Hi alert readers. It's been awhile since my last entry, due in part to a minor and unnecessary meltdown. The good news is that this meltdown led to a highly profound revelation and plan that I will soon share (in about 5 paragraphs from now). That's right, put on your yoga pants and your Yanni CD, and prepare to be enlightened. Actually, since 2 of the 5 followers of this blog (can we say famous?) are male members of my family, please do not feel pressured to put on tight yoga pants. In fact, I specifically forbid you to do so.
Those of you who are members of my vague generation (X? Y? What are we again?) have probably heard stories from your parents/grandparents about how much simpler things were when you were born. You may have been told that as an infant, you or your siblings slept in a dresser drawer because there was no room in the tiny one bedroom apartment that your parents rented.
Charming as these drawer stories are, at some point in the past 30+ years the norm of American childrearing progressed, or digressed, from drawer-crib parenting to McMansion parenting. In our country, or at lest the northwest corner of it, there is an underlying expectation that in order to be ready for parenthood, a couple must first own a home with a enough square footage to cover an entire village in [insert 3rd world country of choice]. This home should be furnished by Pottery Barn (Ikea is for losers). In order to be able to afford such a purchase, both parents must first work their way up some type of impressive career ladder, even if they might feel like jumping off of this ladder and into a Barista position at Starbucks most days of the week. Another modern prerequisite to parenthood is that both parents meet a quota of rich (literally) life experiences prior to procreating. In order to truly appreciate changing a diaper, one more first know the pleasure of wine tasting in Napa, traveling abroad, and attending fancy yoga and meditation retreats, for which the registration fees could feed the aforementioned 3rd world village for a year.
These expectations may seem a bit extreme. Please recall that I live in Seattle: land of evergreens, slugs, hipsters, and family incomes that frequenty top 150k. Either way, my recent meltdown was due to the fact that I've let these expectations (or guilt surrouding our inability to meet them) create an unnecessarily large bubble of financial anxiety around parenthood. I desparately want to take a break from my own career ladder (a vaguely promising PhD program and research position that pays our mortgage) to be at home with the baby, at least during his first year of life. However, the thought of our family living on one income, even for 6 months, feels just plain scandalous. It may lead to (you may want to sit down for this) calamitous events such as renting an apartment, grocery shopping at stores than end in "mart" and do not have a gourmet organic cheese counter, and (here's where it just gets shocking) eating at home, even when there are amazing 3 for 30 specials at all the trendy Seattle restaurants.
So, getting to the point finally, here is the profound revelation: our baby won't care if we shop at Whole Paycheck or Walmart, if we own or rent, or if our combined income is half that of most of the families we know. But he WILL care if his parents are constantly freaking out about status and money. He will care because his parents (the female one in particular) will be annoying stresscases. In light of this, my husband and I have developed a plan that will likely change our day to day life quite a bit, for the better I think. I hope to expand on the details of this plan in subsequent blog entries (which will be read by elite publishers who will decide to make it into a book that will pay massive royalties...oh wait, I've gone and missed the point again). A few bullet points from this plan:
1) Eat leftovers for dinner, rather than look at them disdainfully and then go out to the neighborhood Indian restaurant instead, leaving the leftovers to wallow in dejection for yet another month before being thrown out in a cleaning flurry.
2) Make soup from the random concoction of dried lentils, veggies, and canned goods hibernating in our cabinets. See point 1 for instructions on soup leftovers.
3) Resist the urge to stop at Starbucks every day, and make our own combinations of coffee, milk, and corn syrup at home.
4) convince friends that potlucks are the new happy hour.
5) sell a car and introduce baby to the variety of intresting humanoids on this planet by taking him places on the bus. This should be an especially educational venture since Tent City has planted itself in the church parking lot across the street from our local bus stop.
6) attend free/homemade mommy & me music groups, rather than paying to talk about baby gear with strangers while a desparate kindermusic teacher flings herself around the room in hopes of getting a response (I say this because I used to BE the kindermusic teacher, and it was impossible to get the moms off the topic of baby clothing brands, even while shaking maracas in their faces and singing "Silly Sam the Sneaky Snake" at full opera volume).
And I'm spent. But I think this is a good start. Of course, as I write this, I am dreaming of a short soy mocha from Starbucks. Maybe I'll start #3 tomorrow. But we WILL have leftovers for dinner!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
For the love of all that is round.
Fear not, avid followers of this blog. I am back. This blogging thing is so high pressure! What do bloggers do when they have actual readers depending on them??? If they are like that chick Julie, they write about yet another convoluted and occasionally repulsive recipe from "The Art of French Cooking". I say occasionally repulsive because I decided to read "Julie and Julia" during the first trimester of pregnancy, and one thing a woman with morning/noon/evening sickness should never do is attempt to read about brains soaked in red wine.
Sadly I do not have a concrete theme such as a famous recipe book that I am attempting to cook my way through. However, I DID think of one unifying factor to all of my blog topic ideas (insert drum roll)......things that are round. Our cat Francine, for example. Or the star of my new favorite book, "Diary of a Wombat", who looks remarkably like Francine (see picture for proof).
My pregnant self, I am proud to say. And the list goes on. Even the star of the previous blog entry, Willy the gerbil, was round (sadly no picture available, but imagine the hamster from "Bolt" and you get the idea). Willy would chew his way through anything we put in his path. Which led to many amusing games like "guess how long it will take Willy to chew through this toilet paper roll" and "count the holes that Willy chewed in my new hypercolor T-shirt". Hmmm, this could explain the lack of dates in 7th grade.
The profound point of all of this is to say that pregnancy has allowed me a greater appreciation of roundness. And this is miraculous, because like the majority of women I know, I spent roughly half of my mental energy in my teens and early 20s counting calories and daydreaming about how much better life would be if I were a size 8. The only time I ever approached a size 8 was after a relationship ended, when I had a brief rebound affair with chain smoking. Let me tell you, life was NOT better then, despite the glamorous waifdom and chronic bronchitis.
There is something to be said for feeling bountiful, womanly, and maternal. A friend and I use the term "squishy" to describe things that are lovable and warm, such as our mothers and each other, and I am happy that our little son will have a squishy mom to nuzzle up against. I only hope that once he is born, I will continue to feel so gracious towards these mama curves, rather than trying to sweat them off at excessive hot yoga classes (which may have crossed my mind a few times). Ideally, Thumper will learn to appreciate real beauty, rather than women who look like skelator.
And on that note, I am going to go have a snack, in preparation for fondue dinner.
Sadly I do not have a concrete theme such as a famous recipe book that I am attempting to cook my way through. However, I DID think of one unifying factor to all of my blog topic ideas (insert drum roll)......things that are round. Our cat Francine, for example. Or the star of my new favorite book, "Diary of a Wombat", who looks remarkably like Francine (see picture for proof).
My pregnant self, I am proud to say. And the list goes on. Even the star of the previous blog entry, Willy the gerbil, was round (sadly no picture available, but imagine the hamster from "Bolt" and you get the idea). Willy would chew his way through anything we put in his path. Which led to many amusing games like "guess how long it will take Willy to chew through this toilet paper roll" and "count the holes that Willy chewed in my new hypercolor T-shirt". Hmmm, this could explain the lack of dates in 7th grade.The profound point of all of this is to say that pregnancy has allowed me a greater appreciation of roundness. And this is miraculous, because like the majority of women I know, I spent roughly half of my mental energy in my teens and early 20s counting calories and daydreaming about how much better life would be if I were a size 8. The only time I ever approached a size 8 was after a relationship ended, when I had a brief rebound affair with chain smoking. Let me tell you, life was NOT better then, despite the glamorous waifdom and chronic bronchitis.
There is something to be said for feeling bountiful, womanly, and maternal. A friend and I use the term "squishy" to describe things that are lovable and warm, such as our mothers and each other, and I am happy that our little son will have a squishy mom to nuzzle up against. I only hope that once he is born, I will continue to feel so gracious towards these mama curves, rather than trying to sweat them off at excessive hot yoga classes (which may have crossed my mind a few times). Ideally, Thumper will learn to appreciate real beauty, rather than women who look like skelator.
And on that note, I am going to go have a snack, in preparation for fondue dinner.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Pregnancy update: mysterious fluids and gerbil behavior.
Welcome readers, all 2 of you, to my blog. You may be wondering why I decided to start a blog (or more realistically, why anyone would read this blog). Three reasons.
First, there is only so much one can type on a facebook status update without annoying all (insert obscenely high number, or in my case, 58) of one's facebook friends. Second, I used to journal, but honestly, I got tired of hearing myself whine. Because if your only audience is yourself, that's what you end up doing, at least if you're me. But if I am forced to write to the massive number of individuals who will put this blog on their bookmark bar, I may start to talk about something slightly more interesting than my current angst-provoking issues. Last, I have a feeling that once this baby arrives, I will want to share his amusing antics. And perhaps drone on and on about how many times he has pooped in one day, the quality of the poo, and other exciting topics that new parents always seem so enthralled with. And because my husband and I have a giant extended family, I know I have an instant audience for such ehthralling posts, so long as we post baby pics.
But since our baby has not exited his little indoor pool yet, I will instead talk about my own bodily functions. Last week, 33 weeks into the pregnancy, I experienced something I haven't experience since age, uhh, 3 (OK, really more like 12, who am I kidding). I peed in my pants. Having spent too much time on anxiety-inducing pregnancy websites which, notice, are NOT on my list of fave sites, I immediately assumed the worst. I assumed that this must have been what they call in serious medical circles a "ruptured bag of waters". It could not possibly be related to the five pound human learning to riverdance atop my bladder. Don't ask me where he found bagpipes in there. That's a whole other blog entry.
So, upon notifying the doctor of aforementioned pant-wetting, we were told to rush to the hospital, and pack a bag in case this was the start of pre-term labor. So I did what any responsible pregnant woman would do. I picked up my knitting bag and stuffed it full of my toothbrush, yoga pants, and a creepy Ann Rice novel. Because apparently I mistook the word "triage" for "rustic retreat center in the mountains". I didn't even think to stop by that mysterious room that harbors bins and bins of newly acquired onesies to pack something for the BABY. I would like to think that this behavior was a result of my maternal instinct telling me that baby wasn't really coming out yet. While that may be partly true, in reality, I think it hadn't quite dawned on me that the movement in my belly was due to a real human being, and not the result of a severe case of indigestion.
To make a long story slightly less long- all is fine with the baby. I went home after a few hours on the baby monitor, where it finally sunk in that there really WAS a human in there, whose little heart continues to beat like a tiny drum regardless of which kinky Ann Rice scene I am reading. He is going to cook a bit longer (I have always gagged inwardly when others compared gestation to roasting a turkey, and now here I am doing it) and this is great news, because we want his lungs to develop so we can squeeze him continuously when he arrives, without the interference of a NICU cage.
To call this event a reality check is an understatement. It was more like a reality bomb. I have been on modified rest since peeing in my pants, just to make sure all is well, and to save our floor from undue urine stains. But my lack of movement has been more than made up for by the sudden flurry of activity from my wonderful husband. Nothing like taking your wife to the hospital with her knitting needles to make a man realize he is about to become a daddy.
I had two wonderful gerbils when I was growing up (I promise, this really does relate somehow). Their names were Kara and Willy, and, in the words of Milton from Office Space (when he lost his red stapler, and his desk with a and view of the squirrels outside), they were married. The happy gerbil couple soon did what gerbils do (although rabbits always get the credit): they bred like gerbils and produced roughly 500 pink, hairless, eraser-like babies per week. In prepaparation for their first batch of erasers, they scurried around the cage anxiously, flinging bits of shavings and seed around haphhazardly.
This is where the point of this story comes in. My mother said months ago that my husband and I remind her of Kara and Willy, scurrying around anxiously in our house (and at 800 square feet, our house IS somewhat cage-like) in preparation for our son's arrival. Although I could acknowledge that my recent onset of pregnancy-induced body-hair growth did lend me some gerbil-like qualities, I didn't really understand the comparison at that point. Now I do. Sure enough, my husband has been scurrying around the baby room every night this week in a flurry of gerbil-like antics. Instead of pine shavings, there are cardboard boxes and clothing tags being flung about haphhazardly. It's a wonderful and exciting time, and I can't wait to bring our pink little son home to his nest.
First, there is only so much one can type on a facebook status update without annoying all (insert obscenely high number, or in my case, 58) of one's facebook friends. Second, I used to journal, but honestly, I got tired of hearing myself whine. Because if your only audience is yourself, that's what you end up doing, at least if you're me. But if I am forced to write to the massive number of individuals who will put this blog on their bookmark bar, I may start to talk about something slightly more interesting than my current angst-provoking issues. Last, I have a feeling that once this baby arrives, I will want to share his amusing antics. And perhaps drone on and on about how many times he has pooped in one day, the quality of the poo, and other exciting topics that new parents always seem so enthralled with. And because my husband and I have a giant extended family, I know I have an instant audience for such ehthralling posts, so long as we post baby pics.
But since our baby has not exited his little indoor pool yet, I will instead talk about my own bodily functions. Last week, 33 weeks into the pregnancy, I experienced something I haven't experience since age, uhh, 3 (OK, really more like 12, who am I kidding). I peed in my pants. Having spent too much time on anxiety-inducing pregnancy websites which, notice, are NOT on my list of fave sites, I immediately assumed the worst. I assumed that this must have been what they call in serious medical circles a "ruptured bag of waters". It could not possibly be related to the five pound human learning to riverdance atop my bladder. Don't ask me where he found bagpipes in there. That's a whole other blog entry.
So, upon notifying the doctor of aforementioned pant-wetting, we were told to rush to the hospital, and pack a bag in case this was the start of pre-term labor. So I did what any responsible pregnant woman would do. I picked up my knitting bag and stuffed it full of my toothbrush, yoga pants, and a creepy Ann Rice novel. Because apparently I mistook the word "triage" for "rustic retreat center in the mountains". I didn't even think to stop by that mysterious room that harbors bins and bins of newly acquired onesies to pack something for the BABY. I would like to think that this behavior was a result of my maternal instinct telling me that baby wasn't really coming out yet. While that may be partly true, in reality, I think it hadn't quite dawned on me that the movement in my belly was due to a real human being, and not the result of a severe case of indigestion.
To make a long story slightly less long- all is fine with the baby. I went home after a few hours on the baby monitor, where it finally sunk in that there really WAS a human in there, whose little heart continues to beat like a tiny drum regardless of which kinky Ann Rice scene I am reading. He is going to cook a bit longer (I have always gagged inwardly when others compared gestation to roasting a turkey, and now here I am doing it) and this is great news, because we want his lungs to develop so we can squeeze him continuously when he arrives, without the interference of a NICU cage.
To call this event a reality check is an understatement. It was more like a reality bomb. I have been on modified rest since peeing in my pants, just to make sure all is well, and to save our floor from undue urine stains. But my lack of movement has been more than made up for by the sudden flurry of activity from my wonderful husband. Nothing like taking your wife to the hospital with her knitting needles to make a man realize he is about to become a daddy.
I had two wonderful gerbils when I was growing up (I promise, this really does relate somehow). Their names were Kara and Willy, and, in the words of Milton from Office Space (when he lost his red stapler, and his desk with a and view of the squirrels outside), they were married. The happy gerbil couple soon did what gerbils do (although rabbits always get the credit): they bred like gerbils and produced roughly 500 pink, hairless, eraser-like babies per week. In prepaparation for their first batch of erasers, they scurried around the cage anxiously, flinging bits of shavings and seed around haphhazardly.
This is where the point of this story comes in. My mother said months ago that my husband and I remind her of Kara and Willy, scurrying around anxiously in our house (and at 800 square feet, our house IS somewhat cage-like) in preparation for our son's arrival. Although I could acknowledge that my recent onset of pregnancy-induced body-hair growth did lend me some gerbil-like qualities, I didn't really understand the comparison at that point. Now I do. Sure enough, my husband has been scurrying around the baby room every night this week in a flurry of gerbil-like antics. Instead of pine shavings, there are cardboard boxes and clothing tags being flung about haphhazardly. It's a wonderful and exciting time, and I can't wait to bring our pink little son home to his nest.
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