Yum!

I've come upon a great little factoid: the smell of baking cheesecake is remarkably similar to that of a breastfed baby's poop. I know this because I have spent the last half hour periodically smelling K's rear end only to discover, each time, that it's still the cheesecake and not her.

This is going to stay between us, though, okay? I don't think tomorrow's dinner guests would not find it so amusing come dessert.

Thanks anyway

So I'm out at the grocery store with M and K. Since K's bright-eyed and the trip will be short, I pop her in the Baby Bjorn. It's not that I don't like the Bjorn; it's just that I find the sling so much more soothing for both her and I, but if she's gonna be awake, I figure she ought to get to look around. I know, all you veteran sling-wearers out there are about to tell me that I can have her sitting up and looking out in the sling. That would require me to look up how to situate her so that she doesn't fall out while doing so. And that would require free time and a good memory (do it now, my conscience is telling me, but I'm finally writing on my blog, so there).

Okay, back to the Bjorn. One of the main reasons why I don't find it soothing is that K has a nasty habit of chewing on carrier's top. I try to lift her up, stand up straighter, and even pull her head back, but she knows it's there and she knows she likes to chew. The girl insists.

As I'm loading my groceries into the van, K still in the Bjorn, a woman walks up to me and begins gushing. I smile, tell her a little about K's current stats, and let the fawning ensue.

"She's so cute!"
"Thank you."
"What a precious little face!"
"I know, aren't they so cute at this age?"
"And she's chewing on the top of that thing!"
"Yeah, she does that a lot."

Then, with a pause and an I-gonna-let-you-in-on-a-little-secret smile,

"You know that's not good for her, right? Chewing on that plastic?"

No kidding? They're not supposed to chew on it? But I've been using it as an apparatus for delivering medicines and liquor, along with the general supplementation of her diet. What a total and complete shock. I'm so lucky to have run into someone who could clear up that gross misconception. How could such a lousy mother have managed to have any child make it past infancy!

I didn't say this, of course. I muttered a contrite, "I know," and slunk away with my tail between my legs. Later, though, the guilt broke away and I reminded myself that every mom has her limits, that no mom can (or should) please everyone. It's tough enough just to make it through the day, which I do, happily.

And besides, it's not plastic. It's fabric. Oh wait, I thought I was letting it go...

Fragmentation at its best

So it's obviously been a while since my last post. See, B is out of town on business, due back today, and despite copious amounts of help from my family and friends, I can't seem to get my act together. I had all these places I intended to go, things I intended to do, and of course the endless writing I was going to get done. And yet it seems that I actually wrote less than I normally do. What gives?

I know sleep deprivation plays a part, as does the strangeness in routine that travel inevitably brings, but I can't help feeling that I'm a bit of a fragmented person now. It's rare, at least in my memory, that I can start something and finish it uninterrupted. There's always a meal, a hand, a train track in need of repair or a bunny in need of a hug. I don't mind it; I really do love being a mom. Still, it's days like these when I try to think of something cohesive to make out of what had been such a hectic week, and I don't know how to write something cohesive when I don't feel cohesive myself.

I had all these ideas for posts--judgement, driving, caramel apples, etc.--and perhaps someday I'll get to them. Right now, there's a baby crying and an phone being artfully hidden. Interruption strikes again...

We've got a winner here (I just don't know who it is)

This afternoon, my cell phone rang. I almost let it go, as I was amid a frenzied nap-time cleaning binge, but my curiosity got the best of me. Good thing, too, because I would have otherwise missed out on the following treat from the (877) number on my screen:

ME: Hello?
THEM: (Static sounds)
ME: Hello?
THEM: (Muffled "Sorry" as if to someone else)
ME: HELLO?
THEM: Yeah, um, is Nancy there?
ME: I'm afraid you have the wrong number.
THEM: It took you that long to figure that out? J*** C***, stop wasting my time.

At this point I hung up. My mouth closed a few minutes later. A few minutes after that I had to resist the palpable urge to call the person back and curse them out. I figure that whatever good karma I get for being so genteel with telemarketers would be undone by the language I'd use on this nut job. But seriously, I don't even know where to start.

A few hours later, I got another phone call from the same number. This time it was a woman, who promptly asked for Nancy (again). "I'm afraid you have the wrong number," I answered politely as if there was nothing usual about this whole experience. Does that make me supremely nice, or a supreme doormat?

Tools of the Trade

Earplugs, stove, scale, spatula, shovel, crowbar, mallet, hatchet, bjorn, sling, diaper bag, swing, socket set, stepladder, saw, hacksaw, metal file, broom, dustpan, screwdriver, allen wrench, stroller, microwave, toaster oven, dishwasher, washing machine, dryer

That was my day, in order. Which leads me to the eleventh thing I love about my job: dull moments are hard to come by.

Making Amends

How's this for neurotic? Last night when I was up nursing K (second feeding of three, so cut me a little slack on my grammar/spelling/coherency--is that even a word?), I started going back over my "letting go" posts in my head. Was it really letting me go? Because that sounds like I'm inviting the postpartum spare tire around my midsection to take up permanent residence. But letting it go? Didn't I decide that was a too-vague cop-out? Or perhaps it's letting it go in spite of me. Then it dawns on me. I'm having a debate about the semantics of whatever should go between the words letting and go. I'm obviously missing the point.

Which brings me to notice that I seem to have been on a negative bent the past few days. Lest I leave you thinking that I'm a cup-half-empty kind of girl, and before I drive the few people that actually read this blog off to greener pastures, here's a list of ten things I love about my life:

• I can kiss a baby's head any time I want to (and I do, often)
• Singing in the car, off-key and loudly, is considered good entertainment
• I never have to wear real shoes (hence my flip-flop tan)
• Good culinary technique involves combining Goldfish and Bunny-O's
• It's okay if I avoid things like laundry and dishes because I was too busy "playing"
• I never have to feel bad for spilling things in the (already dirty) car
• People are impressed when my clothes are clean and well-matched because they generally expect neither
• Sitting down at the end of the day feels so good
• Tickling is highly encouraged
• When two little people need anything at all, they think I'm the answer. How misled, but cool anyway.

Honesty is everything

You know what drives me crazy about myself? I can't remember a book about five minutes after I finish reading it. I can't even remember the author's name. I can't remember the main characters. I have a vague idea of what happened, such as, "Someone was trying to get married" or "There was a murder of some sort," but beyond that, I'm hosed. The saddest part of this is that I was a lit major in college. That's right, boys and girls, I actually majored in something of which I have no meaningful recollection.

For example, I took a whole class on Jane Austen. We read all six of her major works, of which I can only remember five right now, and that's just counting titles. Don't even ask me about the plots, although there I get off pretty easy because they're all similar. I did very well in the class, as I did in all my classes, because I'm good at writing, analysis, and discussion. Retention, however, is a whole other story.

I've always felt a little embarrassed about my degree, as it qualified me to do very little post-graduation other than administrative work, but it's even more embarrassing to admit that I don't actually remember anything I learned during those four years, except for gross generalizations like "I don't like Hemingway" (but I don't recall which books I read that put me in that opinion) and "I have a strong admiration for female writers of the Renaissance" (could I recommend any? Hardly. That would require their names.). Even now, gamely participating in book club, I wonder what the purpose is to reading if I don't retain anything. Does it really cultivate my character, intellect, and ideas, or is it just a glorified way of killing time? Wouldn't it be better just to admit defeat and settle for another night of mindless television instead? It's cheaper, and much less time consuming.

For the record, this is only one of many things I hate about myself. I also interrupt people, drive too aggressively, and have terrible posture, just to name a few. Don't you feel better about yourself now?

Part II

Today has been a lousy day. Okay, not like usual Tuesday lousy (see previous post), but tantrum-y and stressful and lonely. It made me think back to yesterday, really trying to understand how I could go from such a profound high to such a melancholy low. After all, it was just a pair of spitty shorts, just a terrible-two tantrum, just an ill-timed nap, etc., etc. It's not like even the sum too much to handle, or that I wasn't letting things go. So what gives?

Well, in thinking (I'm tucked under K again, able to do little else), I may have oversimplified my solution yesterday. It was just letting it go; it was letting me go.

When I found myself staring longingly at the sheer glass windows of a passing business park, thinking of the cool interior with its clicking keystrokes and mingled scent of paper, toner, and people, I wondered how I could want that, if I actually did want that, instead of being at home with the kids. After all, I'd been at such peace yesterday. What could that meaningless corporate behemoth possibly offer that home didn't?

The answer: me. A place where I could work my mind, focus on my labors, eat/talk/work on my schedule. What had I really let go of yesterday but myself, my own desires and goals, for the sake of the kids.

My husband often chides me about not putting myself first, and I'll grant that a happy mom generally makes a happy family, but the truth is that putting myself first isn't part of my job description. I mean, I already know how to use a glue stick, what sound each letter makes, why we need to put on sunscreen. The real crux of my job is teaching these things to someone who doesn't know, spending time showing him and her all the intricacies of a world in which I'm already too well-adjusted. The inherent plus to this situation is that I can experience this world all over again, refreshed through the eyes of my children. The downside, as I discovered today, as I experienced yesterday, is that to do so I have to let myself go.

I'm not saying moms should be martyrs, not saying that moms shouldn't take time for themselves, not saying that I give myself up to be a mom. I have to be myself, of course, whole and well-attended. But not at work. It would be the equivalent to going into the office and saying, "Hmm, I know I have a project due, but I'd really like to learn how to garden instead." If someone had said that back in my work days, I would have replied, "Great. Gardening is a lovely hobby. Try it off the clock, please." There may be no time card, no salary, and no pesky boss with such a tart reminder, but that doesn't make it any less of a job, or any less true.

So here's to salvaging the afternoon, setting aside me until the evening, when I also vow to take make the most of my little time off. I see chocolate in my future, lots and lots of chocolate...

Let it go, let it go, let it go

Today, much to my surprise, has been a great day. I know, why so surprised? Because Tuesdays of late have been royally lousy, starting with an gym class where we don't do gym (let me clarify: the rest of the class does gym while we sit on the side because M gets the choice between participating and sitting quietly until class is over, the latter of which has become his standby) and a speech therapy appointment where we don't do speech (again, he can talk, if only he wanted to). In between I rush madly to run errands while K cries in her car seat and M whines along with her. Need I go on?

But today I did something that I--anal, type A, multitasker galore that I am--rarely do. I let it go. I let it go. The very repetition of that phrase brings a sense of peace to my weary soul. When M didn't want to do what the teacher asked in gym, we found something else fun to do instead. When I was hot, I stopped for a big drink even though it meant a little extra time and driving. When I could have been rushing around running errands, we went to the duck pond and library instead. At lunch, when M got up after a half chicken nugget, I just wrapped up the plate and put it in the fridge for later. Even now, the house is a mess as I was half-through with six projects (there's that pesky multitasking for you) when K woke up unexpectedly, and I settled down with her as it was the only way I could get her to continue her much-needed nap. When all those nagging little thoughts about rules, efficiency, and do-it-all duties reared their ugly heads today, I, for whatever reason, swept them aside. You know what? Everyone seemed more at peace than we have in a while. In the end, it just didn't feel like the sweep-it-under-the-rug failure that I'd always envisioned. It felt like cleaning out a very dusty room, where I now have shiny floors and crystal windows and an open space in which to sit, rest, and breathe.

I like this room. I know I won't stay here forever, but I hope I will remember this feeling, maybe even encourage someone else out there to find a equivalent room of one's own, and to visit it often enough that even time there's a little less dust, a little less to sweep away. Who couldn't do with a little less cleaning anyway?

Feed me, please

So I have a question. Why is it that whenever I'm out with K and she starts crying, everyone assumes that she needs to eat. Usually they use a very self-assured statement, such as, "Oh, she's hungry," as if they are so much more attuned to my child than I. The worst came when I heard it three times in line at the grocery store, twice from the checker, who informed me that she had children of her own and knew these things, and once from the bag boy, who couldn't have been older than eighteen. Would it have helped to tell them that I fed K right before leaving the house just to avoid the very situation they were sure was at hand? Or would this just have clinched my inadequacy in their mind: "Well, if she just fed the poor dear, why is she starving already?"

On a side note, I realize now that no one ever suggests, when I am short with said checker or tailgating in traffic, that someone should feed me. In actuality, this scenario is all too common and was probably the source of K's woes in the first place. Sigh...