Dang, my footprints are huge
My feet are bigger than I ever realized.
God, I love snow days. Put the fireplace on, read a book, watch crappy TV news [“Jane, I’m live at the salt dome …”], eat pierogies and try to hit things with snowballs when we go outside.
I’m debating whether or not to post the entry about childbirth I wrote a little while back; just finished up some edits on it. I know that reading Heather and Mrs. Kennedy’s accounts were helpful a few months ago, but I fear mine will be just plain boring.
We’re waiting for the li’l critter to wake up so we can feed him and give him a bath, and Supernanny is on in an hour.
The snow is piling up, and I’m feeling optimistic. Whaddya say, county school administrators? Wanna go for six straight days off?
Behind every serene, contented mother there is a fantastic husband
Iain is changing Owen’s stinky butt right now, and after that he’s going to clean the bathroom.
I hate to sound smug, but I have the best husband ever. I feel bad for all those mothers in Parenting Magazine [“What Really Matters to Moms,” note, not “parents”]. Their husbands never help around the house, are incompetent when it comes to cooking, leave their children behind at airports, and are clueless when it comes to doctor’s appointments or car seats or dinner. They expect sex every five minutes and pout when they don’t get it. They laze around on the couch watching ESPN and expect Wifey to do the dishes.
At least, that’s what their letters to the Editor would have you believe, and I can only take them at their word.
I feel lucky sometimes that Iain is so competent. Isn’t that horrible, that I should count myself lucky for that? That he has his head on straight and his shit together, and he’s not a bumbling idiot like so many American dads are made out to be. He knows his ass from a hole in the ground, thankyouverymuch.
There is no reason why he shouldn’t. There is no reason he can’t feed the baby or change his butt. No reason he can’t boil the bottles or toss the laundry in the dryer. It’s not rocket science, guys. And I have no more instinct when it comes to that stuff than he does.
I’d say we have baby duties and house chores pretty evenly split, taking into account that I am staying home right now and he’s working five days a week [when it’s not snowing, anyway]. And we both have the attitude that if something needs done, we’ll do it. But television and Parenting and various blogs lead me to believe that Iain’s a veritable freak of nature for knowing how to mop a floor, and no one else has a man about the house who is nearly so competent.
Why the hell is that? I can’t imagine putting up with shouldering the whole load — housework, child AND employment — for no reason other than that I have the sole vagina in the house. And more importantly, I can’t imagine living with a man who would tolerate being thought so stupid and helpless. Perhaps that is a result of living with Iain for three years; he possesses the highest concentration of common sense I’ve ever seen in a single person. Annoying sometimes, I admit, but eternally helpful.
He also balances a high level of masculinity [dare I say machismo?] with a dazzling level of care and compassion. He’d just as soon stick a kayak up your ass for whining, but he’ll also march around the house for hours on end singing the Stegosaurus song to get Owen to fall asleep.
He’s the reason why I can feel so successful as a mom — he’s got my back, big-time. I know it and I want him to know I know it. I wish a man like this on every one of you ladies.
Shit/storm
Another load of snow is scheduled to fall today, making this an official 5-day weekend for Iain. God bless ya, county school administrators!
Look at my little fat baby! Who doesn’t love a fat baby? I know I do. I made him this little T-shirt so he could remind me to laugh when I’m changing his diaper at two o’clock in the morning. Speaking of diapers, Owen seems to be on the installment plan with his stinky ones. Instead of delivering it all at once, like he used to, he’s distributing them a little bit at a time all morning. How … thoughtful.
So this was a pretty good weekend. Iain hasn’t had school since Wednesday; Thursday and Friday we spent holed up, for the most part. And there was a Very Special 2-Hour AFV on Friday night: Bonus. Saturday we took the baby to Borders so Iain could spend his birthday money on boring science books and one really good book by Bill Bryson [The Lost Continent]. I bought my two riot-grrrl mags and we spent the rest of the sunny day in the back room, reading and taking turns holding the baby. Yesterday, as you know, was the Oscars, so we watched Independence Day on Fox and I finally got to start reading the Bryson book.
Today Iain will probably make more miniature anatomically-correct snowmen and I will spend entirely too much time online and Owen will spit up and get it into his ear again. Don’t you love snow days?
City Paper loves your Bitchin’
Whilst perusing the latest issue of Bitch, I caught a letter to the editor from the City Paper’s own Wendy Ward:
“I kinda thought I’d send you a letter about content at some point, but instead I’m writing you cuz you rock wid letters. I work at the Baltimore City Paper and love our mail page because it means folks are not just reading us, but caring enough to respond. You all give column after column — which I know means a lot to editorial cuz you gots to give it up — to the mail readers send in. I appreciate it and it is a perfect way to cocktail my way into the meal that is every issue of Bitch. “Dear Bitch” is the aperitif to the yummy issues I look forward to.”
I, too, love how seriously Baltimoreans take their City Paper. I was even mentioned in the MAIL section one time:
Boy, I bet you hear all about your crummy picks the week after your Best of Baltimore edition comes out. My gripe is with your “Best Local Online Addiction” [That was me, Supafine] and why you didn’t recognize the guys over on Madison Avenue (www.rebuildingmadison.info) who are fighting the good fight. …
See? I was a crummy pick! Famous twice over.
Anyway. Another quality issue of Bitch [pick up Bust too, while you’re at it] and some love for Baltimore from the CP. Who doesn’t love independent media?
Carefree Highway
Boy. I’m not sure what it is, but folk rock is pretty much guaranteed to put this boy to sleep. At least, until his own bowels wake him up again.
I have to say it: Yesterday he pooped three times. Or was it four? In one day. As we all know this is very un-Owen-like; I thought it was worth mentioning. I’m not going to go into dirty detail, comparing it to paint or peanut butter or anything this time. Promise.
Three times!
OK.
Moments: So the other day as I was tidying the house I stepped into our tiny purple bathroom with Owen on my shoulder. I saw the mirror and thought to show Owen his reflection and see if he picked up on it this time. I tilted the mirror toward our faces, and this time, he caught on. He gazed and gazed at his second Mommers and at the baby in the mirror, and then he smiled.
I was prepared for an infant mind-fuck, you know? Like, if you traveled back in time and met yourself, what a mindjob would that be? I figured seeing yourself in the mirror for the first time would be the same. It wasn’t, though. He loved it, and I think he would have laughed if he knew how.
Watching this little cognitive milestone was so cool — like a taste of things to come. His first word, the day he figures out how to count, how to write, how to figure out differential equations. All that learning that’s going to come, and I’m going to get to see it all.
Great days: So Iain’s kayak buddy Ben called last night, to see if I’d popped the kid yet. He wanted to know all about it: whether we were sleeping, what the baby was doing, what it was like. And he said, “Man, you sound like you’re doing well, you know?”
I thought about it, and he’s right. I am doing well. I am really loving this part of my maternity leave — taking care of the baby, reading books and blogs during his naps, eating Goldfish crackers from the box. I’m not getting a lot of sleep, and the house is filthy, and we’ve ordered in more in the last seven weeks than we have in the last year — but we’re having a good time. Ever since I made the conscious decision to abandon my mommy paranoia, things have been much happier ‘round here.
I’m sure part of it is because I know it won’t last forever. Once these twelve short weeks are up, I go back to work, Owen goes to daycare, and Iain’s student teacher leaves, and the real business of life will get underway. But for now … sometimes my heart just pauses for a minute, you know, and I try to drink it all in.
This post brought to you by: the album “Gord’s Gold” by Gordon Lightfoot. One of these days I’ll resume listening to music recorded after 1975.
Bright
The Loneliest Tampon
Great name for a children’s book, no? I just saw my box of Tampax in the bathroom, right where I left them a year ago, and thought how sad they must be.
I really, REALLY must get out more.
What the hell, man? What is the deal with these young men coming ‘round, asking to shovel the walk? I’m talking mid-twenties here, not a high-schooler. Looks to be the same guy who freaked me out by insistently ringing the bell during weekdays a week or two ago.
First of all, we have no walk, just four feet of bricking from the parking pad to the stoop, and I think Iain can handle that. Second of all: yo, man, do NOT ring the bell seven times in a row at eight fucking thirty in the morning. If I did want my walk shoveled, it would NOT be a the crack of dawn. And third of all — dude, get a job. What are you doing shoveling walks? You’re young, you have your health — get a job. I know, I know, tough market and all, but I’m sure anything is going to be paying better than shoveling money.
But I luuuurve it: My shameful love of chick lit used to be documented a little better on this web site, but here’s a little reminder: LORD, how I love the chick lit. I’m reading “Little Earthquakes” right now, by Jennifer Weiner [blog], a terrific author who was recommended to me by the illustrious Noreen, who was my summer roommate in Richmond when we both worked for the Times-Dispatch, and who may be coming to visit in a few weeks.
“Little Earthquakes” is about four women, their pregnancies and their newborn babies. Fascinating to me right now, for obvious reasons. The Parkville library FINALLY got a copy onto the shelves, so I’m tearing through it during Owen’s naps. Very good.
All that: Owen has started talking, and he’s only seven weeks old. Isn’t that amazing? I’m not sure what language it is exactly; I’ve been trying to get Babblefish to translate “glurgle” “glaaaah” and “oooheeeoh” with little success. But I think it’s quite amazing. I just knew he was going to be a little genius.
Oh yeah, you people: I brought Owen by my office yesterday and the office I used to work at the day before that to show him off and show my coworkers that there really was a reason I couldn’t tie my own shoelaces for all those months. Everyone commented on how perfectly shaped his head is. I’m starting to get a complex: is that what people say when a baby is goofy looking? “Oh, his head, it’s so perfectly shaped! And look, five fingers on each hand, isn’t that amazing.” But it was good to see everybody, and Lord knows I love showing off my baby. I don’t care if his head IS perfectly shaped.
T-minus eight days: Jen and Jeffy are coming to visit next weekend! We’re going to sit around and watch silly teen movies and listen to pop music and eat cheese popcorn, just like we did back at the Summit Street apartment, only with less angst and more baby. I can’t wait for Owen to meet his “auntie” and “uncle,” and to show them my new house. I haven’t seen Jeffro in AGES, and the last time I saw Jen was at my baby shower, when I was big as a house and half as cogent. Not that I make much sense any more, but at least my interruptions are coming from outside my body now. I can even dress Owen in his BGSU footie pajamas and Falcon hat in honor of their arrival.
Mommy’s a geek: I may not have my Powerbook [grumble grumble taxes suck grumble] but I do have my iPod, on which I have loaded several megs of Sesame Street songs and Jerry Garcia’s children’s album [Not For Kids Only]. Now Owen can listen to his mom sing the Muppets Theme Song whenever we go to the grocery store. If that don’t scar him for life, I don’t know what will.
Happy little snowflakes
Hee hee: “But remember, you were raised in Maryland, so snow turns you into retards.”
Poor Owen doesn’t stand a chance … his mom just did the “I can drive in the snow” dance this morning.
My laptop is in Iraq killing babies
Damn you, federal government. I could have had a nice Powerbook and high-speed internet, but noooo … I have to finance this stupid war.
Damn taxes.
Foundry love
Sitting here with the Babers asleep in my lap, listening to lullabies and scouting free fonts, such as a few beauties from Cape-Arcona [via Fontleech].
Maternity leave can be very rejuvenating sometimes.
recent flickr
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my sewing tutorials
See my tutorials featured on SMS' Handmade Holidays!
