The subject of this blog post is more about me than it is about my son, which marks a departure from the martyrdom that is motherhood. As my husband and I were lounging quietly on the couch the other day, both with our respective laptops perched in front of us, he turned to me and said, “Your blog sucks; there’s not enough of it.” I was at once offended and flattered. But his remark got me thinking. Why don’t I blog more often? And the answer is simple…my life has become boring and, for the most part, follows the same circuit of events day in and day out, varied only by the occasional lunch date with friends and the choice of whether to get groceries on Friday or Saturday. I’m not complaining; I’ve discovered over the last few months that I like the mundane, but such a static routine doesn’t leave much in the way of fodder for posts. So, I’ve decided to embrace the ordinary and dedicate this post to a description of my day(s).
A basic day in the life begins between 7 and 8 am (my husband is currently smirking, knowing that it’s closer to 8 than 7 and closer to 9 than 8). After a feeding, clean up, and diaper change, Suttie and I are ready to start the day. We play – on his playmat, on his circular walker, on the vanity, making faces in the mirror…anything to keep him occupied for more than 5 minutes at a time. About an hour later, he goes down for his first nap, during which time I read, trying to better myself for a career I may never have and a book I may never write. Over the last 3 years of my unemployed existence, I’ve found that I enjoy the distance that I’ve put between myself and ambition. I was always putting far too much pressure on my grades and my job, and, until I can reenter the working world with a revamped set of priorities, I would rather not do so at all.
Now we’ve come to the point in my day when I start to transform into an 80-something year old woman. Around noon, Suttie wakes up for another diaper change and bottle. During this feeding, I usually flip on the noonday news in time to hear about the Monte Sano Quilting Club’s Annual Stitch-Off or whatever other non-newsworthy item happens to be on the docket for today. But what I’m really waiting for is Jeopardy, which starts at 12:27 pm on the nose. During the 30 minutes that follow, I use every bit of my 6 years of higher education to answer 9 out of 10 questions abysmally wrong. Then, during the breaks, I become intensely wrapped up in the commercials that characterize daytime television, thinking, “Maybe I do need additional Term Life Insurance…That is a good price for diabetic testing supplies…and why am I suddenly hungry for oatmeal?”
After crashing and burning at trivia, I again try to entertain my son. We walk the dog, play in his nursery, call his dad…ticking off items on a limited list of things that might appease a 4 month old. Then, to both my relief and his, it’s afternoon nap time. While he’s snoring in his bassinet, I’m usually in the laundry room, going through an entire bottle of Spray-N-Wash on sleepers and onesies that have only the slightest chance of survival. It never ceases to amaze me how he can get poop stains half way up his back, nearly up to his armpit. And then, just as I’ve finished with the laundry and am ready to sit down for a bit of rest and relaxation, I hear it…those first piercing cries of a baby who is awake and mad about it.
So restarts the cycle of diapering, feeding, and playing until his dad comes home to give me a well-earned break so that I can finally bathe. Now, if you’re thinking that this is the part of the post where I sum up its contents into some sort of lesson, you’re wrong. Like I said, I haven’t had much in the way of significant events lately, so to fill blog space I’m giving you a window into a typical day here. But, I guess if you’re going to force it out of me, the lesson that you should take away from this is that someone who once had great ambition, who once thought that her life would be filled with achievement is now quite happy to sit back and enjoy the repetition of a day in which her greatest accomplishment was scotch-guarding the couch. And I’m sure one day soon, I’ll be back in the throws of the classroom full time, both as a student and a teacher, but until then I’m going to relish the time that I have with my son, even if it means scrubbing his more colorful stains.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Randoms and a discovery
The first thing on the agenda for this blog post is to apologize for my sluggish blogging. This will likely be a recurrent problem, so it will be best if you accept that I’m slow so that we can both move on with our lives.
The second thing I’d like to address is the fact that all of my t-shirts now seem to have holes in them, particularly around and within the armpit seams. Granted, most of my t-shirts are at least a decade old, including a gray rag from a 1996 softball tournament that I refuse to toss. My husband has formulated a theory that my armpits give off some kind of corrosive acid. This is the same man who, four months ago when I was a postpartum wreck, told me that the reason my newborn wouldn’t latch on for breastfeeding was because my “pits stink.” I know, I know, but I’m sorry, ladies…he’s taken.
On a different note – you’ve probably heard this before from too many boasting parents, but my child is advanced….in all things regarding food. I kid you not; he’s the Kobayashi of the baby food world. So, it came as no surprise at his 4 month checkup when the doctor told us that we could start adding solids to his diet. Now, by solid food, I mean rice cereal mixed with milk and/or formula, apple juice, and mashed bananas. Basically the diet of someone who recently had dental surgery or someone who will never require the expertise of a dentist again. We decided to start with rice cereal mixed with breastmilk. The first day, things went smoothly, with Suttie inhaling everything but the bowl and the spoon…and those survived only because of a death grip that I developed while shopping at a Walmart on Black Friday. But on the second and, then again, on the third day, Suttie would cry a few bites into his meal and refuse to eat.
And this is where I say, thank goodness for mothers and their unsolicited advice. I was absolutely stumped as to why my normally ravenous child would reject the prospect of food. Fortunately, my mother stopped by for a visit during one of these frustrating episodes and suggested that he didn’t like the taste. At this point, I was dumbfounded…my behemoth of a child decline food based on something as trivial as taste?!? It didn’t seem possible – not for this baby who gobbles up his heartburn medicine, which is widely known to have a terrible taste, even while he’s scrunching up his face in disgust. But, I was desperate and would try anything, so we added apple juice to the cereal instead of milk. As soon as I put it into his mouth, he made a sound that could only be interpreted as “Oh, thank God...finally.” After that, he was back to his usual voracious self, attacking the spoon with the same ferocity that a lion would attack a baby zebra on the Discovery Channel. So, it would appear that, despite his obsession with all things edible, my son is a picky eater, which should make those sticky toddler years especially interesting.
Note: In reading back through this blog, I see that it’s basically a disjointed mess. However, I’m not going to fix it because that would go against the indolent persona that I’ve tried so little to cultivate.
The second thing I’d like to address is the fact that all of my t-shirts now seem to have holes in them, particularly around and within the armpit seams. Granted, most of my t-shirts are at least a decade old, including a gray rag from a 1996 softball tournament that I refuse to toss. My husband has formulated a theory that my armpits give off some kind of corrosive acid. This is the same man who, four months ago when I was a postpartum wreck, told me that the reason my newborn wouldn’t latch on for breastfeeding was because my “pits stink.” I know, I know, but I’m sorry, ladies…he’s taken.
On a different note – you’ve probably heard this before from too many boasting parents, but my child is advanced….in all things regarding food. I kid you not; he’s the Kobayashi of the baby food world. So, it came as no surprise at his 4 month checkup when the doctor told us that we could start adding solids to his diet. Now, by solid food, I mean rice cereal mixed with milk and/or formula, apple juice, and mashed bananas. Basically the diet of someone who recently had dental surgery or someone who will never require the expertise of a dentist again. We decided to start with rice cereal mixed with breastmilk. The first day, things went smoothly, with Suttie inhaling everything but the bowl and the spoon…and those survived only because of a death grip that I developed while shopping at a Walmart on Black Friday. But on the second and, then again, on the third day, Suttie would cry a few bites into his meal and refuse to eat.
And this is where I say, thank goodness for mothers and their unsolicited advice. I was absolutely stumped as to why my normally ravenous child would reject the prospect of food. Fortunately, my mother stopped by for a visit during one of these frustrating episodes and suggested that he didn’t like the taste. At this point, I was dumbfounded…my behemoth of a child decline food based on something as trivial as taste?!? It didn’t seem possible – not for this baby who gobbles up his heartburn medicine, which is widely known to have a terrible taste, even while he’s scrunching up his face in disgust. But, I was desperate and would try anything, so we added apple juice to the cereal instead of milk. As soon as I put it into his mouth, he made a sound that could only be interpreted as “Oh, thank God...finally.” After that, he was back to his usual voracious self, attacking the spoon with the same ferocity that a lion would attack a baby zebra on the Discovery Channel. So, it would appear that, despite his obsession with all things edible, my son is a picky eater, which should make those sticky toddler years especially interesting.
Note: In reading back through this blog, I see that it’s basically a disjointed mess. However, I’m not going to fix it because that would go against the indolent persona that I’ve tried so little to cultivate.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
"They call him Six-Gun Suttie..."
I must be one of the most lackadaisical bloggers there is. You can expect my next blog to start something along the lines of “Today is Suttie’s 18th birthday…” Since my last blog, Suttie has sprouted a tooth, albeit a very small white dot of a tooth barely cresting the surface of his gums, but a tooth nonetheless. Now, there are many things that a mother hopes her child will do early – talk, walk, potty train (Lord, please yes, potty train). But teething is not one of them. I don’t know why anyone would relish the fact that their sweet newborn baby has turned into a drooling, crying, gnawing machine. Of course, the fact that Suttie’s developmental milestones are centered around processing and digesting greater quantities and varieties of food is no surprise to anyone.
Another change is on the horizon as well. It is becoming increasingly clear that Suttie is outgrowing his bassinet. I’ve been in denial about this for a while, but as I walked into our bedroom last night and saw his feet at the end of his bed in a widespread squatting position, I knew that, if a change isn’t made soon, I’ll be raising a son who walks like he’s about to engage in a wild west gunbattle. So, I’ve removed his sleep positioner, which should buy us another month or so, but after that he’ll be moving upstairs. And, there’s a 50% chance that, at that time, I’ll be investing in a full-size air mattress for the floor of his room. Now, before you judge me, remember that I didn’t contend with you when you decided to have that Botox party, even though we all thought you were crazy. Sometimes, friends don’t tell friends the truth – they lie and say, “No, it’s normal to sleep on the floor of your one year old’s room” or “Wow, that injection made you look just like Angelina Jolie.” You know it’s bull; I know it’s bull, but the important thing is that we don’t say it out loud.
Another change is on the horizon as well. It is becoming increasingly clear that Suttie is outgrowing his bassinet. I’ve been in denial about this for a while, but as I walked into our bedroom last night and saw his feet at the end of his bed in a widespread squatting position, I knew that, if a change isn’t made soon, I’ll be raising a son who walks like he’s about to engage in a wild west gunbattle. So, I’ve removed his sleep positioner, which should buy us another month or so, but after that he’ll be moving upstairs. And, there’s a 50% chance that, at that time, I’ll be investing in a full-size air mattress for the floor of his room. Now, before you judge me, remember that I didn’t contend with you when you decided to have that Botox party, even though we all thought you were crazy. Sometimes, friends don’t tell friends the truth – they lie and say, “No, it’s normal to sleep on the floor of your one year old’s room” or “Wow, that injection made you look just like Angelina Jolie.” You know it’s bull; I know it’s bull, but the important thing is that we don’t say it out loud.
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