but other than that, I just had to rough it out.
Then The Banker fell ill over the weekend (if you want to see what THAT was like, see "Man Cold" on YouTube. SO ACCURATE.), so I had less than the usual amount of help around the house. (While he didn't take any "sick days" from work, The Banker did get loads of naps during the weekend. Apparently, sometimes dads do get to take sick days...sort of.)
This week has already started to get away from me--freelance dangerously piling up, book club book to be read, and yes, still hoping to get Becca's memory book started before her first birthday, which is just around the corner. And why did the dogs decide NOW was the best time to start molting and leaving clumps of fur all over my formerly clean home? Let's not even mention my gym membership that expires in a week. I'm not sure I even remember the route to take to that mystical place called "the gym."
And last night Becca screamed from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. This morning, she's got the worst runny nose and keeps sneezing. So it's off to the pediatrician's, but not before I stop by the Alzheimer's unit to try and feed my grandmother some lunch because my parents are out of town. And then tonight? The Banker has a work event I must attend looking properly groomed and smiling...on three hour's sleep.
Okay...back to eating bon-bons and sitting on the couch.
Then The Banker fell ill over the weekend (if you want to see what THAT was like, see "Man Cold" on YouTube. SO ACCURATE.), so I had less than the usual amount of help around the house. (While he didn't take any "sick days" from work, The Banker did get loads of naps during the weekend. Apparently, sometimes dads do get to take sick days...sort of.)
This week has already started to get away from me--freelance dangerously piling up, book club book to be read, and yes, still hoping to get Becca's memory book started before her first birthday, which is just around the corner. And why did the dogs decide NOW was the best time to start molting and leaving clumps of fur all over my formerly clean home? Let's not even mention my gym membership that expires in a week. I'm not sure I even remember the route to take to that mystical place called "the gym."
And last night Becca screamed from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. This morning, she's got the worst runny nose and keeps sneezing. So it's off to the pediatrician's, but not before I stop by the Alzheimer's unit to try and feed my grandmother some lunch because my parents are out of town. And then tonight? The Banker has a work event I must attend looking properly groomed and smiling...on three hour's sleep.
Okay...back to eating bon-bons and sitting on the couch.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Rule of Nature #74
When you finally, after two rainchecks, take your kid into that really big company where you once worked--you know the one that people from all over the country spend years and countless portfolios and tests to get into?--to have lunch with your former managing editor, your usually sweet cherub will act like that kid, the kind who force people to give you glances urging you to remember to use birth control going forward.
Putting the FAT in Fat Tuesday
I love Fat Tuesday. I mean, on no other day does the world say, "Go ahead, eat and drink and be merry like it's the last day you'll get to let loose...at least for the next 40 days." (Except if you count Thanksgiving, which has less debauchery involved. Or Easter, which is mostly chocolate and egg based.)
Tonight I've opted for extra crispy fried chicken and red bean and rice from a fast-food joint. I don't ever eat fast food and never eat fried chicken, so this will be quite the treat. A big, greasy, gut-busting treat. And after that? Well tomorrow Lent begins and with it a hardcore push to lose the final lingering pounds of baby weight. To boot, The Banker and I are cutting out alcohol Mondays through Thursdays. This will be quite the feat, because in this house wine is kinda like toilet paper--if we run out, people get panicky.
Tonight I've opted for extra crispy fried chicken and red bean and rice from a fast-food joint. I don't ever eat fast food and never eat fried chicken, so this will be quite the treat. A big, greasy, gut-busting treat. And after that? Well tomorrow Lent begins and with it a hardcore push to lose the final lingering pounds of baby weight. To boot, The Banker and I are cutting out alcohol Mondays through Thursdays. This will be quite the feat, because in this house wine is kinda like toilet paper--if we run out, people get panicky.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Not-so-friendly skies
This is a portion of the letter I wrote to Frontier Airlines after our total crap flights to CanCun. I never, ever bother writing companies, but the people who work for Frontier so totally screwed us that I got angry enough to write:
My husband and I arrived early for a 7:15 a.m. flight to CanCun on Saturday, January 19th. It was our first flight with our 10-month-old and we wanted ample time to get settled. But we were forced to stand at the ticket counter for almost 50 minutes because no one knew how to charge us $12 for an infant tax. Three different employees over 45 minutes couldn’t figure out how to take pocket change from us and check our baggage. By the time they phoned someone with the training required to complete this task, there were only minutes to spare before our flight. We rushed through security and were among the last to board the flight—no ability to pre-board and settle for our first flight with a baby. It was a terrible and stressful way to start our vacation.
But Frontier didn’t disappoint on the return flight, either. Departing at 3:25 on Saturday, January 26th, we arrived with plenty of time to compensate for any ticketing problems. We were first in line for pre-boarding, but right as we were to step onto the plane we were told we would have to stand and wait—the flight attendants had yet to arrive. The entirety of the plane’s passengers stood for 15 minutes, waiting outside the plane’s door. It was insinuated to my husband by one of the ground crew that the flight attendants might have been caught up “shopping” in the duty-free stores. After the flight attendants’ eventual arrival, the plane sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes waiting to take off—providing no shortage of discomfort for the passengers. (One person in our party was almost forced to urinate herself due to the extended time without bathroom access.) After all this, the plane was an hour late arriving home.
The person in our party almost forced to pee herself? Yup, that would be ME. I'd gone to the bathroom right before boarding, but since we didn't depart for an hour after we were supposed to and because I'd drank a large bottle of water in attempts to rehydrate myself, well...it wasn't pretty. While we were waiting on the runway, the pilot announced it'd be another 16 minutes until we departed. I almost burst into tears--at this point I had a 20-pound baby on my lap (on my bladder) who would scream if anyone else held her. The Banker told me I'd better make a quick jump all of three rows to the restroom. The minute I stood up, though, two flight attendants (obviously grumpy because of the crap choices in the duty-free store) screamed like banshees at me. Total humiliation. If I'd had more guts, I would have peed myself to make a point.
And I didn't even mention how the return flight ran out of booze.
My husband and I arrived early for a 7:15 a.m. flight to CanCun on Saturday, January 19th. It was our first flight with our 10-month-old and we wanted ample time to get settled. But we were forced to stand at the ticket counter for almost 50 minutes because no one knew how to charge us $12 for an infant tax. Three different employees over 45 minutes couldn’t figure out how to take pocket change from us and check our baggage. By the time they phoned someone with the training required to complete this task, there were only minutes to spare before our flight. We rushed through security and were among the last to board the flight—no ability to pre-board and settle for our first flight with a baby. It was a terrible and stressful way to start our vacation.
But Frontier didn’t disappoint on the return flight, either. Departing at 3:25 on Saturday, January 26th, we arrived with plenty of time to compensate for any ticketing problems. We were first in line for pre-boarding, but right as we were to step onto the plane we were told we would have to stand and wait—the flight attendants had yet to arrive. The entirety of the plane’s passengers stood for 15 minutes, waiting outside the plane’s door. It was insinuated to my husband by one of the ground crew that the flight attendants might have been caught up “shopping” in the duty-free stores. After the flight attendants’ eventual arrival, the plane sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes waiting to take off—providing no shortage of discomfort for the passengers. (One person in our party was almost forced to urinate herself due to the extended time without bathroom access.) After all this, the plane was an hour late arriving home.
The person in our party almost forced to pee herself? Yup, that would be ME. I'd gone to the bathroom right before boarding, but since we didn't depart for an hour after we were supposed to and because I'd drank a large bottle of water in attempts to rehydrate myself, well...it wasn't pretty. While we were waiting on the runway, the pilot announced it'd be another 16 minutes until we departed. I almost burst into tears--at this point I had a 20-pound baby on my lap (on my bladder) who would scream if anyone else held her. The Banker told me I'd better make a quick jump all of three rows to the restroom. The minute I stood up, though, two flight attendants (obviously grumpy because of the crap choices in the duty-free store) screamed like banshees at me. Total humiliation. If I'd had more guts, I would have peed myself to make a point.
And I didn't even mention how the return flight ran out of booze.
Proof the romance hasn't died
Last night as The Banker and I are brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed...
Me: What did we eat for dinner that was red?
The Banker: Nothing
Me: You mean this was stuck in my teeth since lunch?! Geez, I should brush more...
The Banker: Tell me about it!
Me: What did we eat for dinner that was red?
The Banker: Nothing
Me: You mean this was stuck in my teeth since lunch?! Geez, I should brush more...
The Banker: Tell me about it!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
A different sort of vacation
CanCun was, by all accounts, a great vacation. But here's the thing: it was a different sort of vacation. In the past, vacations meant freedom--from work schedules, the demands of the daily grind, and all the other responsibilities that keep one tethered and tired. Vacationing with a baby, or children, I would guess, is different in that you're still tied to the schedule. The feedings, the naps, the bedtime. Sure, there's some flexibility, but not much because altering the timeline too drastically means an ugly meltdown.
So when the rest of the family was sunning and drinking on the beach, we were headed up to the room to get the Little One out of the sun and down for a nap. This nap thing? It happens twice a day. And that bedtime thing? Well, Becca goes to bed between 7:30 and 8:00, which means long leisurely dinners are not an option. Hell, long and leisurely anything is not an option because attention spans and patience are short in wee ones.
I don't mean to bitch and boohoo I-had-to-take-my-kid-to-Mexico-feel-bad-for-me. That's not it. Seeing Becca on the beach was such a joy. And the trip was relaxing, in it's own way. It was simply different. It's odd that you think you've settled into this new role of parent and you think you know how it goes when suddenly something comes up and you're like, "Hmm, how to handle this now that there are three?"
(And since Becca learned to crawl--I mean chuck it across the room like a rocket--and pull herself up on anything and everything while we were on vacation, parenting as I've known it is ALL OVER. Constant line of sight and baby-proofing in full effect. God help me!)
So when the rest of the family was sunning and drinking on the beach, we were headed up to the room to get the Little One out of the sun and down for a nap. This nap thing? It happens twice a day. And that bedtime thing? Well, Becca goes to bed between 7:30 and 8:00, which means long leisurely dinners are not an option. Hell, long and leisurely anything is not an option because attention spans and patience are short in wee ones.
I don't mean to bitch and boohoo I-had-to-take-my-kid-to-Mexico-feel-bad-for-me. That's not it. Seeing Becca on the beach was such a joy. And the trip was relaxing, in it's own way. It was simply different. It's odd that you think you've settled into this new role of parent and you think you know how it goes when suddenly something comes up and you're like, "Hmm, how to handle this now that there are three?"
(And since Becca learned to crawl--I mean chuck it across the room like a rocket--and pull herself up on anything and everything while we were on vacation, parenting as I've known it is ALL OVER. Constant line of sight and baby-proofing in full effect. God help me!)
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Beach Baby
Here's a quick peek at how Miss Becca did while on vacation:
Needing to rail against Frontier Airlines and their stupidity and muse about how a vacation with a kid is not, by typical standards, a vacation, I'll be blogging...for at least a wee bit longer. Apparently something needs to seriously get my goat to compel me to write. But more on that later, for at the moment I desperately need to run to Target and give them a kidney in exchange for diapers, formula, and various other necessities.
Needing to rail against Frontier Airlines and their stupidity and muse about how a vacation with a kid is not, by typical standards, a vacation, I'll be blogging...for at least a wee bit longer. Apparently something needs to seriously get my goat to compel me to write. But more on that later, for at the moment I desperately need to run to Target and give them a kidney in exchange for diapers, formula, and various other necessities.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
A few notes
It seems time has been doing its thing--namely getting away from me. We're leaving for Mexico on Saturday (with my entire family, hopefully, hopefully), and there's packing and cleaning and so much else to do. But first I thought I'd take note of a few developments around here.
For starters, Becca has decided that despite how disdainful crawling seems, she'll do it...a little. When the motivation is right, she'll crawl at quite the clip across the room. However, it's not her preferred mode of transportation, which is to walk with assistance. She wants to be standing or walking ALL THE TIME. And fittingly, her new word is "up," which she utters constantly. I think it's become her catchphrase for "I want something." It's a bit hard to decipher if an "up" means "more bottle" or it actually means "up, you, and walk me about the house until your back gives out." But now that we're mobile I'm both relieved (Hooray! No explaining to the doc why my daughter refuses to crawl!) and suddenly more exhausted. Parenting just took on a whole new challenge.
She continues to be incredibly stubborn, which is at times funny and at others so exasperating that I want to run from the house to the nearest bottle of wine. Every other day she's on some sort of strike: formula strike, baby-food strike, nap strike. Staying one step ahead of this kid is harder than one would think. But at the same time she's a joy. Becca is funny and sweet and exhausting and all-encompassing. There are days when I think I made a mistake in staying home with her and other days when I know I did the right thing. Depending on what day you catch me, you get a whole different take on parenting. But I think that's part of the gig. The ups and downs, the steps forward and the steep slide backward.
And with this need for flexibility in mind, I'm mentally gearing up for Becca's first plane ride, first vacation, first dip in the ocean. I fervently pray everything will go smoothly. As to whether I'll continue this blog when I get back, I'm undecided. I wonder if it's serving its original purpose, and at times shouting into the abyss seems a bit fruitless. But until I'm back and have had time to decide the fate of my incoherent ramblings, cheers!
For starters, Becca has decided that despite how disdainful crawling seems, she'll do it...a little. When the motivation is right, she'll crawl at quite the clip across the room. However, it's not her preferred mode of transportation, which is to walk with assistance. She wants to be standing or walking ALL THE TIME. And fittingly, her new word is "up," which she utters constantly. I think it's become her catchphrase for "I want something." It's a bit hard to decipher if an "up" means "more bottle" or it actually means "up, you, and walk me about the house until your back gives out." But now that we're mobile I'm both relieved (Hooray! No explaining to the doc why my daughter refuses to crawl!) and suddenly more exhausted. Parenting just took on a whole new challenge.
She continues to be incredibly stubborn, which is at times funny and at others so exasperating that I want to run from the house to the nearest bottle of wine. Every other day she's on some sort of strike: formula strike, baby-food strike, nap strike. Staying one step ahead of this kid is harder than one would think. But at the same time she's a joy. Becca is funny and sweet and exhausting and all-encompassing. There are days when I think I made a mistake in staying home with her and other days when I know I did the right thing. Depending on what day you catch me, you get a whole different take on parenting. But I think that's part of the gig. The ups and downs, the steps forward and the steep slide backward.
And with this need for flexibility in mind, I'm mentally gearing up for Becca's first plane ride, first vacation, first dip in the ocean. I fervently pray everything will go smoothly. As to whether I'll continue this blog when I get back, I'm undecided. I wonder if it's serving its original purpose, and at times shouting into the abyss seems a bit fruitless. But until I'm back and have had time to decide the fate of my incoherent ramblings, cheers!
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Cue the music
In all my various theological teachings from Catholic high school and CCD, limbo was always described in rather neutral terms. It's this place between heaven and hell, a place where you wait and see. What they don't tell you is that limbo, emotional limbo, is its own private form of hell where your emotions get jerked back and forth between hope and despair, often in only a matter of hours. It's exhausting. And just when you think you've gone numb, another wave of news sends you crashing. It's a place where all plans are tentative, all joys are slightly guilt-inducing, and all phone calls make you vaguely shudder.
But even in limbo, life goes on. Becca is oblivious to all the chaos around her and I don't think she fully understands what the tears are for. That or she's decided court jester will be her first call of duty. She smiles serenely or makes raspberry noises at inopportune moments. Like those last rites? Perfect time for making farting noises. (She obviously got her knack for timing from her father.) But more than anything she's a reminder that life goes on in this bizarre, funny, heartbreaking, amazing circle.
She is now 10 months old, sporting five teeth, a lust for walking and standing (assisted), and a general disdain for crawling. Becca loves the cat to no end. She also loves to repeatedly do the things that I've said "no" to. Don't throw my sippy cup off the tray? Are you sure? Because I really think one more toss is in the cards. Don't spit my food at you? But carrots make such a lovely spatter design on your shirt...
Discipline is now among the things we're trying to reinforce in the household. That and every time the phone rings, like Pavlov's dog, you must take a sip of wine.
But even in limbo, life goes on. Becca is oblivious to all the chaos around her and I don't think she fully understands what the tears are for. That or she's decided court jester will be her first call of duty. She smiles serenely or makes raspberry noises at inopportune moments. Like those last rites? Perfect time for making farting noises. (She obviously got her knack for timing from her father.) But more than anything she's a reminder that life goes on in this bizarre, funny, heartbreaking, amazing circle.
She is now 10 months old, sporting five teeth, a lust for walking and standing (assisted), and a general disdain for crawling. Becca loves the cat to no end. She also loves to repeatedly do the things that I've said "no" to. Don't throw my sippy cup off the tray? Are you sure? Because I really think one more toss is in the cards. Don't spit my food at you? But carrots make such a lovely spatter design on your shirt...
Discipline is now among the things we're trying to reinforce in the household. That and every time the phone rings, like Pavlov's dog, you must take a sip of wine.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
A crap day
In what kind of world do you rush to the vet's after your mom calls to say that your childhood dog may be put down, only for a blessed reprieve...and in the same hour discover your grandmother, in the local Alzheimer's unit, is going downhill so rapidly that the priest has been called in to provide an anointing of the sick?
Mine, apparently.
Mine, apparently.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Visions of sugarplums...
All in all, Becca did very well throughout the Christmas chaos. She went on nap strike on Christmas Eve and carried that through Christmas Day, which led to a handful of meltdowns, but I can hardly blame the girl given the number of places we dragged her and the number of people to whom we showed her off. And her efforts were rewarded with more loot than we have room for in this little house. If Toys for Tots were still accepting donations, they'd get quite an armload from me. As it is, many of the toys will remain in their boxes for later on in the year.
The sheer amount of colored plastic, loud songs/noises, and moving parts has formed a cacophony that makes The Banker nervous. This is a man who likes things neat, organized, and properly stored. (We had a kid. How he thinks his detest for clutter would survive, I've no idea.) So with three carloads of new stuff and a house that was already pleasantly snug at the seams, the house hunt now goes into high gear. The two lots we were eyeing won't be ready for development for another two years, which is just too long in The Banker's estimate. So one of our goals for 2008 will be to find a new place to roost. Let the craziness begin!
The sheer amount of colored plastic, loud songs/noises, and moving parts has formed a cacophony that makes The Banker nervous. This is a man who likes things neat, organized, and properly stored. (We had a kid. How he thinks his detest for clutter would survive, I've no idea.) So with three carloads of new stuff and a house that was already pleasantly snug at the seams, the house hunt now goes into high gear. The two lots we were eyeing won't be ready for development for another two years, which is just too long in The Banker's estimate. So one of our goals for 2008 will be to find a new place to roost. Let the craziness begin!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Choice words
Although she's only 9 months old, Becca is really working on speaking. Her pediatrician has assured us that she's only mimicking and doesn't comprehend what she says. But I have to wonder at that, because every time she sees a cat (or a dog, or any other animals for that matter...), Becca breathlessly utters "titty tat." Yeah, she's dropping the "k" and "c" but her intention is unmistakable. This kid loves kitty cats. As for the butchering of the English language? Well, let's just say she's also a big fan of clocks...but she keeps dropping the "l"...yikes.
Past lives
It's funny how the tiniest thing--the tip of a boot--can trigger a memory so powerful that it floods your being, and suddenly part of you is screaming to shed your outer skin, to reclaim 10 years and be the person you once were, younger, free, living on exotic soil. Impossible to fulfill, the desire leaves you empty and sad, just for a moment.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A surprise in the bedroom
When The Banker came home late last night from one of his various board meetings, he went upstairs to change and begin to unwind from his long day. There was a little something waiting for him in the bedroom, though, something that caused no shortage of an uproar, let me tell you. It looked something like this:
She was just hanging from the molding around one of our windows, quite content to be in from the cold, thank you. But The Banker is not quite at ease with such wild things in his house, and with the fear of rabies, I can't quite blame him. Although I thought her rather cute and pet-able.
At that late of an hour the city's Animal Control office was closed, and it didn't seem worth calling the cops over, though by no uncertain terms would we be sleeping with that thing in the house. Thankfully, we have some incredible neighbors, one of which is a Nature Boy. He delights in catching the mice, ground squirrels, and other such creatures that occasionally end up inside our homes. (He's under continual call by our mutual neighbor--a single mom of two young girls. None of these ladies has much of a penchant for spiders, squirrels, and so on.) With a plastic pitcher and lid, he eased the little bat into a makeshift cage of sorts. After we all marveled at her (most likely a big brown bat from what I can find online, though she wasn't very big at all), we let her go down the block.
First thing to do this morning? Find someone to inspect the house and ensure we don't have any more such bedroom surprises. With Becca in the house, it's not something we can mess around with.
She was just hanging from the molding around one of our windows, quite content to be in from the cold, thank you. But The Banker is not quite at ease with such wild things in his house, and with the fear of rabies, I can't quite blame him. Although I thought her rather cute and pet-able.
At that late of an hour the city's Animal Control office was closed, and it didn't seem worth calling the cops over, though by no uncertain terms would we be sleeping with that thing in the house. Thankfully, we have some incredible neighbors, one of which is a Nature Boy. He delights in catching the mice, ground squirrels, and other such creatures that occasionally end up inside our homes. (He's under continual call by our mutual neighbor--a single mom of two young girls. None of these ladies has much of a penchant for spiders, squirrels, and so on.) With a plastic pitcher and lid, he eased the little bat into a makeshift cage of sorts. After we all marveled at her (most likely a big brown bat from what I can find online, though she wasn't very big at all), we let her go down the block.
First thing to do this morning? Find someone to inspect the house and ensure we don't have any more such bedroom surprises. With Becca in the house, it's not something we can mess around with.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Protection
The train circling the Christmas tree is a new addition to our holiday decor. It was purchased last Christmas by my dad, who was just giddy at the thought of a grandson or granddaughter (and for the record, continues to be both giddy and adorable with Becca).
But Becca was less than enthralled with the train when we first showed it to her. In fact, it scared the shit out of her. Her whole body shook and then she turned and frantically grabbed--for me. She buried her head in my neck and held on for dear life. And while it was heartbreaking that the train scared her, I can't even begin to describe how it felt to be the one she wanted when frightened. Becca knows I'm her mom and that I'm there to protect her, and knowing that she knows that is just incredible.
But Becca was less than enthralled with the train when we first showed it to her. In fact, it scared the shit out of her. Her whole body shook and then she turned and frantically grabbed--for me. She buried her head in my neck and held on for dear life. And while it was heartbreaking that the train scared her, I can't even begin to describe how it felt to be the one she wanted when frightened. Becca knows I'm her mom and that I'm there to protect her, and knowing that she knows that is just incredible.
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