by selfmademom on February 16, 2010 · 1 comment
Son: “Mommy, why did such and such (name witheld) leave our class earlier this year?”
Me: “Well, she quit.”
Son: “What’s quitting?”
Me: “Hmmm… (realizing I probably shouldn’t use that term loosely around an almost four-year-old.) It’s when you decide not to do something anymore. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad. Like, remember I used to work? Remember I showed you my office downtown? But then I quit my job to stay home.”
Son: “Yeah… you quit because you wanted to be a mommy. And be around kids.”
Me: “Yeah, something like that.”
If only it were so cut and dry, right?
One of the bonuses of my son attending preschool is that he has a new appreciation for art. One major downside to this newfound love of drawing, painting, doodling and crafting is that I now have art littering decorating the house. What to do with all of the art projects we’re debating throwing away collecting is clearly beyond me.
Case(s) in point:
Go fish. Lots of crumpled paper, a little glue, and loads of ”don’t throw that paper on the floor, please” can get you this masterpiece. It sure adds a lot of ambience to our ottoman, don’t you think?
At one point I tried to be organized and put all reject memorable art projects into a folder. Result? New meaning to junk drawer.
In theory, a bulletin board is a great place to showcase a child’s scribbles artwork.
Somehow the art projects migrated to my nightstand by mandate that I have artwork by my bed.
And when you just don’t know what to do with that paper bag costume your kid insists on bringing home, it ends up in a most unusual place. The floor, of course.
If you have any bright ideas of what I can do with at least the mildly appealing artwork, I’m all ears.
by selfmademom on January 25, 2010 · 1 comment
I whittled the day away today going to the gym, lunching with a friend, and putting the baby down for a nap. This left me just enough time to catch up on my emails and the latest episode of Nip/Tuck. (While I’m sad the show’s ending, the fact that I’m still watching it during nap times two years later is quite pathetic, no?)
Seriously, I’m a walking SAHM cliche. I didn’t even shower after I went to the gym today.
And if it wasn’t bad enough, I turned on Ellen (cliche!) and she brought out these hairless wonders called “Thunder Down Under” who wowed various audience members with their chiseled bodies and I actually laughed through the entire segment.
Clearly, I’m losing it.
While there’s nothing wrong with a little R&R, I occasionally worry that I’m going to lose all my brain cells to the guilty-pleasure shows on FX. (Damages starts tonight.)
I’m not lamenting my choices. I would rather be home with the tube, a laptop and a napping infant than at a desk any day of the week. (Well, maybe except for Friday when I’ve already watched all my shows.) But I’m sure there is a balance out there between my SAHM vegetative state and reality. Shows, that is.
I’m just starting to appreciate the joys of being pregnant again. I’m halfway through now, the heartburn is a’ ragin, and the comments are a’ comin.
You know, the, “oh you look so cute,” “are you excited?” “what are you having?” kind.
And then, the one that irks me the most.
“You look really small.”
Normally, a pregnant lady would be happy to be called small. I gained 40 pounds with my son and although I am tall, I still looked akin to a person who swallowed three giant watermelons. So no one was saying I looked small the first time around.
But this time, for some odd reason, I’ve gained less weight and have worked out more and am feeling better and, well, I guess I’m smaller. But it’s bugging me.
I know in 4 months I’ll wish I looked this big.
With everything that went wrong with my last pregnancy, the last thing I need is feeling anymore insecure. And when people tell you something that’s not typical about your pregnancy size, it can make an agitated and neurotic pregnant lady (hello, me!) a little more nervous. And, as some of us know, pregnancy brings out the worst commenters in all of us.
On that note, we didn’t find out what we were having gender-wise. We like the element of surprise (although I like the element of planning as well, but I gave up that fight.) But you can’t imagine the annoying conversations I’ve had to endure about the gender of my unborn.
I guess this is the dirty secret of pregnancy. When you have a boy first, everyone assumes that you want a girl second. It’s like if you are only going to have two kids, (hello, me again!) you must have one of each to have the ”perfect” family. One mom last week, when I told her everything was okay and healthy with the baby (which to some of us IS the ONLY thing that matters), told me “I’ll pray for a girl for you.” Huh?
Since when did gender and the apparent disappointment that comes with it become such an issue? My OB even shared a story with me about a patient he has who is pregnant with her third boy and became hysterical at the news. Really? Hysterical?
Maybe I’m jaded because of my previous loss, but there will be no crying here whatsoever the gender of my unborn may be. Only tears of joy. And the occasional hormonal crying outburst that has been happening from laughing too hard at old episodes of How I Met Your Mother. (Which, by the way, if you’re not watching yet, you are TOTALLY missing out.)
Yes, I’ve been hiding it. For quite awhile now.
I’m pregnant. Again.
With the misery of a failed pregnancy behind me, I left the doctor today with a “A+ your fetus looks great” rating and awash in happiness and relief like I’ve never felt.
I’m going to have a baby in November, come hell or highwater, swollen ankles, possible posterior placenta previa, facial acne, heartburn and nausea.
And it’ll be perfect this time around.
I’ve spent no money this week. Well, not zero, but not enough so that when my husband asks me if I have cash on me, I can actually say, “yes!”
I wish I could say it’s because I’ve been living up to my frugal promise. Alas, the real reason behind my full wallet is that all week we’ve been sick. Sick as a dog, we pretty much didn’t leave our house sick.
And, I don’t do sick very well. Almost nothing makes me more crazy than not being able to go anywhere or do anything (except go to the doctor). Add a sick toddler to the mix and I thought I was going to lose my shit all week.
The clincher, though is that we’re on spring break this week, and with no schedule I only have one option to keep my sanity (and my wallet from emptying): Go visit my parents.
I’m hoping their generosity of time and funds will get me through what otherwise would be another very long week.
