It Came To Me...My One, My Only...My Preciousssss. Stuff has arrived! Not all of it, but some of it. We are officially no longer living out of suitcases. And I have my new toy back in my hands, at last at last at last. I've been using my husband's work computer sporadically; however, that means I need to find a time when he's not using it (and with fantasy baseball in full swing and fantasy football just around the corner, good luck with that). What also happens is that he'll walk away from it but I won't notice or get to it in time before it locks up. But this is no longer a problem because this little baby is mine mine mine mine mine.
Of course, I still have to find time. Tonight is my husband's bridge night. Far from begrudging him this Boys Night Out, I am happy that he has a chance to get out twice a week and socialize (to the extent that semi-pro bridge players have social skills...) since he's working from home five days a week. All work and no play -- and Red Sox losing to the Yankees 12-4 this afternoon -- makes Jack a dull and grumpy boy.
So after dropping him off at the club, getting the child bathed, snacked, toothbrushed, read to and put to bed, doing the dinner dishes, sweeping up the dead roach in the sunroom, picking up toys, putting away laundry, scooping the catbox, doing two crossword puzzles, and booting up the laptop, I find myself getting to Blogger somewhere after 10:30. My goal these days is to be under the covers by then. Rats.
Well, if I'm using the laptop in bed, I can technically meet my goal... Besides, tomorrow I can sleep in a little - assuming Gigi decides to sleep through the night, which she's had trouble with lately. There are a few teeth still fighting their way out, and when she's teething, she gets clingy. Seriously, her new pet name is Mommy's Little Barnacle.
She has one week left of "day camp," then a week at home before the term starts at her new day care/nursery after Labor Day. She's gotten back into the swing of day care all right: she's getting accustomed to the idea that Mommy takes her someplace where she gets to play with different toys all day; then Mommy comes to get her and we go home to Daddy, who is Still Working; so Mommy makes a little snack and we play together until Daddy makes dinner. Either that or we come home to Daddy, who is Still Working, and Mommy passes out on the couch while Gigi turns the living room upside down and brings Daddy toys to share. The latter is a little more common as we approach Month Seven of this pregnancy.
But hey, it's a routine, right? And little ones thrive on routine, right?
Yeah, it's past my bedtime. More updates on Getting To Know Our New Island Home, on our next episode of Purple Scare. Good night, y'all.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
I admit it. I keep saying that "It's Just Stuff" and really it doesn't matter if it all arrives in shards and smithereens, there's nothing we can't live without or replace, blah blah blah. I kept saying before we left, "We have money, tickets, passports, and each other. Everything else is just details." It was a good little mantra.
The real challenge to me in keeping up this Zen and The Art of International Transfers mentality will be the arrival of our air shipment, which contains my birthday present, my only, my Precious...the laptop.
The computer I'm using now is my husband's telecommuting machine. For my birthday, my husband got me a lovely lovely new laptop of my very very own, which I hope will make it easier for me to keep up with the blogging. But we could only carry one computer onto the plane with us, and his gets priority. (Our other carryons were the diaper bag and the cat. My husband would have argued that the cat could get bumped, but I wasn't going for it.)
Anyway, I've been hoping that our air freight would be here by now. My fear is that it won't arrive by Wednesday. We're coming up on a holiday weekend here, and island time being what it is, as of Thursday the whole place is going to be shut down. Think SuperBowl Sunday, or the Stanley Cup perhaps, or the NCAA Final Four. Nothing is going to get accomplished after Wednesday at noon, I'm quite sure. And that means one more week before we get the baby's crib, her wading pool, a few more changes of clothes, and oh yesssss my precious...
The real challenge to me in keeping up this Zen and The Art of International Transfers mentality will be the arrival of our air shipment, which contains my birthday present, my only, my Precious...the laptop.
The computer I'm using now is my husband's telecommuting machine. For my birthday, my husband got me a lovely lovely new laptop of my very very own, which I hope will make it easier for me to keep up with the blogging. But we could only carry one computer onto the plane with us, and his gets priority. (Our other carryons were the diaper bag and the cat. My husband would have argued that the cat could get bumped, but I wasn't going for it.)
Anyway, I've been hoping that our air freight would be here by now. My fear is that it won't arrive by Wednesday. We're coming up on a holiday weekend here, and island time being what it is, as of Thursday the whole place is going to be shut down. Think SuperBowl Sunday, or the Stanley Cup perhaps, or the NCAA Final Four. Nothing is going to get accomplished after Wednesday at noon, I'm quite sure. And that means one more week before we get the baby's crib, her wading pool, a few more changes of clothes, and oh yesssss my precious...
It is said that many of us, no matter how far into adulthood we get, continue to have those dreams where you're back at school and you can't find any of your classrooms, or you have a test but don't remember going to any classes or reading any of the material, or you can't find your locker and you're late to class, or variations on that theme.
There is also "The Actor's Nightmare" where you're supposed to go on stage in one minute but you don't remember any of your lines, can't recall having been at any rehearsals, or don't even know what play you're supposed to be in. (Brilliantly rendered in a one-act version, btw, by Christopher Durang. I did that one in high school. Ben Lang may never forgive me for actually taking his pants away during a dress rehearsal in class...)
As for me, being in the travel industry, I get the "I have to be at the airport in 30 minutes and the car is here and I haven't packed and I don't know where my passport and tickets are..." variation on the anxiety dreams. If you have ever seen Gone With The Wind, and recall Prissy's "packing" before they evacuate Atlanta, well, you get the idea. That's the one that usually has me waking up in a cold sweat.
Here's the thing: usually, before I start a new job, I get bombarded with these types of dreams -- especially when a move is involved (ohmigawsh, the packers are here and I haven't a clue what's supposed to go where!) This time around, though, almost no anxiety dreams.
The last major outbound international move was four years ago, when hubby and I left North America for Baltic Europe. I was married less than a year. My grandmother, to whom I was very close, had just died after a lengthy and agonizing struggle with Alzheimers. My cat had just had a cancer scare. I was going to a job with unprecedented levels of responsibility for me. My mental state at the time was such that I would have aspired to catatonia. My dear brother, who lived nearby and was between jobs at the time, came over to keep me calm while the movers went about their business. He considered feeding me Xanax and Valium cocktails washed down with vodka tonics. Seriously, I was pretty close to a nervous breakdown.
This time around, while upsetting, was much much better. No "Prissy-packing" panic dreams. No pharmacists on speed-dial, no nail-biting/wailing/gnashing teeth, no family restraining me from jumping off the roof. Even my boss told me on my last day in the office, "You are remarkably calm." Honestly, I couldn't have told him whether it was because I have matured over the last four years, or whether I was just so deeply in denial that nothing registered.
We got to our new island home six days ago. Since then, I've had one school dream: I was walking around my old high school, trying to find my locker, and realized that I didn't remember the combination. Then I found it and the door was unlocked and there was nothing in there anyway. Last night in my dreams, I was working a production of Les Miserables. We'd been working hard, it was opening night, and somehow we realized that even though we'd been rehearsing multiple roles, we actually hadn't cast someone in one of the major parts. So I stepped up to fill in. I knew I wasn't the best singer, and I didn't have all of the lines down solidly, but the show must go on and this was the best I could do and they could all just deal with it. And I got up there, played the part, and didn't care whether I made an ass of myself or not, I was having fun and no one threw any tomatoes.
So, am I actually getting better at this business, or am I -- dare I say it -- growing up? Or have I just gotten to the point where other people's definitions of performance and accomplishment are not that important to me?
Maybe that's the definition of being grown-up?
There is also "The Actor's Nightmare" where you're supposed to go on stage in one minute but you don't remember any of your lines, can't recall having been at any rehearsals, or don't even know what play you're supposed to be in. (Brilliantly rendered in a one-act version, btw, by Christopher Durang. I did that one in high school. Ben Lang may never forgive me for actually taking his pants away during a dress rehearsal in class...)
As for me, being in the travel industry, I get the "I have to be at the airport in 30 minutes and the car is here and I haven't packed and I don't know where my passport and tickets are..." variation on the anxiety dreams. If you have ever seen Gone With The Wind, and recall Prissy's "packing" before they evacuate Atlanta, well, you get the idea. That's the one that usually has me waking up in a cold sweat.
Here's the thing: usually, before I start a new job, I get bombarded with these types of dreams -- especially when a move is involved (ohmigawsh, the packers are here and I haven't a clue what's supposed to go where!) This time around, though, almost no anxiety dreams.
The last major outbound international move was four years ago, when hubby and I left North America for Baltic Europe. I was married less than a year. My grandmother, to whom I was very close, had just died after a lengthy and agonizing struggle with Alzheimers. My cat had just had a cancer scare. I was going to a job with unprecedented levels of responsibility for me. My mental state at the time was such that I would have aspired to catatonia. My dear brother, who lived nearby and was between jobs at the time, came over to keep me calm while the movers went about their business. He considered feeding me Xanax and Valium cocktails washed down with vodka tonics. Seriously, I was pretty close to a nervous breakdown.
This time around, while upsetting, was much much better. No "Prissy-packing" panic dreams. No pharmacists on speed-dial, no nail-biting/wailing/gnashing teeth, no family restraining me from jumping off the roof. Even my boss told me on my last day in the office, "You are remarkably calm." Honestly, I couldn't have told him whether it was because I have matured over the last four years, or whether I was just so deeply in denial that nothing registered.
We got to our new island home six days ago. Since then, I've had one school dream: I was walking around my old high school, trying to find my locker, and realized that I didn't remember the combination. Then I found it and the door was unlocked and there was nothing in there anyway. Last night in my dreams, I was working a production of Les Miserables. We'd been working hard, it was opening night, and somehow we realized that even though we'd been rehearsing multiple roles, we actually hadn't cast someone in one of the major parts. So I stepped up to fill in. I knew I wasn't the best singer, and I didn't have all of the lines down solidly, but the show must go on and this was the best I could do and they could all just deal with it. And I got up there, played the part, and didn't care whether I made an ass of myself or not, I was having fun and no one threw any tomatoes.
So, am I actually getting better at this business, or am I -- dare I say it -- growing up? Or have I just gotten to the point where other people's definitions of performance and accomplishment are not that important to me?
Maybe that's the definition of being grown-up?
Did I say a few days?
Okay, yeah, so I did. Heh. After getting back from my college reunion (which was lots of fun despite lots of rain), I realized that I had six weeks left to prepare for my next international move. I've done international moves before. I've done international moves with a cat before. I've done an international move pregnant before. But doing all of the above with a toddler? Oh, new levels of excitement.
The funny thing is, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Okay, granted, we had some of the usual hoopla about what goes into storage and what comes with us and what do we ship as air freight and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo on. And the fact that I came down with a respiratory bug for two weeks didn't help. All that time I would have spent playing Hogwarts Sorting Hat and running down to Goodwill with carloads of stuff I instead spent horking up lungbunnies and sounding like Lauren Bacall on helium.
So we didn't prep for this move with much detail. And the movers, although they appeared to be reasonable people, left empty Gatorade bottles all over the house and left the hot water tap in the bathroom running overnight (guess who's getting that last utility bill...?) But in the end, it's all just stuff and there's very little that we can't live without and couldn't replace. We got to our new island home in one piece; that's all that matters.
Okay, yeah, so I did. Heh. After getting back from my college reunion (which was lots of fun despite lots of rain), I realized that I had six weeks left to prepare for my next international move. I've done international moves before. I've done international moves with a cat before. I've done an international move pregnant before. But doing all of the above with a toddler? Oh, new levels of excitement.
The funny thing is, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Okay, granted, we had some of the usual hoopla about what goes into storage and what comes with us and what do we ship as air freight and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo on. And the fact that I came down with a respiratory bug for two weeks didn't help. All that time I would have spent playing Hogwarts Sorting Hat and running down to Goodwill with carloads of stuff I instead spent horking up lungbunnies and sounding like Lauren Bacall on helium.
So we didn't prep for this move with much detail. And the movers, although they appeared to be reasonable people, left empty Gatorade bottles all over the house and left the hot water tap in the bathroom running overnight (guess who's getting that last utility bill...?) But in the end, it's all just stuff and there's very little that we can't live without and couldn't replace. We got to our new island home in one piece; that's all that matters.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
I may be off for the next few days. Yeah, okay, I don't post for over two months, and now I'm giving you notice?
Okay, for real: I'm off to New England for my college class reunion. I won't say which college or which class, but let it suffice to say that it's in Massachusetts and I'm not yet old enough to be the mother of anyone who just graduated. So there.
Okay, for real: I'm off to New England for my college class reunion. I won't say which college or which class, but let it suffice to say that it's in Massachusetts and I'm not yet old enough to be the mother of anyone who just graduated. So there.
Yesterday was not an easy day. I went into a photography store with Gigi, in the hopes of finding a replacement battery for my camera and getting passport photos for my little girl. Hmmm, international move in seven weeks, might not be a bad idea to get her a passport, eh?
Well, I failed at both missions. First of all, they didn't carry the kind of battery I need. Second of all, Gigi decided that once we got to the picture-taking corner, she would have the absolute worst teething fit I've seen her experience in months. I kid you not, this child would barely settle down after multiple applications of Orajel and a dose of ibuprofen. For half an hour I sat on the floor of this shop, rocking Gigi and trying to coax her into at least not shrieking in Mommy's ear. It was quite a show. If I'd had any sense, I would have just excused us and left after the first dose of Orajel.
So after 30+ minutes of hoping against hope that we could actually get a decent picture of Gigi, we gave up and went home. Of course, by the time we got to the house, she was calm and reasonably quiet. Argh.
Then, just to be sure that all was forgiven... she and I were playing in the living room later that evening. Among the 40 or so words in Gigi's vocabulary are "baby" and "belly" (yes, if you ask, she will show you her belly in all its rotund glory. I am never letting her anywhere near Mardi Gras.) She was sitting beside me as I lay on the floor, and she pulled up my shirt and said, "Belly!"
"Yep," I said, "there's a baby in mommy's belly."
"Baby," she echoed, and made the sign language motions for 'baby'.
"Right, baby in the belly."
"Belly. Baby!" she grinned, then leaned over and planted a kiss on my tummy.
Yeah, she's cute. I think we'll keep her.
Well, I failed at both missions. First of all, they didn't carry the kind of battery I need. Second of all, Gigi decided that once we got to the picture-taking corner, she would have the absolute worst teething fit I've seen her experience in months. I kid you not, this child would barely settle down after multiple applications of Orajel and a dose of ibuprofen. For half an hour I sat on the floor of this shop, rocking Gigi and trying to coax her into at least not shrieking in Mommy's ear. It was quite a show. If I'd had any sense, I would have just excused us and left after the first dose of Orajel.
So after 30+ minutes of hoping against hope that we could actually get a decent picture of Gigi, we gave up and went home. Of course, by the time we got to the house, she was calm and reasonably quiet. Argh.
Then, just to be sure that all was forgiven... she and I were playing in the living room later that evening. Among the 40 or so words in Gigi's vocabulary are "baby" and "belly" (yes, if you ask, she will show you her belly in all its rotund glory. I am never letting her anywhere near Mardi Gras.) She was sitting beside me as I lay on the floor, and she pulled up my shirt and said, "Belly!"
"Yep," I said, "there's a baby in mommy's belly."
"Baby," she echoed, and made the sign language motions for 'baby'.
"Right, baby in the belly."
"Belly. Baby!" she grinned, then leaned over and planted a kiss on my tummy.
Yeah, she's cute. I think we'll keep her.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Oh, yeah. I'm back. Where have I been?
Let's see...I was on a quest for the last of the state quarters missing from my collection (damn you, you elusive Arkansas!!!)
No, that's not it.
I've been camped out in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out once and for all whether my scalp is dry, normal, or oily.
Nah...
I've been wigging out over the prospect of moving to an island for the next three years.
Hmmm, more plausible, but still not it.
Oh yeah.
I've been semi-comatose for most of the last two months because I'm back at work, raising a very mobile toddler, and gestating her younger sibling.
Yep, it's true, PS fans (if any of you are left out there), "Gigi" is getting an upgrade in November, to Big Sister.
Which brings me back to two years ago, when I inaugurated this blog: pregnant, working outside the home, facing an international move, and barely able to keep up with e-mail.
So mea culpa on the bloglapse. Now that I'm in Week 16, supposedly I'm going to be feeling better soon. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Meanwhile, it's past my bedtime. Night-night, my friends.
Let's see...I was on a quest for the last of the state quarters missing from my collection (damn you, you elusive Arkansas!!!)
No, that's not it.
I've been camped out in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out once and for all whether my scalp is dry, normal, or oily.
Nah...
I've been wigging out over the prospect of moving to an island for the next three years.
Hmmm, more plausible, but still not it.
Oh yeah.
I've been semi-comatose for most of the last two months because I'm back at work, raising a very mobile toddler, and gestating her younger sibling.
Yep, it's true, PS fans (if any of you are left out there), "Gigi" is getting an upgrade in November, to Big Sister.
Which brings me back to two years ago, when I inaugurated this blog: pregnant, working outside the home, facing an international move, and barely able to keep up with e-mail.
So mea culpa on the bloglapse. Now that I'm in Week 16, supposedly I'm going to be feeling better soon. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Meanwhile, it's past my bedtime. Night-night, my friends.
Today was a momentous day for me. I was driving home from a midweek treat, dinner out with an old friend (a restaurant with cloth napkins, oooh) when one of my favorite songs from my youth came on the radio: "I Don't Like Mondays" by the Boomtown Rats. Now I'm sure the local radio station was not doing this by way of attracting controversy, considering recent events and the song's ignoble history.
But what hit me was this. I am now the parent of a small child. As a full-fledged Volvo-driving Suburban Mommy I am the target demographic for being outraged at a song about an evilly banal shooting in a schoolyard.
Instead, I sang along with Bob as I wound my way through the subdivisions, just as I did twenty years ago. And I still love every note and word of this classic tune. And I feel no sense of outrage, even considering what my reaction would be if it had been my child in the crosshairs. Why?
a) Because it's just a song.
b) Because the song does not celebrate the act it refers to.
c) Nor does it preach about the causes and effects of the act.
d) Because God alone knows what kept the silicon chips inside my head from switching to overload when I was sixteen.
Anyway, all of this is by way of saying that I'm glad that two years in hardcore suburbia have not totally morphed away my personality, and I can still hear a song about a distasteful subject without wigging out, getting the FCC on speed-dial, and writing shrieking letters to the Editor. Praise Bob.
But what hit me was this. I am now the parent of a small child. As a full-fledged Volvo-driving Suburban Mommy I am the target demographic for being outraged at a song about an evilly banal shooting in a schoolyard.
Instead, I sang along with Bob as I wound my way through the subdivisions, just as I did twenty years ago. And I still love every note and word of this classic tune. And I feel no sense of outrage, even considering what my reaction would be if it had been my child in the crosshairs. Why?
a) Because it's just a song.
b) Because the song does not celebrate the act it refers to.
c) Nor does it preach about the causes and effects of the act.
d) Because God alone knows what kept the silicon chips inside my head from switching to overload when I was sixteen.
Anyway, all of this is by way of saying that I'm glad that two years in hardcore suburbia have not totally morphed away my personality, and I can still hear a song about a distasteful subject without wigging out, getting the FCC on speed-dial, and writing shrieking letters to the Editor. Praise Bob.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Gigi and I were enjoying some unseasonably warm weather this afternoon after I picked her up from school. She was having a sippy cup of milk al fresco and pondering the weird device I had attached to it (a strap that is supposed to keep the cup attached to a high chair or car seat, so when kiddo wants to play The Gravity Game, Mommy doesn't sprain a knee retrieving the cup).
Anyway, this thing is purple and shiny and new, so of course it requires a vocabulary lesson. "Shiny," I said to Gigi, turning the strap over in her hands. "See how shiny? Pretty!"
"Purr-po," she replied.
No way, I'm thinking. "Did you just say 'purple'?"
Without taking her gaze from it, she repeated, "purr-po."
My daughter identified her first color by name. And it was purple.
Now I know how Anne Sullivan felt at the water pump that day.
Anyway, this thing is purple and shiny and new, so of course it requires a vocabulary lesson. "Shiny," I said to Gigi, turning the strap over in her hands. "See how shiny? Pretty!"
"Purr-po," she replied.
No way, I'm thinking. "Did you just say 'purple'?"
Without taking her gaze from it, she repeated, "purr-po."
My daughter identified her first color by name. And it was purple.
Now I know how Anne Sullivan felt at the water pump that day.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I am caving in. After several weeks of falling behind on housework, and with the arrival of spring, I have come to the conclusion that I can either be both a full-time housekeeper *and* full-time employee, or I can be a full-time employee, outsource the housekeeping, and have some semblance of a life.
This is not to say that I do not have pangs of bourgeois guilt. It's just that I'd like to ensure - now that the baby is totally mobile and has discovered the joys of pulling stuff up from the garden - that at least once a week the carpets get vacuumed and the kitchen floor has more than one patch of non-adhesive surface. And I'd like to be there in the garden with the baby pulling up stuff.
Tomorrow I have a carpet-cleaning service coming in to get the smell of cat whizz out of the living room. The previous owners had a cat, and I only have so much time to play "CSI" with the blacklight looking for signs of our cat's power struggle with her predecessor. I also have a few housekeeping companies coming over to give us estimates. Naturally, this means I have to clean up the place before they get here, right?
Which means I should get off the blog. Right.
This is not to say that I do not have pangs of bourgeois guilt. It's just that I'd like to ensure - now that the baby is totally mobile and has discovered the joys of pulling stuff up from the garden - that at least once a week the carpets get vacuumed and the kitchen floor has more than one patch of non-adhesive surface. And I'd like to be there in the garden with the baby pulling up stuff.
Tomorrow I have a carpet-cleaning service coming in to get the smell of cat whizz out of the living room. The previous owners had a cat, and I only have so much time to play "CSI" with the blacklight looking for signs of our cat's power struggle with her predecessor. I also have a few housekeeping companies coming over to give us estimates. Naturally, this means I have to clean up the place before they get here, right?
Which means I should get off the blog. Right.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
The past two weeks as haiku:
Spring and winter play
leapfrog. Immune systems blown.
New ear infection.
Spouse has surgery,
limited mobility.
Mommy needs a drink.
Yep, the day my husband has knee surgery and I'm teaching a class - as the substitute, mind you - is the day that Gigi develops a fever. Hubby can't drive, and I can't leave on a moment's notice. The ladies at day care (or, as I prefer to think of it, "pre-pre-school") called to tell me that she had a temperature, and they were giving her the ibuprofen I supply for teething pain, and she was really quite listless and I should consider taking her home. I explained my circumstances and said I'd wrap things up as soon as I could, yadda yadda. They called again two hours later - in between my phone calls to my brother to see how my husband's surgery had gone - and said the fever hadn't broken, she was napping now but she seems to be really sick.
You know, they never actually come out and say, "You negligent slattern, how dare you inflict your diseased spawn upon us," but I'm learning that Day Care is a highly nuanced tonal language.
So I got the babe, took her to the pediatrician, got her a diagnosis and an antibiotic, and took her home to daddy, who was on the couch with ice packs.
Oh, and did I mention that I had a cold too?
Yeah, things are looking up now. However, I should point out that I am blogging on a friend's computer between the cocktail and dinner portion of our weekly Movie Nite. Blogging at work is not an option, and while my family was playing Sick Ward I kinda let the housework go to hell, so I've been playing catchup on the laundry and such in between baby's bathtime, teething fits, and playtime. Oh, and I have relatives coming this weekend (brother-in-law and his fiancee). Hooray, they are graduate students, so a little clutter and fledgling civilizations in the bathroom isn't going to bother them, as long as they get lots of Niece Time.
It is a good person who lets you blog from their home. It is a remarkable person who will do so and cook paella for you at the same time. I am very fortunate in my friends.
Spring and winter play
leapfrog. Immune systems blown.
New ear infection.
Spouse has surgery,
limited mobility.
Mommy needs a drink.
Yep, the day my husband has knee surgery and I'm teaching a class - as the substitute, mind you - is the day that Gigi develops a fever. Hubby can't drive, and I can't leave on a moment's notice. The ladies at day care (or, as I prefer to think of it, "pre-pre-school") called to tell me that she had a temperature, and they were giving her the ibuprofen I supply for teething pain, and she was really quite listless and I should consider taking her home. I explained my circumstances and said I'd wrap things up as soon as I could, yadda yadda. They called again two hours later - in between my phone calls to my brother to see how my husband's surgery had gone - and said the fever hadn't broken, she was napping now but she seems to be really sick.
You know, they never actually come out and say, "You negligent slattern, how dare you inflict your diseased spawn upon us," but I'm learning that Day Care is a highly nuanced tonal language.
So I got the babe, took her to the pediatrician, got her a diagnosis and an antibiotic, and took her home to daddy, who was on the couch with ice packs.
Oh, and did I mention that I had a cold too?
Yeah, things are looking up now. However, I should point out that I am blogging on a friend's computer between the cocktail and dinner portion of our weekly Movie Nite. Blogging at work is not an option, and while my family was playing Sick Ward I kinda let the housework go to hell, so I've been playing catchup on the laundry and such in between baby's bathtime, teething fits, and playtime. Oh, and I have relatives coming this weekend (brother-in-law and his fiancee). Hooray, they are graduate students, so a little clutter and fledgling civilizations in the bathroom isn't going to bother them, as long as they get lots of Niece Time.
It is a good person who lets you blog from their home. It is a remarkable person who will do so and cook paella for you at the same time. I am very fortunate in my friends.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
I saw some stats today that said that a majority of bloggers fit the profile of females from North America, and that on average blogs are abandoned after four months. I felt a wee bit smug, seeing as PS has been in effect for over 18 months now. Nevertheless I also felt a momentary twinge of guilt for not having posted for the past two weeks. The twinge lasted just long enough to get shot down like a Vice Presidential companion, though, since it's been a jam-packed two weeks. More on that later.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
"Deny the passport, throw it away and make a great decision that you will not leave this shore until and unless you have liberated all the human beings." -- Buddha
I came across the above quote a few days ago, and started to wonder if maybe it's a sign from Higher Powers that it's time to quit my job.
Then I remember that my job is sending me to an English-speaking island paradise this summer, to make up for the two years they had me working in a glorified snowdrift with a boss who was clearly the mutant love-child of a Dilbert cartoon and a Stephen King novel.
So whom do I trust? Buddha or the bureaucracy?
I came across the above quote a few days ago, and started to wonder if maybe it's a sign from Higher Powers that it's time to quit my job.
Then I remember that my job is sending me to an English-speaking island paradise this summer, to make up for the two years they had me working in a glorified snowdrift with a boss who was clearly the mutant love-child of a Dilbert cartoon and a Stephen King novel.
So whom do I trust? Buddha or the bureaucracy?
Sunday, February 05, 2006
January was a very busy month (as anyone reviewing the dates of actual postings can see...). Going back to work was only half of it. Between Gigi and me, we spent an inordinate amount of time in doctors' offices. My employer, being steeped in the business of sending ailing travelers back home - often at ridiculous expense due to a lack of insurance - is very careful about health screenings before sending people overseas. This is good, because it lets me get a really thorough checkup every few years. On the other hand, it can be a pain because my whacked-out endocrine system often raises a few hurdles.
Since my thyroid gland - already as dysfunctional as a Hollywood household - has yet to level out since Gigi's birth, my doctor finally decided that between the blood counts and the nodules it was time for an ultrasound. The results of the ultrasound would indicate whether a needle biopsy was required. I didn't like the sound of that. "Biopsy" and "needle" are words that I don't like to hear individually. Put them together and they're not much improved. But we'll burn that bridge when we get to it; the first step was the ultrasound.
The technician was amused to hear me say that this was my first u/s from the waist up, though I doubted that I'd do any better figuring out what was on the screen. Many times my OB pointed to the screen and said, "See that?" when we previewed Bizzleburp/Gigi, and I couldn't tell which end I was supposed to be looking at. So this technician didn't bother with the detailed, guided tour, just, "here's the left side...here's the right side..." My favorite comment from her? "Wow, your thyroid gland isn't just multinodular. It looks like cottage cheese."
Great, I thought, so it matches my butt. Too bad I can't see either one of them.
But the good news is that a biopsy is not warranted. The doc is just going to adjust my synthetic hormone dosage *again* and we'll test my blood again in another few weeks. If I'm very lucky, we'll have found the magic number and my metabolism will actually get out of first gear.
Since my thyroid gland - already as dysfunctional as a Hollywood household - has yet to level out since Gigi's birth, my doctor finally decided that between the blood counts and the nodules it was time for an ultrasound. The results of the ultrasound would indicate whether a needle biopsy was required. I didn't like the sound of that. "Biopsy" and "needle" are words that I don't like to hear individually. Put them together and they're not much improved. But we'll burn that bridge when we get to it; the first step was the ultrasound.
The technician was amused to hear me say that this was my first u/s from the waist up, though I doubted that I'd do any better figuring out what was on the screen. Many times my OB pointed to the screen and said, "See that?" when we previewed Bizzleburp/Gigi, and I couldn't tell which end I was supposed to be looking at. So this technician didn't bother with the detailed, guided tour, just, "here's the left side...here's the right side..." My favorite comment from her? "Wow, your thyroid gland isn't just multinodular. It looks like cottage cheese."
Great, I thought, so it matches my butt. Too bad I can't see either one of them.
But the good news is that a biopsy is not warranted. The doc is just going to adjust my synthetic hormone dosage *again* and we'll test my blood again in another few weeks. If I'm very lucky, we'll have found the magic number and my metabolism will actually get out of first gear.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
I finally figured out what it is about the song "The Wheels on the Bus" that bugs me so much. It's the verse that goes, "The driver on the bus says 'move on back!'" that has always gotten under my skin. The passing of Rosa Parks, I think, threw it into sharp relief for me.
Look, I'm not so steeped in my liberal arts education that I'm going to interpret the entire song as an homage to Jim Crow and denounce it as a tool of the white patriarchy indoctrinating young children with institutional blah blah blah. It's just that I finally feel like I have a reason - other than the fact that the tune makes me want to puncture my eardrums with an icepick - to dislike that song.
And because God has a sense of humor, naturally, my daughter got a toy school bus for Christmas, with little shape-sorting figures and interactive sound features. And it is one of her **favorite** toys **ever**. She likes nothing more than to press the little orange button where the "driver" sits, which makes her bus light up playing TWOTBGRAR. And she lights up right along with it, bouncing up and down and clapping her hands with the music.
When she's a little older and starts singing, I'm going to teach her a variation: "The old karmic wheel goes round and round, round and round, round and round..."
Look, I'm not so steeped in my liberal arts education that I'm going to interpret the entire song as an homage to Jim Crow and denounce it as a tool of the white patriarchy indoctrinating young children with institutional blah blah blah. It's just that I finally feel like I have a reason - other than the fact that the tune makes me want to puncture my eardrums with an icepick - to dislike that song.
And because God has a sense of humor, naturally, my daughter got a toy school bus for Christmas, with little shape-sorting figures and interactive sound features. And it is one of her **favorite** toys **ever**. She likes nothing more than to press the little orange button where the "driver" sits, which makes her bus light up playing TWOTBGRAR. And she lights up right along with it, bouncing up and down and clapping her hands with the music.
When she's a little older and starts singing, I'm going to teach her a variation: "The old karmic wheel goes round and round, round and round, round and round..."
Monday, January 16, 2006
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Overheard at the Asian art museum:
"What's a...chah-bah?" (said standing directly in front of the little plaque explaining that the kaaba is Islam's most sacred site, the house Abraham built for God, and the items you are looking at are ornamental keys to it...)
Tween Princess: "Mom, can I have sushi for dinner tonight?"
Suburban Martyr: "NO. You had sushi for dinner last night, and sushi for lunch today, and I don't want to hear any more about it. I am not a sushi-making machine."
TP: "Yes you are!"
"What's a...chah-bah?" (said standing directly in front of the little plaque explaining that the kaaba is Islam's most sacred site, the house Abraham built for God, and the items you are looking at are ornamental keys to it...)
Tween Princess: "Mom, can I have sushi for dinner tonight?"
Suburban Martyr: "NO. You had sushi for dinner last night, and sushi for lunch today, and I don't want to hear any more about it. I am not a sushi-making machine."
TP: "Yes you are!"
Um...Happy New Year. No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. I did return to work, though. More on that later. Just posting a quick thing to remind myself that I do have a blog which some people occasionally read (whoo hoo!)
btw, Gigi has her third tooth. The next three seem to be coming in all at once. More on that later, too.
btw, Gigi has her third tooth. The next three seem to be coming in all at once. More on that later, too.
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