|
|
Wednesday, October 31, 2007Sweetie?October is Get-Your-New-Tags month for the family Hunk. (That's Jonathan's not-so-affectionate nickname for our '98 Toyota Sienna.) May I just say how much I hate this? It's a pain to go for the emissions inspection and it's a pain to pay for the new tags and registration. I. Hate. The. Establishment. Several years ago, when my then-only-four children were rather on the young side, I pulled up at the end of a very long line at the inspection station on the last day of October. I had seven dollars in cash and my registration papers -- everything I needed to get the stupid test done. We crawled our way up to the entrance road, where a large sign announced, "FEE: $10." My stomach dropped. I didn't have ten dollars. I had seven dollars. And it had taken me at least twenty minutes of waiting and creeping forward to get that far. I burst into tears and pulled out of the line in order to jam my bank card into the nearest teller machine, profusely apologizing, between sobs, to my perplexed offspring the whole way. It wasn't pretty. I've evolved since then. I promise. But I still hate Get-Your-New-Tags month. This year it was a matter of complete brain fartage, which I blame on sleep deprivation and newborn care. I simply could not remember to get the emissions test, though I have a standing promise to myself to never (never!) wait until the last day of the month again. Not since that bursting-into-tears fiasco. Today I bit the bullet and took the Hunk for the test right after Molly's 10:00 feeding. (It's awfully nice having built-in babysitters.) I braced myself for a long line, an interminable wait. Wonder of wonders. There were only a few cars ahead of me. Not only that, but these guys were uber organized. Each of three terminals took two cars at a time from three separate lanes. And an Emissions Guy was walking ahead to the waiting vehicles in order determine the mileage and secure the ten dollars, which he stuck, along with the registration papers, underneath everyone's wiper blades. The administrator in me was pretty excited by all this. "Hey there," the Emissions Guy said as I rolled down my window and handed over my stuff. Amazingly chipper, he was; not at all what you'd expect from an Emissions Guy on the last day of the month. He took my mileage and my money, tucked the goods beneath my wiper, and then he said it: "We'll get you right up there, Sweetie." Sweetie? This wasn't some old, grandfatherly dude who was reminded of his granddaughter when he saw my smiling face. Emissions Guy looked to be about thirty; definitely younger than me, though not young enough to call me "Mrs." There's no way, at my phase of life, that he might've mistaken me for a cute, little sixteen-year-old driver. And considering the fact that I've just had my hair colored, he couldn't have mistaken me for a seventy-five-year-old grammie, either. Yet I was "Sweetie." I'm sorry, but that was just weird -- even coming from a Southerner. I mean, my sister calls her husband Sweetie. I often refer to my children as Sweeties. And I will occasionally start an email with "Hey, Sweetie" when I'm writing to a girlfriend for whom I have a particular fondness. I don't equate "Sweetie" with a trip to the Emissions station. True, it was better than "Ma'am," which always makes me feel at least twenty years older than I am. And at least it wasn't something pejorative like "Moron" or "Trainwreck." But..."Sweetie?" I am not a feminist -- nazi, neo, or otherwise -- so I'm not up in arms about a man's use of a diminutive nickname. I'm just...puzzled. Bemused, really. Because being called "Sweetie" at the inspection station wasn't something I was prepared for. I wish I would've said, "Thank you, Sugarcakes." But he walked away too quickly. That, and I was too stunned at having been called "Sweetie." Nineteen years in the South and I'm still a staunch Yankee. I'm a lot happier when folks aren't sprinkling artificial sweetener all over the place. Still. At least he was friendly. I think I'll give him high ratings on the little survey card they gave me. And I'll sign it, "Sweetie." Labels: life Friday, October 26, 2007It Just Keeps Getting Better
 I keep meaning to write witty, thought-provoking posts. Really, I do. But look at that little face. Would you be able to stop gazing at it long enough to form coherent thoughts on a blank screen? Would life apart from caring for such a wee, endearing creature mean very much in the grand scheme of things? So you see my dilemma. I want to be creative and productive. And I want to pour myself into my tiny daughter. Revel in her tinyhood, as it were. It's really a no-brainer when you think about it for half a second. Or just glance once more at the photograph. Like I said. A no-brainer. So bear with me. And allow me, if you will, the occasional Mama Brag. As in, "Isn't Molly the most intensely adorable thing you've ever encountered?" You won't agree, of course, because your own children will (and should) take precedence in your heart. But nod and smile anyway, would you? It'll make me feel like I'm saying something...useful. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go nurse my angel. Have a wonderful weekend! Labels: baby Tuesday, October 23, 2007Boehme HeadlinesLook at me! I'm chipper. I'm lucid. I'm stringing more than two words together at a time. Why? Because.... Molly is sleeping through the night! Sure, she still has her little "I'm awake but I don't really want to be" crying spells around 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning, but she gets herself back to sleep. Today she didn't wake up again until 7:00, which is her ideal Wake Up Time. And she dropped her 3 am nursing three nights ago. No, we're not just "lucky," and yes, she is an angel -- but the reason she's doing so well is the tried-and-true success of Parent Directed Feeding (think Babywise). My little dolly is happy, growing fat, and sleeping when she's supposed to sleep. And oh! Her wake times are astounding. Alert, pleasant, smiling at everyone. Delight personified. Story Number Two: My husband was on the news on Sunday night. I'd gush about how darn cute he looks with those inane bubbles floating behind him, but I'll let you judge for yourself. Remember, Eric's the one squinting in front of the bubbles. I make no claims on the other gentlemen. That's it, really. A sleeping baby and a broadcast husband. It doesn't take much to make me crow a bit. Before you know it, I'll be blogging regularly again. Thank you to my faithful readers who keep checking in every day (yes, I'm watching you!). I promise there will be more to read soon. I promise! Wednesday, October 17, 2007Raising Butterflies
    It all started when Jonathan came home with a container full of Monarch caterpillars. Yes, he knows these things. He knows what Monarch caterpillars look like, and he knew just what to do in order to ensure that the caterpillars would thrive, leading to the formation of a chrysalis and, ultimately, an adult butterfly. The photos speak for themselves. The caterpillars feasted on milkweed leaves (and pooped accordingly) until, one by one, they crawled up the sides of the box and formed a chrysalis. The jewel-green pods remained suspended until yesterday, when Jonathan announced that two had darkened -- which, evidently, they do just prior to emergence. Yes, he knew that, too. Jonathan blows me away with his depth of knowledge of things like this. By midmorning, we had two Monarchs-in-a-box, drying their wings. A third emerged later, and there are more to come. I never dreamed I'd have freshly emerged Monarchs fluttering about in my living room. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love my life. There is more pleasure in watching the birth of a butterfly than I could have imagined. Would that every day brought such wonders. (And yes, I realize that a butterfly is an insect. I don't get close enough to get a look at those ugly little faces and beady eyes. I just enjoy their vibrant wings and the fact that they don't bite or sting.) In a warped, entomological way, I've become a grandmother. Labels: family, homeschooling, life Monday, October 15, 2007Sympathetic Sleepiness?I'm sleep deprived and I don't make a big deal about it. It's part of being the mother of a newborn, you know? Molly's on a great schedule; she only nurses once at night and has the occasional "oops, I woke up too early" thing going, when she needs a bit of intervention to get her back to sleep before it's actually time to nurse. So, yeah, I get up at night. And by 9:00 in the evening, I can barely keep my eyes open. That can get tricky, since Molly's last nursing before I go to bed is at 10:30. Evenings have turned into a muddy, fuzzy blur. Frustrating at times, but no big deal. It'll pass as quickly as my sweet baby's tinyhood. Interestingly, Eric seems to be suffering from symptoms of sleep deprivation, too. And I'm not sure why. Sure, he hears Molly when she cries at 3:30 in the morning. But he rolls right over and goes back to sleep. I know this because he often starts snoring several minutes later. I can't kick him or pinch his nostrils shut when I'm over on the upholstered chair nursing the baby. So I have to listen to him snoring. One night a couple of weeks ago, I threw a Hardy Boys book at him. It was the only thing I could reach and I figured it wouldn't hurt him if I accidentally beaned him on the head. Fortunately, it landed safely on the bed with enough force that he stopped in mid-snore and rolled over on his side. Last night, in the midst of less-than-human-sounding snores, I hissed his name in a stage whisper, to which he actually responded, "Huh?" And when I told him that he was snoring, he dutifully rolled over and stopped. So. The man is sleeping at night. When the alarm goes off at 6:00, I get up. Okay, sometimes I allow myself one, eight-minute snooze; but mostly, I get up at 6:00. Life goes on; I have to start my day regardless of how long I happened to be awake the night before. It's not always easy, but it's not a big deal. And what does my not-nursing-a-baby-in-the-middle-of-the-night husband do? He rolls over and continues to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. Lately, he's been rolling out of bed around 7:00. An entire hour of extra sleep for the parent who has not been on night duty. It's even worse on weekends. "I hear Molly when she wakes up at night," Eric explained just yesterday. "It's affecting me." It's affecting him? Forgive me if I don't show any empathy for my dear husband. He is the love of my life, but this I'm-as-tired-as-you-are thing is not holding water. So while some husbands tend to gain weight sympathetically during their wives' pregnancies (mine did not), others, I suppose, tend to fall asleep sympathetically while their wives are dealing with middle-of-the-night feedings. Is it me, or is this weird? Maybe he needs attention. I'd love to give him some, but I'd need to be awake in order to do it. Last night around 10:00, I had dozed off once again on the sofa. When I woke up twenty minutes later, Eric told me that he'd been bumping me in the face with my Boppy and calling my name. Evidently, I was non-responsive. "You just kept going, "MMMMMMM," he said. "You wouldn't open your eyes." Do tell. Not only is he claiming sleep deprivation, but he's laughing at me when I'm not even conscious. I guess he was too tired to think of a more effective way to communicate with me. (Was bumping me in the face with my Boppy some kind of amorous move, I wonder?) I don't know. Maybe, in a way, it's better that he's sleepy. I imagine it would be beyond annoying if he were jumping around like a nut-gathering squirrel on speed, and expecting me to keep up with him. At least when I'm zoning out over coffee in the morning, he's zoning out with me. It takes the pressure off. Still, it would be nice to know that, should the intelligence and clarity of a well-rested adult be required, at least one of us would be up to the task. I'm down for the count, so it falls on Eric. And at this rate, we'd better hope that nothing requiring a great deal of thought or energy will be required of either of us. Because he's almost as sleepy as I am. And I make no excuses for him. Maybe he'll get the hint if I start complaining about my sore muscles after he's been lifting weights. You know, a kind of sympathetic muscle ache. "You've been to the gym three times this week," I'll say. "It affects me." It's worth a try. Labels: baby, family, marriage Friday, October 12, 2007Luke-Warm Mommy BloggerThat's about all I can muster these days. There isn't much that feels "hot" about being postpartum, unless you include sweat-soaked nursing bras and a nursery that basks in the late-afternoon sun. Tepid though I may feel, someone has been kind enough to nominate this blog for the Blogger's Choice award of Hottest Mommy Blogger. So if you love me -- or if you're just in the mood to be a suck-up - please take a moment to register over at Blogger's Choice and cast your vote for The Write Way Home. I've even got a pretty button over in my sidebar to accentuate the point. So despite the fact that I'm nursing round the clock, catching spit-up on my shoulder, desperately needing a haircut, and am still eight pounds away from my pre-pregnancy weight, somebody thinks I'm a "hot mommy blogger." Whew! That's a lot to live up to. I may have to shave my legs or something. And now I'm off to make some turkey barbecue, which I suppose falls under the "hot" category, since I'll be cooking it. Happy weekend, all! Monday, October 08, 2007A Writer's True Reward"Mommy," Spencer said in his Thoughtful Voice, "when your book is published, is it going to be like a real book with a cover?" "Yes, it will." "Well, when it's published, I want to read it." "You do?" And my universe danced with glee. "Well, you don't have to wait until then. I can print my manuscript out for you to read. Would you like me to do that?" His eyes lit up. "Really? Sure!" That was about two weeks ago. Yesterday I finally got around to printing out a copy of my latest novel, a young adult fantasy near and dear to my heart. Knowing that Spencer would do better with something bound (visions of cascading paper and mixed-up pages set me on the right path), I dutifully printed the novel on both sides of the page (which takes forever) and punched holes with my trusty three-hole punch (that only accommodates three pages at a time) and stuck the punched story into a plastic binder (which didn't hold the whole thing, so I had to staple the remaining chapters together). It was an administrative nightmare; it was a labor of love. And I placed the makeshift book, title stuck on the front with blue scrapbooking letters, on Spencer's pillow. When he discovered it, he ran pell-mell across the lawn (I was lounging in the hammock with a glass of Cabernet, well deserved after all that printing and punching), his face radiant, and threw his arms around me while expressing effusive thank-you's. Wow. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, my eight-year-old son has already read four chapters. And you know what? He loves it. Spencer wears his heart on his sleeve. Actually, it's beyond that: he's downright blunt. If he didn't like my story, he'd tell me (unlike my daughters who, despite having their own strong opinions about things, are more likely to sugar-coat in order to spare my feelings). But he loves it. It's already intrigued him (he asked me why I didn't call it a "mystery"). It's already made him laugh (my favorite character, no less). And the fourth chapter was proclaimed "awesome" just this morning. Suddenly, my entire life-of-writing has snapped into perspective. There are others in whose hands my work currently sits. Their opinions "mean something" (i.e., they will or will not wish to pursue a professional relationship with me). Then there are those through whose hands my work has already passed, only to be ultimately passed over, each time for a completely different reason -- or no reason at all. But every time my son mentions something new that he likes about my story, all the frustrations and rejections and endless bouts of silence fade away. Because I never began this journey to impress the Publishing World, though that wouldn't be a bad thing. I write because I have stories to tell; I write because I love children. I especially write because I love my children, and if they don't love my stories, it hardly matters if anyone else does. Oh, the joy of capturing a child's imagination! The delight of watching a young person fall in love with my characters, my world. The satisfaction of watching that excitement for a story turn into inspiration to create a story of one's own. Which is exactly what Spencer has been doing. That's right. He's writing. My eight-year-old is writing chapter books. True, they're a little on the violent side. I'll make allowances for the testosterone coursing through his body. But you should hear the drama and expression when he reads them out loud to me. A mama couldn't be prouder. And so I write. Yes, being a published author, beloved by the children who read me, continues to be a burning desire. But when all is said and done (or written and done, as the case may be), there is no joy in writing like the one I'm experiencing right now. My little boy loves my book. And today, that's all that matters. Monday, October 01, 2007A Month of MollyHow can a whole month have passed already?         |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
|
