May 27, 2011

In Laundry and In Leisure, For Long As We Both Shall Live.

It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

Someone has to put up with dumb boys who get cranky when they're hungry ("hangry"), tease you when they want attention, interrupt you when they just have to tell you that their towel is musty (put it in the dirty clothes then, eeeediot), and tickle you when they don't think they've quite bugged you enough.

Someone has to deal with the fact that boys will never be women.  We all have to deal with this.  They will never be able to multi-task the way we can.  It is empirically clear to me that my husband won't ever perfect the 'bottle making while holding the baby who is currently spitting up' talent.  He doesn't have the wiring in his mind to signal to him that there's loads of laundry, vacuuming to be done, a baby to be fed and two of us to do it- although, surprisingly I'm the only one running around.  I have to tell him.  I must be the project coordinator.  I like to coordinate.  I just hate to be the nag.

It's not my fault that he wears more clothes than adolescent teenage girl.  It's not my fault that he doesn't take his shoes off all the time when he comes in so that when you walk around you feel the little sand on the bottoms of your feet.  And, someone's gotta clean it.  And, evidently, it's not going to be him.

The phrase "tits on a bull" comes to mind.  As useless as tits on a bull.  Now, my husband- I shall call him Tits- isn't all that bad.  All I really have to do is ask.  All I really have to do is wait for him to be situated so that he can help.  He'll fold the laundry.  He'll.... well.  You know?  He leaves the cabinets and drawers open.  He will rinse our dishes off and may even put them in the dishwasher- but unless I practically make him, Tits won't wash the pot I used to make his dinner.

Tits Magee.  Now.  I realize that in life we must all take the good with the inconvenient.  My husband adds more good and humor to my life than really anyone ever has.  He works hard, loves us and is going to be the best dad and husband I could have asked for.  I love him and wouldn't trade Tits for the world.

He does things that I love.  I must give credit where it is due.  For my first mother's day, he bought me a ruby and diamond ring.  I gush over that.  I live for that stuff.
We have a chalk board in our kitchen where we write funny phrases and dumb messages.  His last one was this:
He balances me out.  He brings love to this house.  As well as hilarity.  I know that asking isn't a big deal, but I sound like a bitchy cliche bossing him around this house.  I just wish he'd notice the cues.  It would be fab if he just started the laundry.  Or just vacuumed the Dorito crumbs created by him missing his friken pie hole.  By God, he can be such a guy.  But I love Tits... my husband, not...actual tits.

May 11, 2011

A Willing Sacrifice

Sometimes you just have to make sacrifices.  Decisions must be made when the lesser of two evils is selected and hopefully embraced.  Needless to say, with such mind-making comes choices you must live with.

Sacrifices, decisions, mind-making... Choices.

We all make them.  And they generally come in small sizes, like, to exercise and have a normal dinner or not to exercise but have brussels sprouts and wine.  Is it worth it to sacrifice my future fine ass for a relaxing tasty adult beverage (three and a half relaxing tasty adult beverages)?  I had to make that very difficult call tonight, but have to say- this wine is fabulous.  It goes tremendously with Sex and the City.

Oh, Sex and the City.  My girlfriends from college (and for life, I'm lucky to add) have dispersed across the Eastern Seaboard, but when I'm in need of them sometimes this show can superimpose them into my living room.  It's been helpful in a pinch.

And, oh, Sex and the City.  I'm sitting here with my wine, the monitor on- no buzzing red lights in sight, watching the episode where they go to the opening of the new night club Bed and I'm reminded of my time living in New York when I'm at Bed.  Such a different time.  Such a different time.  Thin.  Early twenties.  Cash money burning holes in my designer demi bags.  A point.  I have a point.

Do I?  Well, I guess my point, nay, my declaration, is that life's minor to exercise or not to exercise choices and life's major to stay in NYC or to move home choices all come together- the universe universally conspiring to bring every sacrificial lamb type choice and every momentous instinct type choice together to form your life.

I sit here thinking about where my life would be- who I would be- if I stayed in New York.  And I think I'd be happy.  I'd also be happy if I exercised tonight and nixed the wine.  But- sometimes there is a sacrifice to be made.  I sacrificed that life and moved home to mend broken promises and fix a few things.  That brought me Nico and Vienna.

I drank wine tonight and didn't exercise.  It was indeed a sacrifice.  But, I was willing.  And I'm very happy.

May 4, 2011

Maternity Stay

Maternity leave?  Ummm, no thank you.  I prefer maternity stay.  That is the time I get to spend with my daughter.  The twenty four hours a day, seven days a week time I get (got) to spend learning about who she is, watching her figure out little minute pieces of the world.  Her hand is something awesome to her and just wait until she figures out she has two of them.  I've never been happier being a bystander in someone else's constantly evolving and blossoming life.

I was laid off at one point in my life, and for a few months I went to school nights but had nothing to do all day.  I went ape shit.  Bounced off the walls with cabin fever, frequent "fifth-life" crises about my purpose in life and why I was home watching the View instead of accomplishing something productive.

But, my Girl.  Being home with my girl was honestly the happiest time of my life.  I am a proverbial 'metal' detector for finding things to be irritated about.  I admit.  But when I was home with my girl, I was unaware of life's little nudgy milieu.  I was too distracted by her loveliness.  She'd hold something for the first time!  I saw that.   We communicated with eyes and eskimo kisses and goofy noises.  I was full of good.

Maternity leave is when you have to go back to work and leave your child with another.  When you are doing something that is NOT what is, apparently, your calling in life.  (My God, I was meant to be a mother.  That's a heavy realization coming from someone who has always based my self worth on my educational accomplishments.)  I'm fortunate, as is Vienna, that my mom and sister take care of her four days a week, as well as my mother in law one day a week.  She is loved and cared for by those closest to her, next to her mama and dada.  I'm thankful.

But, really.  I want it to be ME taking care of her.  I'm jealous that they get to spend the mornings with my Girl.  That's when she's happiest.  When she kicks the most and gasps at the world around her the loudest.  I carry a heavy heart when I'm at work, and have had to leave to cry in the car for a minute to dislodge the lump in my throat.  

How depressing!  I'm wicked sorry.  But this is brutal.  I've never been more enamored in my life and I want to soak my infant daughter up like a sponge so that she's with me always.  I've waited a few days to write about my return to work because I couldn't think about it without welling up with tears.  

Alas, I still need a kleenex.  I miss my girl.

May 3, 2011

Sophie the Giraffe

Ooh, la la.  

It all began one day while I was pregnant having coffee with a girlfriend.  She had a shower gift for me but said what she really wanted to get me was "this giraffe that's all the rave."  I'm a fan of giraffes, they're a bit gangly- albeit friendly and exotic- so I was curious.  She said the giraffe was hard for her to find because it kept selling out.  My interest was indeed piqued, but I was pregnant, so the coffee and the cookie on my plate was much more interesting to me at the time.

Taking prenatal classes at Isis Parenting does more than just teach you the subject matter at hand.  You learn about what you should have if you want to be a fabulous mom with a hip baby- which clearly I was determined to become.  During breaks, they unleash you into their boutique for you to stretch your legs, jiggle the baby in your belly off your bladder (or sciatic nerve), and have a bit of water (which will almost immediately send you to the ladies room).  During my jaunt [waddle] around this boutique I came upon Sophie the Giraffe.  She was packaged in a lovely little parisian box, and was so lovable looking even I would have liked to gnaw on her a tad.


Yet, I still wondered what the big deal was.  She was cute, and clearly a posh accessory for your newborn to tote so I was once again, interested.  Until I saw the price of about twenty-eight US dollars.  Ok, now I'm thinking that this little high priced teether is a bit much for my newborn who'd just as happily chew on her spit up cloth.  I moved on- but I admit, I did turn to look back at it.  I just knew we'd cross paths again.


Sophie knew it too.  Vienna and I were out recently with my mom shopping at both Pier One and The Paper Source, two of my favorite stores, in Coolidge Corner.  About to head home, we turned a corner last minute in the store and my mother happened upon Sophie.  She made the executive decision that Vienna and Sophie would be fast friends and we brought her home with us that day.

Sophie and Vienna were meant to be.  Via drools all over this little squeeze toy and prefers to nibble the ears and hold the legs.  The legs are easy for the Nugget to hold as they're slim for her little hands, and the ears are palatable for her to nibble because she's just getting used to chewing on anything besides her bib.  The plastic and paint are all natural and are velvety soft to the touch. 


 I'd say Sophie is a great buy for the little ones.  Vienna gives her new friend two fist pumps up.