Every single night, sneak into your sleeping children's rooms and marvel at their tiny hands, their peaceful faces, and their fragile but capable bodies. Take a minute to be glad they aren't jumping off the arm of the couch, rubbing peaches into their scalp, or pouring water out of the bathtub one cup at a time. Enjoy how innocent they look, and laugh a little bit, because that SO isn't like them.
But after that minute, lean in close and kiss their foreheads. Remember that if it weren't for you they wouldn't exist. You would never have met this unique, exasperating, glorious human that lives right in your own house and who is going to wake up elated to see you in just a few short hours. Let yourself be a little frightened and completely awed by that thought. Kiss them again if you need to.
And then stand up and look around the room and ENJOY this tranquil moment with your child safe and asleep in your house. It won't last as long as you think. And no matter what this book says, if you drive across town, climb in a window, and rock your sleeping, grown-up son, the police think that's breaking and entering.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Blanket, anyone?
Right now the house is decorated in Contemporary American Blanket. A "swimming pool" at the bottom of the stairs, a nest on the couch, a picnic, two lily pads, a pirate ship and two girls cuddled up fast asleep with theirs.
I'm going to find one of my own.
I'm going to find one of my own.
Monday, July 30, 2007
ACK!!
It's Tim's 20-something-eth birthday and I'm completely unprepared. Somehow, in the next 11 or so hours I've got to
1. Find a recipe for, buy ingredients and prepare Grilled Sirloin with Creamy Blue Cheese Sauce
2. Make a Funfetti Cake
3. Call bowling alley and set up a few lanes.
4. Find a present that tops flying lessons and/or a T-shirt Quilt.
5. Clean the bathroom. No really, that can NOT wait until tomorrow.
6. Do the laundry because I'm out of clean underwear again. Apparently, living with my in-laws makes me act like a teenager.
All this while dragging around two girls who would much rather be in the sandbox.
ACK!
Update:
Sat on the floor to peel potatoes while steak marinated. Deirdre crawled over and CHEWED ON UNCOOKED POTATOES. Contemplated calling someone to see if raw potatoes are bad for babies, but instead watched Lana stick candles onto Daddy's cake in an impressively straight line. Didn't clean bathroom, all loads of laundry but one dry (note to self: the step after the dryer sheet, cleaning out the lint trap, loading the wet clothes in, and setting the dryer is to START THE DRYER). And then we played in the sandbox.
Updated again: And he liked his present.
1. Find a recipe for, buy ingredients and prepare Grilled Sirloin with Creamy Blue Cheese Sauce
2. Make a Funfetti Cake
3. Call bowling alley and set up a few lanes.
4. Find a present that tops flying lessons and/or a T-shirt Quilt.
5. Clean the bathroom. No really, that can NOT wait until tomorrow.
6. Do the laundry because I'm out of clean underwear again. Apparently, living with my in-laws makes me act like a teenager.
All this while dragging around two girls who would much rather be in the sandbox.
ACK!
Update:
Sat on the floor to peel potatoes while steak marinated. Deirdre crawled over and CHEWED ON UNCOOKED POTATOES. Contemplated calling someone to see if raw potatoes are bad for babies, but instead watched Lana stick candles onto Daddy's cake in an impressively straight line. Didn't clean bathroom, all loads of laundry but one dry (note to self: the step after the dryer sheet, cleaning out the lint trap, loading the wet clothes in, and setting the dryer is to START THE DRYER). And then we played in the sandbox.
Updated again: And he liked his present.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The third date
Have I mentioned that we live with my in-laws? Classy, I know. It's not the first thing I tell people, but, you and me? Well, we have a three day relationship going on here, and I thought you should know about my living arrangements before we go any further.
So, again, I live with my in-laws. And in the interest of full disclosure, this is the fourth summer that I've lived with my in-laws. Tim's a student at a far-away-unnamed-for-privacy-issues university in the east, and he has a summer internship in an equally-unnamed-for-the-same-privacy-reasons company here on the west coast. Where his parents happen to live. And where they happen to have two occasionally empty rooms. And where they graciously let us live and feed us while we act ungrateful and blog about the ups and downs of bringing a family of four back in with the 'rents.
Generally, the free rent and the access to loving, free babysitters is an enormous draw, especially to two students who were, I admit it, irresponsible enough to welcome not one but two extremely expensive beings into their care without a way to support themselves, let alone buy diapers.
But the real reason we keep coming back is that every single year I hear "This is really the last summer! Really."
Well, you know what they say: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me three times and I deserve the whining three-year-old screaming for special treats and Grandma.
Because this year Lana knows that there's a Grandma who gives chocolate milk to her cousins. And who makes french toast any time of the day or night. And who will happily lets her run through muddy puddles in her white lace dress with no mention of stain removal products. And lo and behold: this Grandma lives in the same house with us.
So Lana lives on chocolate milk and syrup and no one with ever learn their colors from looking at her clothes. Unless they want to learn about the color brown. Or about spots. Because those things aren't ever coming clean.
I'm ok with that. And actually, my mother in law Colleen (Sainthood pending) works really hard to keep boundaries.
The biggest issue is that occasionally, Lana knows that calling me by my name gets my attention a LOT better than "Mommy." And the parent formerly known as "Dad" is now "Tim" or even "Timothy" depending on her mood.
Ok, I'm new age enough that I can handle being called Amanda by my three-year-old. But if we're going to be equals, let's talk like equals. Politics, books, movies, decorating ideas, a recipe swap. Instead:
I am awakened with a stark "Amanda. I need French Toast." or "This hose is not on. Amanda."
And it spills past demands:
"AAAAAAAmAAAAAAAAAndAAAAAAAAAAA!" she yowls in pain with every bump.
Here's what I'm waiting for:
"DO NOT WASH MY HAIR, 'MANDA!" she says in the bathtub.
"Mommies wash their little girl's hair," I say.
"TIIIIIIIIII-MOOOOOOO-THY!!" she calls.
And then, when that fails, the inevitable: "GRANDMA!!!!"
So, again, I live with my in-laws. And in the interest of full disclosure, this is the fourth summer that I've lived with my in-laws. Tim's a student at a far-away-unnamed-for-privacy-issues university in the east, and he has a summer internship in an equally-unnamed-for-the-same-privacy-reasons company here on the west coast. Where his parents happen to live. And where they happen to have two occasionally empty rooms. And where they graciously let us live and feed us while we act ungrateful and blog about the ups and downs of bringing a family of four back in with the 'rents.
Generally, the free rent and the access to loving, free babysitters is an enormous draw, especially to two students who were, I admit it, irresponsible enough to welcome not one but two extremely expensive beings into their care without a way to support themselves, let alone buy diapers.
But the real reason we keep coming back is that every single year I hear "This is really the last summer! Really."
Well, you know what they say: fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me three times and I deserve the whining three-year-old screaming for special treats and Grandma.
Because this year Lana knows that there's a Grandma who gives chocolate milk to her cousins. And who makes french toast any time of the day or night. And who will happily lets her run through muddy puddles in her white lace dress with no mention of stain removal products. And lo and behold: this Grandma lives in the same house with us.
So Lana lives on chocolate milk and syrup and no one with ever learn their colors from looking at her clothes. Unless they want to learn about the color brown. Or about spots. Because those things aren't ever coming clean.
I'm ok with that. And actually, my mother in law Colleen (Sainthood pending) works really hard to keep boundaries.
The biggest issue is that occasionally, Lana knows that calling me by my name gets my attention a LOT better than "Mommy." And the parent formerly known as "Dad" is now "Tim" or even "Timothy" depending on her mood.
Ok, I'm new age enough that I can handle being called Amanda by my three-year-old. But if we're going to be equals, let's talk like equals. Politics, books, movies, decorating ideas, a recipe swap. Instead:
I am awakened with a stark "Amanda. I need French Toast." or "This hose is not on. Amanda."
And it spills past demands:
"AAAAAAAmAAAAAAAAAndAAAAAAAAAAA!" she yowls in pain with every bump.
Here's what I'm waiting for:
"DO NOT WASH MY HAIR, 'MANDA!" she says in the bathtub.
"Mommies wash their little girl's hair," I say.
"TIIIIIIIIII-MOOOOOOO-THY!!" she calls.
And then, when that fails, the inevitable: "GRANDMA!!!!"
Friday, July 27, 2007
We made it to library storytime today
and afterwards I wandered the shelves, waiting for some book to grab my attention and promise to be insightful and witty. But in my regular sleep deprived state nothing stuck out.
Meanwhile, Lana lolled behind me, pulling books out of the bottom shelf and saying "Here you go, Mommy!" It took me a minute before I realized her critera: Pink.
Talk about judging books by their cover.
It turns out there could be a section in the library categorized as "Pink Fiction" and none of my college English professors would set foot in there. Rippling muscles, passionate embraces, BODICES!!--you'd think they'd shelve stuff like that out of children's reach.
After rejecting the thirtieth romance novel thrust upon me (because as a mom of two the last thing I need is more groping in my life), I grabbed the nearest book and we checked out.
(And yes, there might have been a few pink books spilling out of the shelves behind us, but I figure we more than make up for it with our late fees.)
Anyway, it doesn't really matter what I read because these days I kid myself to think I do use books as anything other than a way to lull myself to sleep at night. So here's a review in advance: The cover is red.
Meanwhile, Lana lolled behind me, pulling books out of the bottom shelf and saying "Here you go, Mommy!" It took me a minute before I realized her critera: Pink.
Talk about judging books by their cover.
It turns out there could be a section in the library categorized as "Pink Fiction" and none of my college English professors would set foot in there. Rippling muscles, passionate embraces, BODICES!!--you'd think they'd shelve stuff like that out of children's reach.
After rejecting the thirtieth romance novel thrust upon me (because as a mom of two the last thing I need is more groping in my life), I grabbed the nearest book and we checked out.
(And yes, there might have been a few pink books spilling out of the shelves behind us, but I figure we more than make up for it with our late fees.)
Anyway, it doesn't really matter what I read because these days I kid myself to think I do use books as anything other than a way to lull myself to sleep at night. So here's a review in advance: The cover is red.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
It's 9:07 PM
and my kids are asleep, although for how long, anyone can guess. I'm pretty sure it's time to call it good and admit The Baby Whisperer didn't work: My 9 month old is no where close to sleeping through the night and the 3 year old isn't too much better.
What with potential night feedings, night potty training, and night-mares, I should be brushing my teeth and climbing into bed like the little dears.
But not tonight. Because I haven't had a woman to woman conversation all day. So instead of sleeping, I write to you, internet. Nothing so dramatic as this is my letter to the world, but a polite hi, none the less.
Here was my day:
20 minutes "running" behind the double jogger
1 trip to DollarTree
2 packs of Ramen noodles split between us 3 girls for lunch
0 potty accidents (WAHOO!)
Way too many games of Spider Solitaire
5 cookies eaten all by myself (so much for the "run")
6 nursing sessions
Plus (and I'm ashamed to admit this is an accomplishment)--Everyone in our household showered and/or bathed in the last 24 hours.
How was your day?
What with potential night feedings, night potty training, and night-mares, I should be brushing my teeth and climbing into bed like the little dears.
But not tonight. Because I haven't had a woman to woman conversation all day. So instead of sleeping, I write to you, internet. Nothing so dramatic as this is my letter to the world, but a polite hi, none the less.
Here was my day:
20 minutes "running" behind the double jogger
1 trip to DollarTree
2 packs of Ramen noodles split between us 3 girls for lunch
0 potty accidents (WAHOO!)
Way too many games of Spider Solitaire
5 cookies eaten all by myself (so much for the "run")
6 nursing sessions
Plus (and I'm ashamed to admit this is an accomplishment)--Everyone in our household showered and/or bathed in the last 24 hours.
How was your day?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)