Friday, October 13, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
ABCs
Okay, Ben, so you don't say words that regularly, but you sing the alphabet up to L now. If we sing A, you'll sing B, then we'll sing C, and you'll sing D, until we get up to LMNOP, and you get freaked out and start over with A. I don't blame you. Why did they cram all of those letters together in the first place? That was a horrible idea.
You had your two-year-old birthday party this past weekend (photos forthcoming), and we had about forty people come through our doors, 95% of who were adults. So it was like this spoiled rich kid's birthday party with piles and piles of brightly wrapped puzzles and clothes and shoes and toys toppling over a tricyle and a giant Radio Flyer wagon. I have never in my life seen so many presents for anyone, at any birthday party I have ever been to. It was ridiculous. On top of that, balloons and candy and cake and pizza were everywhere. You were overjoyed at first, but as the day wore on, you became overwhelmed. At one point, you were sitting in a puddle with cake all over your face. At another, you screamed as your aunt wiped your ever-snotful nose. At another, you got kicked in the face by someone on the swing because you ran in front of it before any of us could stop you. The highs were high, and the lows were low, just like at any good party. Your presents are now in the office, which will be Baby #2's room in twenty-three weeks. The crickets that are taking over my life are hiding in them as we speak.
I love you, Benjamin the Two Year Old. You are a smart little boy, and tonight before you went to bed, you said "cup" and "shell" in your cute baby voice. When we went to check in on you after we said goodnight, you jumped into bed and fake snored to make us believe we didn't just hear you tearing books off of the shelf. You have a great sense of humor, already; I can tell.
You had your two-year-old birthday party this past weekend (photos forthcoming), and we had about forty people come through our doors, 95% of who were adults. So it was like this spoiled rich kid's birthday party with piles and piles of brightly wrapped puzzles and clothes and shoes and toys toppling over a tricyle and a giant Radio Flyer wagon. I have never in my life seen so many presents for anyone, at any birthday party I have ever been to. It was ridiculous. On top of that, balloons and candy and cake and pizza were everywhere. You were overjoyed at first, but as the day wore on, you became overwhelmed. At one point, you were sitting in a puddle with cake all over your face. At another, you screamed as your aunt wiped your ever-snotful nose. At another, you got kicked in the face by someone on the swing because you ran in front of it before any of us could stop you. The highs were high, and the lows were low, just like at any good party. Your presents are now in the office, which will be Baby #2's room in twenty-three weeks. The crickets that are taking over my life are hiding in them as we speak.
I love you, Benjamin the Two Year Old. You are a smart little boy, and tonight before you went to bed, you said "cup" and "shell" in your cute baby voice. When we went to check in on you after we said goodnight, you jumped into bed and fake snored to make us believe we didn't just hear you tearing books off of the shelf. You have a great sense of humor, already; I can tell.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
the escape and the big bed
Two weeks ago, we woke at 5:45 am to the sound of Cookie Monster (whose real name is Sid) singing, "C is for Cookie, that's good enough for me." I never understood what CM meant by that, but it did mean one thing: Ben had either grown twenty foot arms, or he had escaped from his crib and was playing with his Sesame Street toy. I ran to the door and opened it, and there he was, right behind the door, sitting in a pile of toys. His clothes hamper was pushed into the middle of the room. Sweaters and pajamas were strewn all over the place. The kid discovered his freedom, and he became drunk with it.
The question was now do we lock him in the crib with one of those crib tents or do we buy him a bed? After discovering that the flimsy tents costs more than a bed, we went with the bed.
The first night was pure hell. Ben ran all over his room, pulling books from the shelves, jiggling the door knob, knocking his kitchen over, throwing Weebles everwhere, etc. Ryan ended up sleeping on the hardwood floors next to the bed, a human barricade. We wondered if we should reassemble the crib. I looked up crib tents on ebay.
We stuck with the bed. The next night, Ben was trickier. He'd jump into bed before we could get the door open, and close his eyes and pretend to be sleeping. One time I watched him run and jump into the bed. He closed his eyes, and made me lift him back onto his pillow, though he and I both were fully aware that he was still awake.
The nights have gotten easier and easier, except for last night when he was sick and so tired, his tears turned to fits of hysterical laughter as he escaped at 11pm and ran down the hallway.
Other than that, he's a big boy now sleeping in his big boy bed. His 2nd birthday is Thursday and his pinata-free birthday is on Saturday. I'm so proud of him!
The question was now do we lock him in the crib with one of those crib tents or do we buy him a bed? After discovering that the flimsy tents costs more than a bed, we went with the bed.
The first night was pure hell. Ben ran all over his room, pulling books from the shelves, jiggling the door knob, knocking his kitchen over, throwing Weebles everwhere, etc. Ryan ended up sleeping on the hardwood floors next to the bed, a human barricade. We wondered if we should reassemble the crib. I looked up crib tents on ebay.
We stuck with the bed. The next night, Ben was trickier. He'd jump into bed before we could get the door open, and close his eyes and pretend to be sleeping. One time I watched him run and jump into the bed. He closed his eyes, and made me lift him back onto his pillow, though he and I both were fully aware that he was still awake.
The nights have gotten easier and easier, except for last night when he was sick and so tired, his tears turned to fits of hysterical laughter as he escaped at 11pm and ran down the hallway.
Other than that, he's a big boy now sleeping in his big boy bed. His 2nd birthday is Thursday and his pinata-free birthday is on Saturday. I'm so proud of him!
Monday, September 18, 2006
ohio
You know how on the cartoons the bad guy has bags full of gold coins, and bars of silver stowed in a secret brick crawl space in the basement? I went to visit my grandmother this weekend. Though I didn't actually see the bags and bars, everyone has told me that my grandmother's boyfriend has them. Ben acquired his silver bars mysteriously, and I do not know what kind of a man he was before he was ninety and barely mobile, but I'm guessing he was talented at manipulation and bullshit.
My grandma loves money and conspiracy. Her boyfriend has money and he loves to speculate about who's trying to get it from him. They are, then, a match made in heaven. They met at the cemetary. They were visiting their respective dead spouses when their eyes met across the rolling green cemetary grass. They dated. They moved in together. And, at eighty-nine and ninety years old, each of them broke a hip.
They are both at the Gateway center for seniors in Ohio now. Ben is in the "Family House," for those that can walk with walkers, and my grandma is in the "Healthcare Center." The occupants in HC come in variations. Some of them stiffly lie back in their wheelchairs, mouths open. You think they are dead until one of them blinks. Some are missing limbs. Others are here temporarily, for rehab. They tell my grandma she is one of these.
My dad and I went out to visit her this weekend because she is ninety and I'm worried about her.
The highlights of the trip were this: I got a twenty minute blow-by-blow (no pun intended) account of an enema courtesy of my grandmother, AND Ben muttered that my dad was a "dirty, rotten bastard" utterly unprovoked. I was worried about my grandma when I came to visit, but I think she will be okay. After her miraculous enema, she was able to eat and function. Her color came back. She allowed Ben to visit her. "Oh honey," he said to her over and over, kissing her hands. The pressed their faces together and cuddled and settled into a cozy conversation about who stole four sacks of his gold. I hear that Ben once had a garage sale during which he couldn't sell many of the items. So instead of giving them away, he smashed armoires and dressers to pieces, tore at clothing with razor blades. If he coulnd't have it, no one could. Now his relatives skulk around him hoping for a silver bar when he finally dies.
I didn't cry over my grandma because when I left her she seemed okay. Instead, I cried over a man I'd never met, my dad's first father-in-law, a man whom my dad was close to for many years. I've heard so many stories about how kind and gentle this man was, how much he loved his wife, but I'd never met him before. We found him volunteering at the hospice center where his wife had died a couple of years before. He stood up and hugged my dad, he talked to him about the old days, he showed me pictures of his wife and family, he shook my hand and told me he'd heard a lot about me, and finally, as an afterthought, he told us "The doctor says I have two years to live. Bone cancer." My dad, stumbling, said, "You've lived a full life." Jack said, "Yes, I have." They hugged each other for what will probably be the last time, and we walked out of the hospice center. I cried. I told my dad it was because I was pregnant, but I don't think that is the case.
I don't know what I will do when I get that old. Probably shoot myself. That sounds like the least horrible option, anyway.
My grandma loves money and conspiracy. Her boyfriend has money and he loves to speculate about who's trying to get it from him. They are, then, a match made in heaven. They met at the cemetary. They were visiting their respective dead spouses when their eyes met across the rolling green cemetary grass. They dated. They moved in together. And, at eighty-nine and ninety years old, each of them broke a hip.
They are both at the Gateway center for seniors in Ohio now. Ben is in the "Family House," for those that can walk with walkers, and my grandma is in the "Healthcare Center." The occupants in HC come in variations. Some of them stiffly lie back in their wheelchairs, mouths open. You think they are dead until one of them blinks. Some are missing limbs. Others are here temporarily, for rehab. They tell my grandma she is one of these.
My dad and I went out to visit her this weekend because she is ninety and I'm worried about her.
The highlights of the trip were this: I got a twenty minute blow-by-blow (no pun intended) account of an enema courtesy of my grandmother, AND Ben muttered that my dad was a "dirty, rotten bastard" utterly unprovoked. I was worried about my grandma when I came to visit, but I think she will be okay. After her miraculous enema, she was able to eat and function. Her color came back. She allowed Ben to visit her. "Oh honey," he said to her over and over, kissing her hands. The pressed their faces together and cuddled and settled into a cozy conversation about who stole four sacks of his gold. I hear that Ben once had a garage sale during which he couldn't sell many of the items. So instead of giving them away, he smashed armoires and dressers to pieces, tore at clothing with razor blades. If he coulnd't have it, no one could. Now his relatives skulk around him hoping for a silver bar when he finally dies.
I didn't cry over my grandma because when I left her she seemed okay. Instead, I cried over a man I'd never met, my dad's first father-in-law, a man whom my dad was close to for many years. I've heard so many stories about how kind and gentle this man was, how much he loved his wife, but I'd never met him before. We found him volunteering at the hospice center where his wife had died a couple of years before. He stood up and hugged my dad, he talked to him about the old days, he showed me pictures of his wife and family, he shook my hand and told me he'd heard a lot about me, and finally, as an afterthought, he told us "The doctor says I have two years to live. Bone cancer." My dad, stumbling, said, "You've lived a full life." Jack said, "Yes, I have." They hugged each other for what will probably be the last time, and we walked out of the hospice center. I cried. I told my dad it was because I was pregnant, but I don't think that is the case.
I don't know what I will do when I get that old. Probably shoot myself. That sounds like the least horrible option, anyway.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
if you are a promiscuous teen...
you should come over to our house this weekend, and see the future that awaits you. That will make you use a condom if the sex ed class warnings didn't work.
Friday, August 18, 2006
ultrasound
Today we had the ultrasound for Lima Bean Bartlett (my book says he/she's a lima bean size now). I couldn't see very well, but it is reassuring to know that the baby is actually in there, and, especially, that the heart is beating. I didn't cry but Ryan got misty-eyed. Even though the ultrasound machine is projecting an image from the instrument on my stomach directly onto the screen, it doesn't feel like it is completely real yet. We had a hectic day. Ryan's tire is shot and my stupid car wouldn't start this morning. Thankfully, we were parked behind a building in San Bernardino. San Bernardino, if you didn't know, is a lovely place filled with empty King Cobra 40 oz. bottles, bums pissing on pillars, pedophilic-looking men slowly driving by and leering and so forth. So it was fun to wait for the Geico jumpstart man here. The jumpstart man, who was about two feet shorter than I, noticed my bumper stickers as he took down my license plate number. "I'm a Democrat," I told him. "I can see that," he replied. "I'm a Republican, but I hate this president. He's a shithead." I couldn't agree more with him, and I thought maybe he and I, despite our differences, might have a lot more in common than it might initially seem. But then he said, "We should have blown France up hundreds of years ago." I'm not sure what he meant by this, but I think he was talking about WW II. At this point, I decided to keep my mouth shut, let the man do his job, and get the fuck out of San Bernardino. After the car breakdown, Ryan had a two hour meeting at work, then we had out ultrasound appointment and drove home in thick traffic, while I fought the urge to vomit all the way home. We have no money for 13 days. And our cars, our stupid cars that I hate, are falling apart (plus mine smells like a petting zoo for some reason). I'm just happy to be home now with Ryan and Ben and my little picture of a white blur that is my new baby.
Monday, August 14, 2006
maybe don't sing that song
I got to thinking about "Sing, Sing a Song," that song they always sing on Sesame Street, and I thought, maybe this isn't such a good message to send to our children. It instructs them to sing out loud, sing out strong, no matter how good a singer you are. With all of the talentless people already out in the world who think they are going to become famous via MTV or American Idol, why would we encourage this? Not everyone is going to be an astronaut or a doctor or a lawyer or a pop star. Some of you kids are going to work at Wal-Mart or be bricklayers. There's nothing wrong with that; it's just the truth. I'm tired of people that are incredibly confident in their lack of skills. So maybe instead of telling everyone they ought to sing a song, maybe just tell Tommy that he should sing a song because he has a beautiful, soothing voice. And if Susie wants to sing, in that awful high-pitched, tone deaf way she sings, maybe we should tell her to focus on athletics. After all, she has a great basketball shot, and she runs faster than Tommy. Maybe she won't be as famous as he'll be, and maybe people will call her a lesbian in high school, but she might just get a college scholarship. So, kids, you should worry about it if you're not good enough for anyone else to hear, and if you suck, stop fucking singing.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
sorry kid...all you get is me.
I was a bit of a failure this morning. I held Ben's hand as he walked down the front steps to our house, and I watched his foot loop underneath a wire. I thought, "He's going to trip on that wire," but for some reason my brain would not connect with my body, and I couldn't move fast enough, even though he was holding my hand. His fingers slipped out of mine, and he tripped on the wire, falling flat onto his nose. It ended with his forehead thunking on the cement walkway. And then he screamed. And little spots of blood rose to the surface of his forehead, like liquid soaking through cloth. And his nose turned bright red.
I dropped everything (we were on our way to daycare) and hugged him and rushed him inside, and got his Winnie the Pooh ice pack (a chilled, decapitated Winnie head). I put on his Elmo and pressed the pack to his head while he swatted it away, and he curled up next to me while I examined his pupils and made sure he wasn't getting sleepy.
In actuality, he didn't fall that far. But God it felt like it. It was the first time he'd drawn blood on my watch, and I felt terrible.
After about thirty minutes of observing him, I decided he was okay to bring to daycare, so we brought him. On my way home, a woman in a "non-emergency medical transportation" van jumped in front of me into my lane with no signal, almost hitting me. And then she slowed down. Now this is where my flaws come into play yet again. I tried to get around her because she was going so slow, so when the lanes opened up from two to three, I attempted to get into the third lane. She cut me off again. So I got in the 2nd lane. She sped up, so I wouldn't get past her. I was pissed. I flipped her off. I know I shouldn't do this, but I did. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I realized that this woman was hardcore. She was yelling at me and shaking her fist like, "Uh-uh, bitch, I'm gonna drag you out by your hair and kick your ass." Since she appeared to be the sort of woman who might just happen to have a pair of brass knuckles in the pocket of her white medical uniform, I was just trying to get away from her at this point, and she was trying to get next to me and yell at me. Finally, I exited the freeway, and (lucky me!) she was going my way. As she passed me, she veered into my lane as though she were going to hit me, and finally she sped away.
Meanwhile, I noted the name of her company and the number on her van.
I called her company and complained, but when I hung up, I didn't feel much better. (Although I did feel a little better.) I realized that even though my temper is better than it used to be, it is still really bad. The three of you that read this probably already know I'm pregnant again. What if I got into an accident? I wouldn't forgive myself.
It would be better if once you had a child, your flaws melted away and you became a better person. All Ben got was me, this slow-moving, road-raging nutcase. I'm just going to try to be better next time.
I dropped everything (we were on our way to daycare) and hugged him and rushed him inside, and got his Winnie the Pooh ice pack (a chilled, decapitated Winnie head). I put on his Elmo and pressed the pack to his head while he swatted it away, and he curled up next to me while I examined his pupils and made sure he wasn't getting sleepy.
In actuality, he didn't fall that far. But God it felt like it. It was the first time he'd drawn blood on my watch, and I felt terrible.
After about thirty minutes of observing him, I decided he was okay to bring to daycare, so we brought him. On my way home, a woman in a "non-emergency medical transportation" van jumped in front of me into my lane with no signal, almost hitting me. And then she slowed down. Now this is where my flaws come into play yet again. I tried to get around her because she was going so slow, so when the lanes opened up from two to three, I attempted to get into the third lane. She cut me off again. So I got in the 2nd lane. She sped up, so I wouldn't get past her. I was pissed. I flipped her off. I know I shouldn't do this, but I did. As I looked in my rearview mirror, I realized that this woman was hardcore. She was yelling at me and shaking her fist like, "Uh-uh, bitch, I'm gonna drag you out by your hair and kick your ass." Since she appeared to be the sort of woman who might just happen to have a pair of brass knuckles in the pocket of her white medical uniform, I was just trying to get away from her at this point, and she was trying to get next to me and yell at me. Finally, I exited the freeway, and (lucky me!) she was going my way. As she passed me, she veered into my lane as though she were going to hit me, and finally she sped away.
Meanwhile, I noted the name of her company and the number on her van.
I called her company and complained, but when I hung up, I didn't feel much better. (Although I did feel a little better.) I realized that even though my temper is better than it used to be, it is still really bad. The three of you that read this probably already know I'm pregnant again. What if I got into an accident? I wouldn't forgive myself.
It would be better if once you had a child, your flaws melted away and you became a better person. All Ben got was me, this slow-moving, road-raging nutcase. I'm just going to try to be better next time.
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