FIRE ANTS!

Today was an adventure.

My mom,

dad,

James,

Reese,

and I (sorry I can't find a recent picture of me that doesn't include a kid)

all headed south to surprise Raegan (my niece)

for her birthday today.  

It was going to be an adventure no matter what.  The plan was ripe with danger from the beginning:  

a) drive a little over an hour with toddler and infant in car seats,

b) spend 1+ hours in a restaurant in birthday jubilee, 

c) put the kiddos back in car seats for the drive home during nap time.

But adventures are fun, right?!  So off we went!  I had every baby/kid supply packed with us that I could think of--diapers, wipes, strollers, toys, blankets, snacks for James, and extra clothes.

The trip down was uneventful.  Both kids were awake and happy for the trip.  Success #1.

The restaurant time/birthday celebration was pretty good overall.  James tolerated it fairly well, despite not being allowed to run all over.  Raegan was so sweet to play with him for a while, which he greatly enjoyed.  Reese was  mostly happy, at least until right before we left.  Success #2.

I changed both kids diapers in the back of my vehicle before we hit the road home.  The Jeep was backed into a parking space with the tail end of the car meeting up with a curbed grassy area.  I stood upon said grassy area to accomplish the diaper change-age.  While I was doing that, the party-goers all met up with me at my car as it was time for us all to go.  My mom was holding Reese, I was holding James, the tail gate of my car was open and everyone was milling about for a few minutes.  All of the sudden it felt like I was being bitten with thousands of tee-tiny pinchers all over my feet.  As it turns out, I WAS.  I knew immediately what it was. 

FIRE ANTS!! Fail #1.

As best I can remember, I gently, lovingly placed James into the back of the car, concerned only for his safety as any good mother would be (read: I tossed him).  He didn't cry, so it must've been a somewhat soft landing...  I started to screech "I'M COVERED IN ANTS!!!" while stomping and dancing about like a pentecostal preacher's wife (minus the clapping part).  I considered for a half-second stripping off my pants to remove the poison-filled-biting-beasts, but I thought better of it.  The parking lot and five lane highway beside us could've gotten quite a show.  (Pretty sure they enjoyed the prancing/stomping/dancing as it was.)  Amidst all my FREAKING OUT, someone saw to it that James didn't fall out of the back of the vehicle.  Someone else checked over Reese's stroller and car seat (which was on the ground, she wasn't in it though) to make sure there were no red offenders present.  James was unscathed.  I don't know if anyone else got bitten.  That's horrible.  I was so wrapped up in my own fiasco, I did not see to the well-being of anyone else around me.  To my family, I apologize.  I hope you are all bite-free. 

This picture doesn't really do my foot justice.  There are red spots, believe me.  

After we got the crying children in their car seats and started our journey home, I said to my parents, "Fire Ants.  Wow, didn't really see that one coming..."

ps...both kids fell asleep within ten minutes of our ride home and slept most of the way.  Success #3.

Listening and Parenting and One-Upping

I recently came across an excellent perspective on the challenges of parenting small kids on another blog,  www.stevewiens.com.  I don't know the man, but I.LOVE.HIM. for writing it.  My favorite part:  

"We know it’s true that they grow up too fast. But feeling like I have to enjoy every moment doesn’t feel like a gift, it feels like one more thing that is impossible to do, and right now, that list is way too long. Not every moment is enjoyable as a parent; it wasn’t for you, and it isn’t for me. You just have obviously forgotten. I can forgive you for that. But if you tell me to enjoy every moment one more time, I will need to break up with you."

Another similar post by Glennon Melton made me smile and breathe a little bit easier.  One of my favorite parts of this post about Carpe Diem: 

"Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn't work for me. I can't even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question."

In both of these articles, what they offered me was validation.  I'm doing okay.  My husband is doing okay.  My kids are doing okay.  We're gonna make it.  Because, if I'm honest, when I tell you a story about my toddler completely winning against me in the battle of wills that took place earlier today, what I'm looking for is support. Validation.  Encouragement.  What I am NOT looking for:

"Wait until he's a teenager!"

"Just wait until Reese is older and they can really fight like siblings!"

"This is the easy part...later is SO MUCH HARDER..."

Thanks.  Thanks for that.  Thanks for nullifying whatever it was I was saying.  Thanks for one-upping me with your story about your teenager/middle schooler/grown child.  

The fact of the matter is that I don't think we (as people) are very good listeners.  It's hard to hear a story and not share whatever story comes to mind after hearing someone else's tale.  But I'm determined to get better at it.  

When a first-time pregnant mom tells me she's having trouble sleeping, I want my knee-jerk response to be, "You are so right!  Sleep and pregnancy seem to be mortal enemies!"  Instead of "Wait til the baby comes!  You'll experience a whole new level of sleep deprivation!"

When a childless, younger person complains that the dog kept them up all night, I'd like to offer my sympathies instead of saying I remember fondly the days when my cats were my only sleep interruption.  (I may or may not take that opportunity to tell them that dogs are worthless creatures anyway.  Oh wait, I think that defeats my point of being a better listener and validating people...  Well there goes all my dog-loving readers...)

Your hard is hard to you, whatever that is.  My hard is hard to me, whatever it is.  I'm tired of being one-upped, and therefore I want to make sure I'm not doing that to other people, especially other moms.     

Dear Adoptive Parents

I can't even imagine what your journey to adoption has been like.  Tumultuous?  Long?  Involving more paperwork and red tape than Congress?  Full of heartache and failed pregnancies?  Or maybe easy-breezy, short, and completely unexpected?

This is one of many of life's unfairness-es.  That's a word, right?  It's not fair at all that I wasn't even trying to get pregnant, or thinking about it, and managed to become so.  Meanwhile you guys tried and tried, maybe even were successful a few times at getting pregnant, but then it didn't last.  That's not fair.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry if your path leading you here was a prickly, thorny, jagged rock path and there were no shoes to be found.

As our paths join from this point forward, there are a few things I want you to know.

• I want more than anything to see my child again.  From the moment I leave the hospital, an absolute emotional wreck, all I  will think about is "When can I see her again??!"  But I understand that you need time as a family to bond.  My guess is what you need me to know is that you need space.  Ultimately, I want what is best for her.  So if space is what you guys need, space is what you'll get.  But know that whenever you are ready, I'd love to see her again.  
• Relationships are fluid, dynamic things.  Whatever our relationship starts out like, good or bad, it doesn't have to or get to stay that way forever.  By investing time and attention and effort, we can build a positive, healthy connection.  Hopefully we can be really honest with each other throughout the process about what works for us, what doesn't, and what we want/need.
• Just like no two kids are exactly alike, no two adoptions are either.  While we can both gather support from others who have walked this path, our adoption is unique.  We will have to figure out what works best for us.  
• There will be times, like when we first meet, that will just be awkward, no matter what.  You may feel like you need to come across as well spoken, put together, and definitely not crazy because if you don't, I'll change my mind and not place my child with you.  I'll feel like I need to come across as well spoken, put together, and definitely not crazy because if I don't, you won't let me have a relationship with my child later on.  All of that is baloney.  Facades don't work long term.  You be you.  I'll be me.  We'll build on that.
• Most importantly:  I can be one of your biggest cheerleaders, if you'll let me.  You are raising my biological child.  I have a whole lot of interest vested in things going well for you and your family.  I want you to know I'm on your side, not against you.  If you ever doubt that, keep in mind that I chose you.  I chose you to be my daughter's parents.  I saw qualities in you, in your relationship to each other, that made me pick you above anybody else.  Please, please don't forget that!

Signed,
A loving birthmother

Breastfeeding and Football

Breastfeeding is a big time commitment.  Watching football is a big time commitment.  I've compiled a list of penalties, borrowing the names of which or the concept from football, but applying it to my experiences with breastfeeding.  Enjoy.

Roughing the Feeder:
Two possibilities here.
A)  The sweet little babe of a child beats the mom with clenched fists while attempting to nurse.  Usually involves crying, maybe by both involved parties.
B)  The aforementioned sweet child does not latch well, chomping on mom's nipple, causing excrutiating pain either immediately or over time as the non-well-latched-nursing continues.

False Start:
The wee babe latches, nurses long enough to cause milk letdown, then pops off.  Immediately the baby gets sprayed in the face from at least three different angles as the milk continues to flow fire-hose-style.  Typically this causes a pissed off baby and a soaked nursing pillow and shoulder/arm of the baby's outfit.

Illegal Motion:
While nursing well and latched beautifully, the innocent child has explosive, pervasive, blow out poopie that faster than lightning seeps throw every layer of clothing on mom and babe and soaks the nursing pillow.

Pass Interference:
While mom attempts to transition the infant from one breast to the other, somewhere mid-air the baby spews some large portion of what she's just eaten , usually hitting whatever electronic device is near by at the time. (TV remote, cell phone, ipad, etc...)

Offsides:
The freakish phenomenon that describes the serenely peaceful little one asleep on her side, quickly morphing into a screaming monster when removed from that peaceful position and unsuccessfully transitioned to a bassinet or crib.

Holding:
(Offensive) This foul involves older siblings.  While the baby is nursing, the older child(ren) will inevitably want to be held.  Waiting to be held is out of the question in their minds.  Space on mom's lap is no concern of theirs either.
(Defensive) When the husband accuses the nursing mother of simply holding the baby, who is no longer eating, but asleep at the breast, to get out of doing chores.  This foul gets called when trash needs emptying, dinner needs cooking, etc.

Personal foul:
Mom awakes abruptly in the middle of the night to the baby's cries.  She has 0.1 seconds to decide whether she should go to the bathroom first or feed the baby.  She decides to wait and feed the baby first.  While the baby is nursing, she very much regrets the waiting-to-pee decision.  The personal foul is what occurs if she cannot hold it any longer.

What did I leave off?  Have you experienced any of these scenarios? Or know someone who has?

You Might Be A Toddler If...

1)  You have to use your hands to stuff food BACK into your mouth that keeps falling out because you take waaay too big bites.

2)  If you can't get something to work the way you think it should, WHEN you think it should, you believe flopping around on the ground in frustration and anguish is an acceptable alternative.

3)  You employ the aforementioned flop around method of display of emotion frequently enough to know where the softest spots of the floor are located.

4)  You like your grandparents way more than you like your parents.

Walking with Poopah

5)  You think "cleaning up" involves placing one toy in the toy box followed promptly by taking twelve toys out of the box.

6)  For you, like a guilty-as-charged DUI perpetrator, walking in a straight line is nigh impossible.

7)  You think chasing the cat with the poopie dangling out of her butt around the house is the GREATEST.GAME.EVER.

Nestle-the-dangle-pooper

8)  You and the above-mentioned danglepoopiecat assign the same entertainment value to !BUBBLES!

9)  Sticking your finger in your nose is an acceptable response to a stranger saying hello in public.

And finally...

10)  While in the bathtub, you suck in your buddha belly so you can have an unencumbered view of yourself peeing.

Ceiling Fans

Who knew staring at a ceiling fan, preferably one that is on, could be so fun?

I didn't.  Not until today, anyway.

James was laying on his play mat.  I was beside him on the carpet.  Both of us on our backs, staring up at the whirling ceiling fan.

I promise neither one of us are on drugs.  Well, I know I'm not.  Who knows what that 5 month old does in his crib when I'm not around.  Kids these days...

The sliding glass door is open with a nice spring-like breeze blowing through it.  Weird...since it's November.  The cats are coming and going from the back porch.  They love the door being left open so they can come and go as they please.

As they please.  That's typical cat behavior.  Their whole lives are spent as they please.

Jealous.

Stuck

On work days I'm gone for 13+ hours.

On non-work days, I breathe a huge sigh of relief that I'm off.  I waste half of my time off in recovery from the work days.

I feel like I'm half-@$$ing every area of my life.  Motherhood, wife-hood, work-hood.

I am not the first working mother.  This has been done by bazillions of women before me.  Why do I feel this way about it?

STUCK.

Bittersweet

Bittersweet.  I read on another blog that this term may have been created just for birthmothers.  I agree with that.  I don't quite know how to describe what I want to share.

There are countless precious moments that I've shared with James in his short little life thus far.  Just one example:  walking into his room in the morning and getting him out of his crib...seeing that cute little drooly face grinning up at me...it makes my heart melt.  Okay, really anytime I look at him and he smiles back at me, I melt.

I've had the thought a few different times, though, that this is bittersweet.  I placed my first child, Chloe, for adoption.  It was the hardest decision I have ever made.  I knew at the time that it would be hard in the future.  There would be hard days.  Days, weeks, months of heartache.  Sadness over what I was missing out on in her life.  But since she was my first child, I was speculating about what all I would be missing.

Now that James is here, I'm seeing first hand what I missed with Chloe.  That's what I mean by bittersweet.  When I watch in awe and wonder as he discovers a fantastical new skill like blowing spit bubbles! or gnawing on his feet or rolling over, it makes me sad that I missed all these nuances with Chloe.  I've had the thought "I didn't know I was missing THIS."

Don't get me wrong.  I'm enjoying my son immensely.  There is certainly way more positive going on than negative.  But I didn't quite anticipate the delayed grief.

I don't know if this makes any sense to you, the reader.  That's okay if it doesn't.  Sometimes that's what happens when I #justwrite.

Football

I have a love/hate relationship with football.

At times, I love watching football.  The competition of it all, the mind-numbing effect of staring at the tv for a few hours, listening to the announcers try to fill every second of air time with game-related chatter.  Watching football with Scott is one of his love languages, I'm pretty sure.  Wait, I'm POSITIVE.  He's told me so before.  And when a guy says the phrase "love language", one should listen carefully.

At times, I hate watching football.  The commercials seem to have a LOT of scantily clad women in them.  I don't particularly enjoy watching scantily clad women, in general, much less on tv.  The announcers during the game are all "Let's spend twenty minutes watching that play again from seven different camera angles to determine if that was an incomplete pass or a fumble."  And every twelve seconds of game play requires three commercials.  Enter said scantily clad women again.  Sheesh.

My absolute LEAST favorite part of football is pre-game, half-time, or post-game shows.  A group of men sit around and speculate what is going to happen during the game.  At half-time they discuss what has happened so far and what needs to happen in the second half.  After the game is over, the men folk rehash the whole game and talk about whether they were right or not.

Wait, it gets even better.  How about a talk show about FANTASY FOOTBALL.  Now the group of mostly-men are sitting around talking about fictitious football games occurring only in the land of make-believe.  What players should the fantasy football league manager play that week?  Who should be benched?  Speculate, speculate, speculate.  Blah blah blah.  And this isn't even REAL!!!  I can hardly stand it.

Sadly, winning at fantasy football happens to be a tremendous talent of Scott's.  He listens to the jabbermouths on the pre-during-post-fantasy talk shows.  He wishes I would play in his fantasy league.

Maybe I could sign up to be a scantily clad woman and advertise something instead...

Life as a Military Kid

My dad was in the Air Force.  We moved a lot.  Until college, I had never lived in one city for four consecutive years.  People asked me as a kid if I liked moving around a lot.  That's like asking me if I liked being a girl.  I didn't know any different.  I liked it because it was all I knew.

I realize, in looking back, that I developed some coping mechanisms to handle all the moving.  Some healthy, some not so much.  Pretending to be aloof, nonchalant, acting like I didn't care about anything...this was one of my strategies.

I spent my 9th grade year of high school in Illinois.  I spent 10th-12th grade in Maryland.  That's not a big deal.  Two high schools.  My brother went to four.  I consider myself lucky.  The first day at my new high school in Maryland, I had my defenses up.  I went in ready to blend in and not stick out.  This was particularly challenging because I was in the minority in my school.

In one particular class, the guy next to me struck up a conversation with me.

Attempting-to-be-nice-guy:  "You're new here, aren't you?"

Aloof-me: "Yeah."

ATBNG: "Did you just move to the area?"

AM: "Yeah. My dad is in the Air Force." <looking disinterested>

ATBNG: "Oh really, my uncle is in the...."

<me interrupting> "I didn't ask."

As you can imagine, the conversation pretty much ended there.  Wow.  Nicely done me.  Way to stay disconnected, disengaged, DISTANT.  So distant I didn't even care if I was down right rude.

What a strategy.  I've spent a lot of time trying to undo my self-taught "disengage" coping mechanism.  I don't have it all figured out.  How to be present, engaged, emotionally available.  But I've come a long way since that chilly conversation in high school.

Now I have roots in a city I've lived in for more than 7 years.  I have long-term friendships that have weathered me moving away for a few years and then moving back.  I have an elderly cat that has been mine since he was a kitten.  (You don't understand...we never had old pets.  We didn't really move with our pets.  We would find them new homes or take them to my grandparents farm.)  And I have a new kind of relationship in my life that is unlike any I've experienced before.  Being a mom to baby James.  Lucky for him he doesn't have climb over my heart-walls like almost everybody else has had to do.

He was born an insider.

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I'm linking up with Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary for #justwrite.

The Second Worst Day of My Life

**edit:  This was in 2007, fyi.**

It was evening.

We were hanging out in the ICU waiting room.

Again.

We'd pretty much lived there for the previous few days.  My sister was attempting to catch a few moments of sleep in the room across the hall where the medical staff meet with families, presumably to share bad news.  There was a set of motorized double doors that separated us from Ron, my brother-in-law.  He had multiple myeloma.  His heart was struggling.  In the waiting room, we started to recognize other families as family too.  I mean, when you spend night and day in a small waiting room, you can only ignore each other for so long.  Several people had blankets and pillows and were attempting to sleep.  Whoever designs hospital waiting room chairs does an excellent job at creating the most uncomfortable long-term place to sit.

We can only visit Ron two at a time.  At least one of his brothers was visiting him on this particular night, at this particular time.  My oh-so-uncomfortable chair is sort of near the waiting room door.

Suddenly I hear a lot of commotion behind those double doors.  Lots of beeping alarms and staff talking loudly.  Somebody is barking orders.  I work in a hospital.  I know the tone of those voices and the beeping alarms could not be good.

I step into the hall and punch the button on the wall that opens the doors into the ICU.  Ron's bed is straight ahead.  There are so. many. people. around him.  Their faces are concerned, but everybody is focused on the task at hand.  After what seems like an eternity, the doors close.  I never stepped through the doors, I just wanted to see if all the chaos was taking place at Ron's bedside.  It was.

By now the rest of the family is in the hallway with me, staring at the closed doors.  His daughter is crying. The rest of us are just in shock.  Is he dying?  Could this be it?  It's too soon.  He's too young.  This CANNOT be happening.  My heart is beating so hard and fast and feels like it's pounding out of my chest, I swear somebody across the hall could count my pulse just by looking at me.

Somebody needs to tell my sister.  I volunteer.  That was a stupid thing to do.

I creep into the dark room she's sleeping in and put my hand on her arm, saying her name gently.  "There's something going on.  We don't know what exactly, but I think you need to wake up."  My tone and facial expression said far more than my words.  She joins the crowd of us in the hallway.

We just stood there.  It felt like forever.  Some crying.  Some wringing hands.  Some clinging to each other.  All praying.  I remember thinking my heart is going to explode from the crazy pace and intensity with which it was beating.

The sounds behind the doors changed.  The loud voices changed to calmer voices.  The alarming beeps became more routine sounding.  I was hoping and praying this was a good sign.

After 30-45 minutes, a medical person came out to talk to us all.  We were hanging on his every word.  Ron stopped breathing, which stopped his heart.  They got him back.  He's on a ventilator now.  I don't think I heard much after "We got him back".  That's all I cared about.  The next days could take care of themselves.  But for now, we've got him back.

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The only day in my memory that stands out as worse than that evening, is the day I left the hospital without my daughter.

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I'm linking up with Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary for her Just Write exercise.  I need to quit participating, though, because more often than not, it makes me cry...

The Here and Now

I sit here, my butt glued to this recliner.  The baby is in his nearby room talking up a storm in his crib.  He loves to try out all his sounds.  Over and over.  There's the Darth Vader breathing sound.  And the pterodactyl sound.  And the squeal-laugh-giggle sound.  And a slew of others.  So. dang. cute.  Not taking a nap, like he should be, but that's okay.  He's having a grand time talking to himself, so I'm not worried about him missing a nap.  

Me?  I'm tired.  Just plain tired.  Still struggling to find a balance between work life and home life.  I'm not doing either one particularly well at the moment.  My tiredness leads to grumpiness.  My grumpiness leads to a lack of patience, with everyone, about everything.  I don't like this "me".  I like easy-going, glass-half-full me.  Instead I'm uptight-glass-is-half-empty-and-probably-dirty-and-sitting-by-the-sink-with-all-the-other-dirty-dishes me.

The laundry is piled in the hallway.  Pretty soon those piles will finish creeping down the hallway and will reach the front door.  Nice.

I can't quite "win" in the kitchen, either.  The dirty dishes are....many.  The countertops (if you can even see them) are covered in bits and pieces of various meals from the past few weeks day.

Some sister-time today really helped.  It usually does. :)  Sisters are pretty important.  Well, maybe that's not an accurate blanket statement.  MY sister is pretty important.  She listens.  She hears what I'm really saying.  She helps ME hear what I'm really saying.  She's good people.  I'm grateful.  Our age difference kept us from being close when we were little.  She was into boys and I still thought they had cooties.  I was all care bears and rainbow bright and she was all fashion and make up and hanging out with friends.

But now, the age difference has all but disappeared.  We can talk and "get" each other better than most.  I like that.  That makes the here and now a little more manageable.

Alas, the happy baby in a crib sounds have turned a lot less happy.  I'm off to check on him.  He who makes the here and now a little more tolerable...

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Today I'm linking up with Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write.  Check it out!

Adoption

Some days I like to just sit and think about her.  Chloe.  My first born child.

I like to look at pictures of her.  She is a beautiful little girl.  Is that selfish of me to say?  I am her birthmother, after all.  She looks a little bit like me.  Is it bragging to say I think she's beautiful?  I don't think so...

I like to replay memories of her in my mind's movie theater.  Like when I went to her first birthday party.

Words can hardly describe how I felt being there.  Honored.  Privileged.  Excited.  Freaked out.  Heart aching with a pain I hadn't known before she was born.  I wanted to be at that party so badly.  To be a part of her life.  And yet while I was there I wanted to leave because seeing her, watching her play...it hurt.  I decided the pain of seeing her was better than the pain of not.  Seeing her is a constant reminder of what we are not.  Mother and daughter.  It's a reminder of what we are.  Birthmother and daughter.  Slight difference in terminology, mother versus birthmother, but HUGE difference in meaning.  I'm not sure she's all that familiar with the term birthmother.  Even now as a seven year old.  Tummy mommy.  That's a term she knows.  She knows she grew in my tummy before she came to live with her mom and dad.  I love hearing stories from Melissa, Chloe's mom, about conversations they've had about adoption.  Melissa handles it with grace and compassion.  Thanks to Melissa and Alvin, Chloe won't have a life altering conversation when she's fifteen and finding out for the first time that she's adopted.  She'll already know.  She's always known.  She understands better than a lot of adults that this is another way families are made.

Adoption.

Now I have a son, James.

I'm learning to be a mom.  A see-you-every-day-provide-your-every-need kind of mom.  As opposed to a make-one-decision-for-you-that-impacts-the-rest-of-your-life kind of mom.  I chose parents for Chloe.  That's where my parenting decisions ended with her.  With James, the decisions, from what others tell me, will never end.  Strangers ask if he's my first.  I pause because I'm not sure what to say.  No.  He's not my first child.  Yes, I'm a first time mom.  It's both.

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I'm linking up with Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write.

The Drive Home

On work days, I leave about 7:15ish to drive home.  Having arrived at the hospital around 6:30am, I am BEYOND ready to leave by 7:15pm.  Gathering up my lunch bag, pumping supplies and whatever milk I've pumped that day, I head out the door in search of my car in the somewhat distant parking lot.  My car is a 2002 basic model vehicle.  There is no keyless entry or key fob.  There's just a key.  If I forget where I parked, which does happen on occasion, my car will not chirp at me at the press of a button.  It will sit in solitary silence until I find it.

I throw my stuff in the passenger seat and start the drive home.  This drive begins by negotiating my way through the parking lot where lots of my coworkers are walking to their cars.  This requires slow, careful parking lot driving.  At least it SHOULD.  Some people don't get that.  Moments before they were pedestrians, just like me, but as soon as they get in their cars, they have no problem practically running me down.  Strange how that works.  How they forget so quickly how unnerving it is to be on foot and have someone speed by dangerously close.

Anyhoo...back to the drive.  Having successfully navigated the parking lot treachery, I'm on my way home.  Lots of thoughts run through my head at this point.  Thoughts about how my day went, how hungry I am, how I hope the day went for my baby and my mom who watches him and my husband who picks him up from my mom's.  I hope to walk into the house and all be well.  But I just never know what it will be like.  Sometimes I can hear the baby crying while I'm still on the stairs climbing my way up to the 3rd floor apartment in which we live.

Again...back to the drive.  Traffic at 7:15pm is usually non-existent.  That's a perk.  Both coming and going from work are non-peak times for the rest of the world.  No traffic is nice.  My "commute" takes approximately 12 minutes.  I love that.

While sitting at one of the stoplights, I glance over at the grassy median.  The grass is overgrown.  I wonder whose job it is to mow that grass and how frequently it gets down.  Then I wonder if there are any snakes in that grass.  Why do I care?  I don't have to walk through that grass.  Still, it bothers me to think there MAY be a snake within 15 feet of me.  Even though I'm in a car, totally protected from unprovoked snake attacks.

Why am I thinking about snakes?  I hate snakes.  I'd rather think about my baby.  James is WAY more fun to think about.  I think about how being a working mom is a tricky beast.  I enjoy having some time away from James.  I like the adult interaction at my job.  Funny thing, though, because besides the other adults I work with, the patients I work with are babies.  I enjoy time away from taking care of baby James, so I go to work and take care of other peoples' babies.  Whatever.  It works for me.  I don't enjoy time away from James when I come home and hear he's had a rough day.  I speculate "If I was home with him today, he wouldn't have had a bad day."  There's no guarantee of that, but that's usually how I it goes in my head.

When I get close to my house, I roll down my window.  The weather isn't so oven-like hot anymore.  Especially in the evenings.  I enjoy the breeze briefly.  I turn into my apartment complex.  Almost home. That is one of the greatest feelings.  Being almost home.  A couple turns later, over three speed bumps and I'm pulling into a parking spot.  I gather my stuff from the passenger seat and crawl out of the car.  It will take most of my remaining energy to climb the two flights of stairs standing between me and my front door.  My legs never feel heavier than at that moment, trying to get up those stairs.  From the waist up, I can't WAIT to be home.  From the waist down, my body is in no hurry to get anywhere.

I put the key in the lock and open the door.  I hear no crying.  From Scott or the baby. :)  When I open the door, I see James asleep in his bouncy seat.  Scott says dinner is on the stove.  I breathe a sigh of relief.  I have a window of time to change clothes and eat dinner before James wakes up.

It's good to be home.


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I'm linking up with Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary for her Just Write exercise!

That Darn Cat

Sleep, for a family with a newborn, is very. very. important.  I'm so grateful that we are sleeping a lot more than we used to.  You can understand my frustration, then, when something OTHER than the baby wakes me up in the middle of the night.

Enter Otto the Orange.

Sometimes he just gets bored in the middle of the night.  That's my best guess anyway for why he does what he does.

The other night:

It's 2:46am.  I'm sleeping.  I'm cozy under the covers.  The fan I use as a sound machine is whirring in the corner.  I awake to the sound of a plastic bottle scooch-scooch-scooching across the top of my dresser, followed quickly by said bottle hitting the carpeted floor.  I decide not to open my eyes just yet.  "Give it a minute," I tell myself.  The next bottle begins to scooch-scooch-scooch across the dresser.  I sit straight up in the bed and loudly whisper "OTTO!!!  CUT IT OUT!"  His paw is outreached, still touching the bottle that he's slowly pushing off the dresser.  There's no denying he is guilty as charged.  Just for good measure, he pushes the second bottle onto the floor.  Thankfully these are plastic bottles (lotions) and they are landing on carpet, so no breakage involved.  He meows at me as if to say "What?!  I'm bored."  I twiddle my fingers together to beckon him onto the bed.  He makes a glorious leap from the dresser to the bed, landing with precision, as he always does.  I pat the bedspread in his favorite sleep spot.  He circles a couple of times and then strategically lies down.  I pet his head for a second then I lie back down.  The whole incident felt like an exercise in futility to me, but whatever.  He's going back to sleep.  I'm going back to sleep.  Hooray.

I'm linking up with Heather today for her "Just Write" adventure:

The Extraordinary Ordinary

Peepaw

My Peepaw.  I miss him.  "Betty Boop".  That's what he called me.  If anybody else called me that, I'd kill 'em.

Peepaw was a kind-hearted old man.  Always looking to help out others.

If something broke, he was the fix-it man.  He wasn't too much into aesthetics, so his "fix" may be an eye-sore, but the formerly broken thing would at least be functional again.

He loved camping.  He and Granny were my "camping" grandparents.  Granny and Peepaw had this cute little blue and white Scotty trailer.  They camped in that thing all over the U.S.  When our family would join them, we'd usually bring a pop-up trailer with us.  Maybe a tent, too.  Sometimes we'd take turns eating in the Scotty trailer with Granny and Peepaw, since it wasn't big enough to hold all of us at once.

Peepaw, far left

He used to ask me how school was going.  "School" could be kindergarten, high school, or college.  School was school.  Education was pretty important to him.  I'm guessing it's because he didn't go to college.  I don't know though...we never had that conversation.

There are lots of conversations we never had that now I wish I had the opportunity.  I wish he could meet his great-grandchildren.  I'm sad that James doesn't get to go camping with him.  Sure, Scott and I can take James camping, but it'll be different.  Peepaw never met a stranger in a campground before.  He talked to everybody.  Found out where they were from, how many kids they had, how long they'd been married, what they were having for dinner that night...  He was a friendly kinda guy.

In the past year, I've missed my Peepaw more than usual.  I think it's because I'm a parent now and I realize how MUCH I don't know.  How much I need the input and experience of those that have gone before me in this adventure.  I'm so grateful to have my parents and my in-laws involved in my life.  Lots of wisdom there.  Grandparents are a whole 'nother level of wisdom, though.  I wish I still had access to all that they had to teach.  I guess this is just how it goes, though.  When you're a punk kid and have plenty of time with your grandparents, you don't care as much what they have to say.  As an adult, as a parent, when you want their input more than ever, they are no longer around. <sigh>  Hindsight is 20-20.  Now my parents are the grandparents.  I wonder if that scares them as much as it scares me.  Before, I was two generations away from being the "older, wiser generation".  Now I'm only one generation away.  If something happened to my parents, me and my siblings would be the "older, wiser generation".  That is SCARY.  We don't know enough!  I don't know enough...

Back to Peepaw.  He was bald.  He said things like "God only made a few perfect heads...the rest He covered with hair..."  He had a "Bald is Beautiful" bumper sticker on his pick-up truck.  He also had a "Virginia is for Lovers" bumper sticker.  Now that I think about that, it grosses me out a little bit...

Peepaw always went on walks with a walking stick.  He was not dependent on a cane or walker to move around.  Quite the contrary. But for some reason, he always had a walking stick, whether we were walking around a neighborhood or hiking in the woods on a camping trip.  I thought it was the thing to do...pick out a good walking stick at the beginning of a hike.  Pretty sure I was doing it wrong, though, because early on I'd get tired of lugging it around and I'd toss it by the wayside.

Peepaw, far right, WITH walking stick

One time we were all eating dinner around at his house and his brother, Uncle Sam, pulled into the driveway in his HUGE RV.  Pretty sure Peepaw didn't consider camping in a HUGE RV "real camping".  How he displayed his displeasure at the pretentiousness of the monstrous vehicle was by shaking his head and saying "Good Gosh!"  We all laughed and laughed when he said that.

Oh Peepaw.  I wish you were here to live life with us now.  With your grown up grandchildren.  With your children who are now grandparents.  With your great-grandchildren who don't even know they need a walking stick to go hiking...  You are missed.