Yesterday I spent the entire day contracting painfully about ten minutes apart. In the morning I was at Tallulah's preschool being "an owl in the tree" which meant I was observing the class. During storytime I was squirming more than the 3-5 year olds. Should I stay? Should I pull Tallulah early? Is this real labor or just more Braxton-Hicks? If I wait to know for sure its real labor, will I be able to drive myself and Tallulah home safely?
I'm in this weird mind-space where every day I contract regularly and I think, "Is this a good day to go into labor?" I think about where Kent will be, where Grandma is (she's taking Tallulah when labor happens), where my midwife is, whether I've gotten enough rest, etc...
A lot of this is Tallulah. She needs to go places like the park and school and I want to spend quality time with her, but I don't want to be too far away from home since we have to get Tallulah to her grandma's (by 'we' I mean Kent or Grandma will come pick her up.) I don't want to be in hard labor with Tallulah around. I don't want to worry about how she'll react to me in labor. What I want is for the baby's arrival to be joyous and exciting for her, not a realization of the pain mommy goes through.
It's hard to even think about the reality of a BABY because I'm so busy in my head thinking about the timing and the logistics.
Yesterday, in the evening when I was still contracting we shipped Tallulah off to Grandma's and I thought, "ok, this is perfect. The perfect time to go into labor." And then I didn't.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Disequilibrium
Tallulah is four. I realize that she actually turned four a month ago, but now she is waist deep in the maelstrom of four.
For the past few months we've been having this honeymoon period of calm happiness, but in the back of my mind I kept reminding myself, every two years, every two years. Because all of the parenting books say that every two years, children go through a period of disequilibrium. This is where the phrase 'terrible two's' comes from. In theory, the 'terrible' bit happens every two years as kids move in and out of comfort with their limitations and abilities.
Tallulah's terrible two's started at 18 months and lasted until two and a half years-- she was practically following the textbooks! She needed constant control and limits-- I couldn't say, don't touch that. I had to get up, help her put down the Faberge Egg or whatever it was she was holding with the intent of throwing through the nearest window, and re-direct with a more appropriate activity. And usually take her to the wall for timeout when she threw down with rage.
So I was expecting the fearsome fours or whatever it is they call this stage of disequilibrium. I just wasn't sure what they entailed. By the time four rolls around, most kids have developed their own weird eccentricities so the parenting books aren't as clear about them as they are aout terrible two's.
Let me tell you about four:
Picture a hummingbird in love with one particular flower. It may look motionless, it may refuse to budge from the flower, but it is still in constant motion. This is four.
Here's an example:
Yesterday we go to the park and it's time to leave. As we are walking to the car, Tallulah finds the perfect rock to throw in the pond. "Ok," I say, "one rock and then we have to go."
Unfortunately, the rock goes in a very unsatisfying direction and Tallulah needs to throw a second rock, but better. This rock almost hits some weird garbage in the water and now Tallulah needs to throw another rock to actually hit the weird garbage in the water. This, of course, takes not one rock, but five rocks, at which point mommy is thoroughly tired of waiting for the rock throwing to come to a satisfactory conclusion.
"But mommy, what is that thing in the water?"
"I don't know. Just some garbage."
"Why is that garbage in the water?"
"Um, maybe someone threw it in there. Or someone threw it on the ground and it blew in the water. That's why we always put our garbage in the garbage can."
"Why do we put our garbage in the garbage can?"
"So it doesn't get in the water"
"But that garbage is in the water."
"Because someone didn't put their garbage in the garbage can."
"Why didn't someone put their garbage in the garbage can?"
"Can we go to the car now?"
"One more rock, mommy."
But I can't rush the process because this rock throwing-- and every other excruciatingly time consuming thing that grabs Tallulah's attention-- is Very Important Business. Huge. I think I get important phone calls every now and then, but it is nothing compared to the business of whatever-is-drawing-Tallulah's-attention-this-minute. And if I try to grab her up and move her bodily away from the activity, I no longer get the tantrum or the hissy fit or whatever else she does that I've learned to ignore. I get the lecture.
"Mommy, that wasn't very nice."
"I told you it was time to go."
"Pushing me around is not very nice."
"Not doing what mommy tells you is not very nice either."
"Yes, but you need to be nice and tell me nice things and not push me around."
"Sometimes mommy isn't nice. Deal."
"Yes, mommy, I know. And that isn't good. You need to be nice."
And the thing is, she's not wrong. I do need to be patient with her and let her explore and all that. And being pregnant has helped with it because I can't just scoop her up bodily and whisk her away. But it's so slooooow. I think preschool time may be harder to deal with than toddler time. At least with toddler time I knew she was making a good faith effort to move in the appropriate direction, it just took a long time and she had to do it herself. Now Tallulah has every intention of doing what I want her to do, but after she checks this out. And asks questions about that. Oh, and that reminds her of this other thing she was going to do. And how come this isn't here?
Aah, four.
For the past few months we've been having this honeymoon period of calm happiness, but in the back of my mind I kept reminding myself, every two years, every two years. Because all of the parenting books say that every two years, children go through a period of disequilibrium. This is where the phrase 'terrible two's' comes from. In theory, the 'terrible' bit happens every two years as kids move in and out of comfort with their limitations and abilities.
Tallulah's terrible two's started at 18 months and lasted until two and a half years-- she was practically following the textbooks! She needed constant control and limits-- I couldn't say, don't touch that. I had to get up, help her put down the Faberge Egg or whatever it was she was holding with the intent of throwing through the nearest window, and re-direct with a more appropriate activity. And usually take her to the wall for timeout when she threw down with rage.
So I was expecting the fearsome fours or whatever it is they call this stage of disequilibrium. I just wasn't sure what they entailed. By the time four rolls around, most kids have developed their own weird eccentricities so the parenting books aren't as clear about them as they are aout terrible two's.
Let me tell you about four:
Picture a hummingbird in love with one particular flower. It may look motionless, it may refuse to budge from the flower, but it is still in constant motion. This is four.
Here's an example:
Yesterday we go to the park and it's time to leave. As we are walking to the car, Tallulah finds the perfect rock to throw in the pond. "Ok," I say, "one rock and then we have to go."
Unfortunately, the rock goes in a very unsatisfying direction and Tallulah needs to throw a second rock, but better. This rock almost hits some weird garbage in the water and now Tallulah needs to throw another rock to actually hit the weird garbage in the water. This, of course, takes not one rock, but five rocks, at which point mommy is thoroughly tired of waiting for the rock throwing to come to a satisfactory conclusion.
"But mommy, what is that thing in the water?"
"I don't know. Just some garbage."
"Why is that garbage in the water?"
"Um, maybe someone threw it in there. Or someone threw it on the ground and it blew in the water. That's why we always put our garbage in the garbage can."
"Why do we put our garbage in the garbage can?"
"So it doesn't get in the water"
"But that garbage is in the water."
"Because someone didn't put their garbage in the garbage can."
"Why didn't someone put their garbage in the garbage can?"
"Can we go to the car now?"
"One more rock, mommy."
But I can't rush the process because this rock throwing-- and every other excruciatingly time consuming thing that grabs Tallulah's attention-- is Very Important Business. Huge. I think I get important phone calls every now and then, but it is nothing compared to the business of whatever-is-drawing-Tallulah's-attention-this-minute. And if I try to grab her up and move her bodily away from the activity, I no longer get the tantrum or the hissy fit or whatever else she does that I've learned to ignore. I get the lecture.
"Mommy, that wasn't very nice."
"I told you it was time to go."
"Pushing me around is not very nice."
"Not doing what mommy tells you is not very nice either."
"Yes, but you need to be nice and tell me nice things and not push me around."
"Sometimes mommy isn't nice. Deal."
"Yes, mommy, I know. And that isn't good. You need to be nice."
And the thing is, she's not wrong. I do need to be patient with her and let her explore and all that. And being pregnant has helped with it because I can't just scoop her up bodily and whisk her away. But it's so slooooow. I think preschool time may be harder to deal with than toddler time. At least with toddler time I knew she was making a good faith effort to move in the appropriate direction, it just took a long time and she had to do it herself. Now Tallulah has every intention of doing what I want her to do, but after she checks this out. And asks questions about that. Oh, and that reminds her of this other thing she was going to do. And how come this isn't here?
Aah, four.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sludge Water
Five Times! I steam-cleaned Tallulah's carpet FIVE TIMES in the past two days and I am still getting thick gray water.
Actually, I take that back. At what point can you no longer call something water? Because I went beyond that. I'm still getting sludge sucked up by the steam cleaner.
Housecleaning for me is generally a comedy of errors. The first time I steam-cleaned Tallulah's room, I borrowed a steam cleaner that a friend had bought at a garage sale.
"I bought it from my neighbor. They assured me it works great. No, I haven't used it, but it'll be fine," I was told.
So I used it. And the first couple of minutes, I thought the black streaks it was leaving behind were just part of the cleaning process. By the time I had gone over the entire room, it was zebra striped with dirt. I had to rent a different machine to get the stripes up, but the carpet has never really recovered.
Tallulah's room is the only carpeted room in the entire house. It's possible that I have no idea how to maintain a carpet because no one I know has this type of problem with stains and dirt stripes and ever-regenerating steam cleaner sludge. In fact, a friend of mine who has wall to wall carpeting has a philosophy of "I'll clean it when I tear up the carpet to refinish the terrazzo." She could not pick out a steam cleaner from a line up. And yet, does her carpet have stains all over it like mine does? Can you see the most common traffic pattern written in dirt? No. My carpet might as well say "Walk here" in dirt, it's so obvious.
This non-carpet cleaning friend is an extreme. At the other end of the extreme is my friend who regularly gets on her hands and knees to scrub the floor with a baby wipe at other people's homes. (usually the non-carpet cleaning friend's home) I know everybody has different cleaning tolerances. We all feel like we straddle the line between "everything's pretty acceptable" and "I can't believe we live like this." I like to think I'm a moderate in the housekeeping category. Sure, when Tallulah first started crawling, I had a hard time deciding who ended up with more cat hair at the end of the day, her or the cat. And I made jokes about making her a onesie and matching knee pads out of swiffer sheets. But then I cleaned up. I vaccuumed and mopped on a semi-regular basis.
So renting the steam cleaner to clean the carpet of the room I'll be putting my new, pristine baby in-- this is normal. But when I started getting sludge, I felt a bit manic.
"I'm going to keep steam cleaning until the water comes up clear!" I declared to my husband. And usually my husband would be the voice of reason and say something like, "Well, why don't you do it a few more times and then see how you feel. You are 36 weeks pregnant, after all. You may not need to steam clean for the next three weeks."
But Kent has an odd fascination with the grossness of life. For instance, sometimes we use ear candles. Ear candles are for ear wax and buildup removal. They're cones: you stick one end in your ear and light the other end on fire. It creates a gentle vaccuum that sucks the crap out of your ear. You extinguish the fire when the candles is still about three inches long and then-- this is the part Kent loves-- you can unroll the candle and look at all the gunk that got yanked out of your ear. It really is fascinating. He loves to see just how much gunk he can get in one sitting. And he got the same way about the steam cleaner.
"You should totally see how long it takes to get clear water! Look at all that dirt!"
After the fifth round-- sixth on the high traffic areas-- I got really tired. And instead of feeling tough and determined when I was dumping the sludge, I started getting weepy.
"Why, why is our house so gross?" I asked my husband, sobbing, as we surveyed the slowly drying, still stained carpet.
"I don't know, baby. What's that smell?"
That smell? The one getting stronger as I type? That would be the smell of mildew. I am never cleaning anything again.
Actually, I take that back. At what point can you no longer call something water? Because I went beyond that. I'm still getting sludge sucked up by the steam cleaner.
Housecleaning for me is generally a comedy of errors. The first time I steam-cleaned Tallulah's room, I borrowed a steam cleaner that a friend had bought at a garage sale.
"I bought it from my neighbor. They assured me it works great. No, I haven't used it, but it'll be fine," I was told.
So I used it. And the first couple of minutes, I thought the black streaks it was leaving behind were just part of the cleaning process. By the time I had gone over the entire room, it was zebra striped with dirt. I had to rent a different machine to get the stripes up, but the carpet has never really recovered.
Tallulah's room is the only carpeted room in the entire house. It's possible that I have no idea how to maintain a carpet because no one I know has this type of problem with stains and dirt stripes and ever-regenerating steam cleaner sludge. In fact, a friend of mine who has wall to wall carpeting has a philosophy of "I'll clean it when I tear up the carpet to refinish the terrazzo." She could not pick out a steam cleaner from a line up. And yet, does her carpet have stains all over it like mine does? Can you see the most common traffic pattern written in dirt? No. My carpet might as well say "Walk here" in dirt, it's so obvious.
This non-carpet cleaning friend is an extreme. At the other end of the extreme is my friend who regularly gets on her hands and knees to scrub the floor with a baby wipe at other people's homes. (usually the non-carpet cleaning friend's home) I know everybody has different cleaning tolerances. We all feel like we straddle the line between "everything's pretty acceptable" and "I can't believe we live like this." I like to think I'm a moderate in the housekeeping category. Sure, when Tallulah first started crawling, I had a hard time deciding who ended up with more cat hair at the end of the day, her or the cat. And I made jokes about making her a onesie and matching knee pads out of swiffer sheets. But then I cleaned up. I vaccuumed and mopped on a semi-regular basis.
So renting the steam cleaner to clean the carpet of the room I'll be putting my new, pristine baby in-- this is normal. But when I started getting sludge, I felt a bit manic.
"I'm going to keep steam cleaning until the water comes up clear!" I declared to my husband. And usually my husband would be the voice of reason and say something like, "Well, why don't you do it a few more times and then see how you feel. You are 36 weeks pregnant, after all. You may not need to steam clean for the next three weeks."
But Kent has an odd fascination with the grossness of life. For instance, sometimes we use ear candles. Ear candles are for ear wax and buildup removal. They're cones: you stick one end in your ear and light the other end on fire. It creates a gentle vaccuum that sucks the crap out of your ear. You extinguish the fire when the candles is still about three inches long and then-- this is the part Kent loves-- you can unroll the candle and look at all the gunk that got yanked out of your ear. It really is fascinating. He loves to see just how much gunk he can get in one sitting. And he got the same way about the steam cleaner.
"You should totally see how long it takes to get clear water! Look at all that dirt!"
After the fifth round-- sixth on the high traffic areas-- I got really tired. And instead of feeling tough and determined when I was dumping the sludge, I started getting weepy.
"Why, why is our house so gross?" I asked my husband, sobbing, as we surveyed the slowly drying, still stained carpet.
"I don't know, baby. What's that smell?"
That smell? The one getting stronger as I type? That would be the smell of mildew. I am never cleaning anything again.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
New development: Weekly posts
Ok, here's why I only made one post last week:
Kent got an ear infection and was a miserable wreck because boys and pain? The opposite of chocolate and peant butter.
Then, I started contracting and continued for two days at ten minutes apart. They weren't terribly bad, but after two days, my whole body was sore. Imagine doing a set of crunches every ten minutes for two days. I totally deserve six pack abs.
Then, I was feeling better and Kent was still feeling crummy so I took Tallulah to a birthday party. All I did was stand around and eat and by the time I got home, my entire body was screaming with pain. Contractions? Tight and tired muscles? Fallout from the previous contractions? I don't know, but my now-patented cocktail and a heating pad remedy was only minimally helpful.
So here I am, behind in my posts, my emails and to-do lists piling up and all I want to do is lay in bed with my heating pad and alternate between reading really trashy romance novels and US Weekly. I don't know why these two forms of entertainment are so appealing-- maybe because they're at the opposite ends of the same spectrum. One is ridiculous and always ends in a happy and fulfilling marriage and the other is ridiculous and always ends in an unhappy marriage (or rehab clinic or shockingly bad couture).
It's possible that the lethargy I'm experiencing is purely because of the shitty week I just had. It's also possible that, as I enter my 35th week of pregnancy, this is how I'll be feeling for the next five weeks.
In honor of my lethargy, I'm proposing weekly posts. Say, on wednesday. I know the pressure will be on to make those weekly posts really great and scintillating, but let's not all get carried away with visions of wit and humor. I'm a little distracted right now.
See you Wednesday!
Kent got an ear infection and was a miserable wreck because boys and pain? The opposite of chocolate and peant butter.
Then, I started contracting and continued for two days at ten minutes apart. They weren't terribly bad, but after two days, my whole body was sore. Imagine doing a set of crunches every ten minutes for two days. I totally deserve six pack abs.
Then, I was feeling better and Kent was still feeling crummy so I took Tallulah to a birthday party. All I did was stand around and eat and by the time I got home, my entire body was screaming with pain. Contractions? Tight and tired muscles? Fallout from the previous contractions? I don't know, but my now-patented cocktail and a heating pad remedy was only minimally helpful.
So here I am, behind in my posts, my emails and to-do lists piling up and all I want to do is lay in bed with my heating pad and alternate between reading really trashy romance novels and US Weekly. I don't know why these two forms of entertainment are so appealing-- maybe because they're at the opposite ends of the same spectrum. One is ridiculous and always ends in a happy and fulfilling marriage and the other is ridiculous and always ends in an unhappy marriage (or rehab clinic or shockingly bad couture).
It's possible that the lethargy I'm experiencing is purely because of the shitty week I just had. It's also possible that, as I enter my 35th week of pregnancy, this is how I'll be feeling for the next five weeks.
In honor of my lethargy, I'm proposing weekly posts. Say, on wednesday. I know the pressure will be on to make those weekly posts really great and scintillating, but let's not all get carried away with visions of wit and humor. I'm a little distracted right now.
See you Wednesday!
Monday, October 15, 2007
New study on depression doesn't look good for Mommy
I just read a report about which jobs have the highest rate of depression. Basically the results show that
A. women have higher rates of depression than men.
B. personal care workers (like child care) in general have higher rates of depression than most other industries. And
C. the highest rates of depression are felt by the unemployed.
So what does this mean for me, a stay-at-home (i.e. unemployed) woman whose primary responsibility is caring for children?
I think this Halloween we should have a candy bowl for the kids and a Prozac bowl for the mommies.
Want to read the report?
A. women have higher rates of depression than men.
B. personal care workers (like child care) in general have higher rates of depression than most other industries. And
C. the highest rates of depression are felt by the unemployed.
So what does this mean for me, a stay-at-home (i.e. unemployed) woman whose primary responsibility is caring for children?
I think this Halloween we should have a candy bowl for the kids and a Prozac bowl for the mommies.
Want to read the report?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
We win [laziest] Parents of the Year!
Tallulah has been in the forty pound range for about eight months. During that time her body has done that weird kid-thing where it totally shifts, morphs, and changes from a toddler body to a kid body. She's leaner and tougher and generally much larger at her four year old 40 pounds than she was at her three and a quarter 40 pounds.
Over the last eight months, Kent and I have often commented that
A.) we should move the straps up to the highest setting and
B.) we should get her a new chair.
Since we agreed that getting a new, 40 pounds and up sized car seat was a smart move for our rapidly growing 40 pounder and moving car seat straps involves a highly complex combination of calculus (to figure out how the straps are supposed to align after being used as twist ties, a straitjacket, and a teether for two years) and calisthenics to get the straps out of the current position and into the new position, we decided to skip the intermediate step of moving the straps and just rush right out and get a new seat.
Fast forward to eight months later: "Rushing right out" has morphed into a comical exchange of "when are you going to get that new carseat?" in a bid between Kent and I to be voted Laziest Parent.
Meanwhile, at sharp turns, Tallulah's seat tilts ever-so-slightly as her 40 pounds gets elongated in the seat. Now, Tallulah, at 40 pounds and four years old, is in the 75% of weight. But, because she is the daughter of a 6'8 father and 6'0 mother, her 43.5 inches puts her off the charts in height and a poor candidate for pushing the 'how far can this car seat take us' limits.
Last night we were taking a drive and Kent took a particularly sharp turn. A couple seconds later, we hear from the backseat, "Daddy, I think I need a new seat."
We look back and see Tallulah and her carseat riding at a 45 degree angle. The buckles and seat belt were holding everything together nicely, but sideways. We pushed the seat back into place and assured Tallulah not to worry, we would get her a new seat.
We're going to rush right out.
Over the last eight months, Kent and I have often commented that
A.) we should move the straps up to the highest setting and
B.) we should get her a new chair.
Since we agreed that getting a new, 40 pounds and up sized car seat was a smart move for our rapidly growing 40 pounder and moving car seat straps involves a highly complex combination of calculus (to figure out how the straps are supposed to align after being used as twist ties, a straitjacket, and a teether for two years) and calisthenics to get the straps out of the current position and into the new position, we decided to skip the intermediate step of moving the straps and just rush right out and get a new seat.
Fast forward to eight months later: "Rushing right out" has morphed into a comical exchange of "when are you going to get that new carseat?" in a bid between Kent and I to be voted Laziest Parent.
Meanwhile, at sharp turns, Tallulah's seat tilts ever-so-slightly as her 40 pounds gets elongated in the seat. Now, Tallulah, at 40 pounds and four years old, is in the 75% of weight. But, because she is the daughter of a 6'8 father and 6'0 mother, her 43.5 inches puts her off the charts in height and a poor candidate for pushing the 'how far can this car seat take us' limits.
Last night we were taking a drive and Kent took a particularly sharp turn. A couple seconds later, we hear from the backseat, "Daddy, I think I need a new seat."
We look back and see Tallulah and her carseat riding at a 45 degree angle. The buckles and seat belt were holding everything together nicely, but sideways. We pushed the seat back into place and assured Tallulah not to worry, we would get her a new seat.
We're going to rush right out.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
I'm a dumbass OR Cussing, part three
This is how I discovered that my most common cussword is 'dumbass':
Recently at the dinner table while Kent and I talked and Tallulah stared off into space thinking her private thoughts (which I always assume are "Candy. Great big lollipops with the swirly colors all twirled in, purple gummi bears with pink spots....), Tallulah started to whisper "Du...dum...dummie...dumb...dumbass.." then loudly, triumphantly, "Dumbass!"
Forks froze. "Excuse me?"
"Dumbass"
"Where did you hear that?"
"Dumbass"
"Did mom...." "Did Dad..." mutual glaring between the parents.
"Dumbass"
"Ok, ok, that's enough."
"Dumbass." giggle giggle.
Well shit. So we give our patented "hurtful words" speech and spend the rest of the evening hearing about how "somebody else" said dumbass. This is Tallulah's favorite way to get away with bad words. She accuses everyone in the world of saying the word, meanwhile saying the word a few more times.
"Boogey (our dog) called me dumbass! Dumbass Dumbass! He called me Dumbass!"
Recently at the dinner table while Kent and I talked and Tallulah stared off into space thinking her private thoughts (which I always assume are "Candy. Great big lollipops with the swirly colors all twirled in, purple gummi bears with pink spots....), Tallulah started to whisper "Du...dum...dummie...dumb...dumbass.." then loudly, triumphantly, "Dumbass!"
Forks froze. "Excuse me?"
"Dumbass"
"Where did you hear that?"
"Dumbass"
"Did mom...." "Did Dad..." mutual glaring between the parents.
"Dumbass"
"Ok, ok, that's enough."
"Dumbass." giggle giggle.
Well shit. So we give our patented "hurtful words" speech and spend the rest of the evening hearing about how "somebody else" said dumbass. This is Tallulah's favorite way to get away with bad words. She accuses everyone in the world of saying the word, meanwhile saying the word a few more times.
"Boogey (our dog) called me dumbass! Dumbass Dumbass! He called me Dumbass!"
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