Where A Kid Can Be A Kid

I don't much like reality tv. Really I don't need to spend time watching people make fools of themselves for their fifteen minutes. I get enough of that in my own reality. Unfortunately, most of the foolishness is my own. I am about as technologically behind as a human can be without actually living in a hut with no electricity. Just two weeks ago, I got my very first cell phone. I realize that even first graders now have cell phones, but I never had one. It wasn't something I was likely to ever get for myself, but my dad got a new phone, so he passed his old phone along to me. He helped me set up an account and I actually got a phone number and everything. A few days later, I grabbed the phone and Jude and planned to call my mom so she would have the number. Jude and I started dusting off DVDs and shelves in the basement and I forgot about calling mom. Then, I threw Jude's laundry into the dryer and noticed an odd thumping noise. Yep. I had washed my new cell phone. Apparently that isn't good for electronics. So, my new/old cell phone was destined for the trash heap.

Yes, I am a dork. Last Friday, I spent my lunch time in my car, as I usually do, with the windows down and sun roof open, reading a book and enjoying the sunshine. Mid-afternoon, a couple hours after lunch, we had a much-needed, very strong rainstorm. Heavy, heavy rains. I am sure you can see where I am going with this. Yes, at the end of the day, I went out to my car and found it flooded. Literally. When I opened the door, water came out. I wish I was exaggerating. The seats and floors were soaked and I got to drive home that way. It was a refreshing ride.

On Saturday, my inner dork truly had a chance to shine. We had Jude's birthday party at our local Chuck E. Cheese. Pizza plus games plus a giant rodent equals one good time for all. I had been afraid that the adults would be bored, but that didn't seem to be the case at all. Jude's grandparents chased him around, took pictures and generally hogged some of the games. Needless to say, Jude loved it and had a great time. And I was very happy that he was able to have such a fun time, and I was struck again by how much Jude is loved -- and not just by Jeff and me.

I fully expected Jude to be suffering a Chuck E. Cheese hangover on Sunday, but that was not the case. I was greeted early Sunday morning by "I want to play Play Doh. Let's go." He rolled off of his bed and out of his door as soon as I came into his room. But, he stopped in the hallway and said "Please." The whole weekend made me smile and made me realize that even though I get a lot of things wrong, there are still a few things that I can manage to do right.

Beds, Beds, Beds

(Warning: the following blog does not contain any references to sex)

Last Sunday, we spent the afternoon in a furniture store, testing new beds. Ah, but there are some incredible beds, sleigh beds and beds with elaborate headboards and footboards. Beautiful arrangements of sheets and pillows that I can never quite arrange at home were all to be tested for their comfort levels. But, it was much smaller bed that we were after and we ended up testing a variety of toddler beds. Yes, Jude is approaching 3 years old and has still been sleeping in a crib. I know several parents of two-year-olds (and not-quite two-year-olds) who have already purchased toddler beds for their children, but, like potty training, I really think the level of readiness is different for each child. Jude tried only once to get out of his crib and he landed on the rug in his room, unhurt but afraid. Since then, he hasn’t even tried. His preferred method of getting our attention in the mornings is to bang the crib against the wall so that the resulting thud-thud-thud resonates through the entire house. As I have mentioned, he is also small for his age (cute, sure, but small), so there was never an issue of his outgrowing his bed physically. Still, he is almost three. It is time. So, we headed off to the store, allowing him to try out each of the beds to see what he would like while we tried to make our own determinations. We were down to two choices: a white toddler bed that sat a bit too far off the ground for my comfort and a set of bunk beds, black with a metal frame. In the end, we went with the bunk beds, planning ahead. Jude could easily get in and out of the bed and enjoyed playing on the bed, which we could only hope meant that he would sleep well on the bed also. We ordered the bed and it arrived Friday morning. While I was very sad to miss work Friday morning and not get to enjoy my boss’s morning criticisms, I was happy to supervise the arrival of the “big boy” bed. Jude was already at daycare, so I was anxious to see his face when he gets home. We (meaning Jeff, who has all of the muscles in our family) had to rearrange his bedroom in order to accommodate the new bed(s). He took to the bed immediately, playing on it and ultimately sleeping better than I could have dared to hope. The last two mornings, I have been awakened not by a thud, but by a small child calling out “I am waking up. I am waking up.” That makes me wake up with a smile on my face.
Our own room is completely taken over by our queen-size bed. A king-size bed simply wouldn’t fit into the tiny room. Between the bed and two dressers, nothing else will fit into the bedroom. Fortunately, the bed has drawers beneath it so there isn’t need for a nightstand. Otherwise we might never get to open and close the bedroom door. As I mentioned, the rooms are small. The bed always seemed quite spacious, despite the number of pillows and blankets I like to have and the addition of the cat, who sleeps on my feet every night. Recently, there was a new introduction to the bed: a body pillow. I had read about the body pillow while pregnant with Jude but never acquired one. But I am so glad that I finally gave it. Sleeping while quite pregnant can be uncomfortable, but the pillow provides comfort. I worried about placing it in the bed, a barrier in the middle of the bed, dividing husband and wife, but I needn’t have worried; there is more than enough room for all of us. Sleeping would be almost perfect if it weren’t for the 3:00 a.m. wake-up call I get from Sully each night, kicking and moving around. I like to think he is just trying to prepare me for the 3:00 a.m. feedings that will be coming soon enough.

Let's Write About Writing About Sex

(Caution: the following blog contains the word “sex” and has some sexual references. Readers’ discretion is advised. If you are easily offended, then you really must ask yourself what you’re doing reading this blog at all.)

To begin at the beginning . . . No, it is too much. Let me sum up.

Lately, I have been thinking about my job and thinking about money. The former analysis comes pretty much every time my boss makes me cry (most recently yesterday). Then I think about money and remember why I don’t just quit my job. I also realize that no one is going to hire a woman who is 6 months pregnant. We have one child to support and another child on the way. I have a parental need to provide. Jeff works for a grand organization, a huge ice cream company that was purchased by an even larger ice cream company that has decided to save money by cutting down his hours. A brilliant corporate strategy, especially considering that Jeff’s boss, who makes more money, must then take up the slack. Of course when said boss is on vacation, Jeff is expected to work insanely long days, as he is doing this week, but, then, will go back to his 32 hour work week. Ridiculous. Since we are relying on his insurance to get us through the birthin’ of this baby, he is stuck where he is for now.

I have wanted to be a writer since I was 8 years old. I have never really seriously considered any other career possibilities, which could be why I am working away as an assistant to a very prickly man. I always imagined that I would go to college and have wonderful adventures and write every day and get published. I pictured On the Road-type writings, without the need for Dramamine. Well, suffice to say, life happened, long stretches where no writing occurred and other stretches where I would only write poetry. I have always been a voracious reader and love well-written books where I can just fall into the language, the sound of words, and the images. It has always been a matter of frustration to me that I read enough to think that I am a good writer (at the very least, an adequate writer), but aspire to be a great one. I don’t know if one can make that leap from “good” to “great.”

Still, I have never really let go of the writing dream, the fantasy of one day seeing myself as a “real” writer. Lately, I have been thinking, too, about erotica, trying to determine whether this writing qualifies as “real” writing. I think that if it could provide a paycheck, then, yes it qualifies. Well-written sexual tomes exist amongst the piles of putrid, barely-written piles of garbage that are also floating around. (Yes, on this subject alone I was willing to dig in and do much-needed research. I am grateful to Jeff for the grand sacrifices he made in allowing me to complete this research.) General I have one of two thoughts when I am doing research: If the material is well written, I think ‘I would like to try that.’ If the material is not, I think ‘I could write something better than this.’

My research has also shown that there is a market for such writing. There are erotica publishers who pay for erotic writing. So, I have been wrestling with the idea of trying my hand at writing about sex. Yes, I have written short stories and several poems about sex, but that isn’t the same as churning out an entire novel complete with characters and a plot. I have been working on a novel that contains some sex, but overall, I am attempting to write a funny book, not necessarily a sexy one (though the ending was always intended to be sexy). But I have never written anything where sex was the primary focus. I have decided that it is time to try. I have been kicking around some ideas and have even thought about trying to “sex up” my current novel with sexy sex instead of funny and fun sex. I’ll keep you updated on my progress. I think I need to do a bit more research before committing to a project, so I must be going. Professionalism comes at a price, but I am willing to do what I must.

Summery Thoughts

Nothing is more fragile than graham. This never shows up on Mohr’s scale, but it is true. Anyone who has attempted to make summer smores knows that graham crackers are delicate, falling into graham cracker dust at the slightest hint of pressure. Yet, for me, they are a summer tradition, like swimming or barbecues, so I persist, holding on to the graham even as it perilously crumbles, falling to my feet. And, though I savor the sweetness, every bite is tinged with a bit of sadness in knowing that too soon, summer will be over.
Behind every happy moment is that feeling of sadness. At the end of this month, my baby will be 3 years old. A happy occasion, yet I can’t help but feel sad, knowing that he is growing up, that every day is another step toward independence. Now he is firmly entrenched in potty training and is taking to it better than I could have hoped for. After a week of showing little to no interest, I was getting a bit discouraged, but didn’t want to push him. He turned to me one day and said “Mama, I have to go potty.” Then, we went into the bathroom and he did. As he was washing his hands, he turned to me and beamed that smile that still melts me into a puddle on the floor (though I try not to let him know it, lest he use it against me too much) and said “I use the potty like a big boy. Now I get Bob the Builder stickers.” True enough. Bob the Builder stickers are indeed incentive for using the potty and he uses each sticker earned to decorate his little Winnie-the-Pooh potty. And I am so proud of him for handling yet another big step toward independence, but it still brings tears to my eyes sometimes when he refers to himself as a “big boy” because time is getting away from me somehow, accelerating so that the last three years seem like a blur. Of course, he is already making a list of things he wants to do when he is older. He will start a sentence with “when I get bigger” and follow it up with something he is going to do when he is able. So far, the list consists of playing a soccer game, playing tennis and buying a ladder so that he can climb up on top of people’s house, especially Mickey Donald’s “house” (every time he passes the golden arches, he reminds me that he wants to climb Mickey Donald’s house).
My brother was appalled to realize that Jude was born when Jeff and I were 30, as to him this is an ancient age to be having a child. (Thirty is, of course, the same age that he is now. Idiot.) His theory is that it is ideal to have a baby early (18 or 19) so that you can raise the child then get on with your life. This theory comes across as being really naïve and as being stated by someone who has no intention of ever having children. He has made that intention clear. Maybe the day will come when I will be relieved that my child has reached adulthood, but right now, relief is not the emotion that comes to mind. I’m looking forward to the years ahead and that is not because I have painted them rose-colored. Already, I get mad and upset sometimes at my two-year-old’s antics and have been known to ask him “What were you thinking?” when he throws spaghetti onto the floor and colors Daddy’s snow blower with sidewalk chalk, so I know that there are days when I will be pulling my hair out, wondering what his twelve-year-old mind was thinking and when he and his brother get into trouble together, I know that this frustration will double. Those moments are stressful and frustrating, but they are just a part of parenting. I can’t possibly find the words to describe how I feel when Jude takes the blankets off his bed and asks to be covered with them as he is standing up. He then resembles one of the Pac-Man ghosts as he walks around the house saying “Mama, I’m a monster bad guy.” There is something about his tiny voice, his sweet innocence and the giggle that emerges from beneath the blankets that does something to my heart that I hadn’t ever imagined possible. Although I have always been a softie center wrapped in a cynical shell, the softie in me emerges more and more often and I find myself tearing up just watching him, still amazed by him. Maybe that isn’t normal, isn’t natural, but I prefer that to the alternative, letting another set of moments rush by without appreciating them.

A Passion For Fashion?

I admire women who have a “look”, the fully put-together ensembles with accessories, clothes that fit together. I admire these women and have been known to say “I like that” about certain outfits, but I am not one of these women. I dress fairly conservatively for work, not too differently than for other occasions, but I always attempt to present well, to not look like I dressed while half-asleep (though usually that is true). I have new dresses, comfortable but not tent-like, perfect for fitting my pregnant form and last Friday decided to wear a black dress and sandals (foot wear is a separate issue – I still hate shoes and will only wear comfortable shoes). The dress was cute, black with flowers and I dressed carefully, doing my usual cocoa-butter morning routine as I dressed Jude and fed him breakfast.
When I got to work, I turned on my computer and happened to look down at said new dress. Already I was missing a button – the third from the top – and I noticed tiny white streaks that, upon closer inspection, I discovered to be deodorant. Really, I am quite hopeless.
I have determined that I don’t need someone to dress me. I feel comfortable in my own clothes and wouldn’t want to drastically change my lack-of-look, but I do need someone to follow me around and keep me from spilling condiments on the front of new, white shirts.
I don’t read fashion magazines as a general rule, though I did recently peruse a copy of Harper’s Bazaar that was mailed to one of the students at my school. Amidst the high fashion (which I admit I will never understand) was an interesting article about women throughout history who bucked convention and just wore whatever the heck they wanted, from interesting hats to oversized accessories. I don’t really have a hat collection, though there are interesting hats that I see on occasion that I think perhaps I could pull off, should I have any hat-wearing needs. I have decided, though, that if I ever find a shoe-shaped hat like the one in the movie Brazil, I will have to buy it and wear it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, that looks like a spot of toothpaste on my favorite green shirt. I need to go change.

Sky Rockets in Flight

So, I have discovered that my two-year-old does not like fireworks. Lessons like these are always learned the hard way, aren't they? Yesterday we had a family day at my dad's house and my brother-in-law, Joshua, was lighting off fireworks in the backyard. Jude cried, saying "I don't like that. It's too loud." Then, he begged us to take him home. Instead we took him into the house and soothed him with some "Forensic Files" (okay, my dad was watching that and Jude wanted to sit on my lap and watch with Papa) and sweet cherries. Our 4th of July plans have had to be altered, but that's just the way with kids -- things change. We adapt.

You're Not The Boss Of Me

Sometimes the days at work stretch out before me endlessly and I cannot wait for a vacation (sometime next month or the beginning of August). Most of this restlessness is due to the ebb and flow of my job. I work at a religious institution/high school and during busy times (registration, graduation, parents’ weekend), there is so much activity that there is barely time to breathe (though I do work respiration into my schedule, as it seems important), let alone get bored. Then, there are other times, weeks at a time where there are regular activities (weekly announcements, weekly letters, phone calls to make and return) that only seem to occupy a few hours of my whole day. Then, I have too much time to reflect on things I could be doing at home, messes that need to be cleaned, child who needs to be taken care of.
Adding to the confusion of my days is the inescapable fact that my boss is . . . difficult. There really isn’t any other way to describe it. Not a funny kind of difficult like Michael Scott or David Brent, but annoyingly difficult. I have had a few different jobs and very different bosses, so maybe I don’t really know when a boss is being bossy and when he/she is just being difficult. I have found him difficult since the beginning of my tenure here, but after getting pregnant, have found him to be impossible at times. For example, I told him as soon as I knew that I was pregnant, approximately when I would need maternity leave, etc. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then, suddenly he had to go out of town for a conference a couple weeks ago. He called from an airport in Detroit and wanted me to let him know exactly when I would be taking leave. Of course I don’t know – I can only make a guess, but he decided that he wanted to go over the entire fall/winter schedule with me over the phone, even though we see each other every work day and had plenty of opportunity to actually do that face to face. But, whatever. Whenever he is out of town, he always tells me to call his wife to let her know that he has made it safely. Now, he has a cell phone with him, but he always chooses to have me call his wife. Likewise, she will call and ask to leave a message for her husband to call her, even if he is sitting in his office. She says she doesn't want to bother him.
Then, last week I was making copies in our tiny conference area between my office and his. I managed to drop my copies behind the copier as he was talking to me. So, I had to move the copier, but still couldn’t reach the copies without also moving his refrigerator. In order to move the refrigerator, I had to move the conference table – all while my boss was still standing there talking to me. Of course once I got behind the copier to retrieve the papers, I got stuck back there, the copier wedged against the refrigerator. As I attempted to push my very obviously pregnant self out, he walked closer to me, handed me a pile of papers and said “These need to go in my tax file.” Then, even though he had watched me through this whole ordeal, he proceeded to ask “Did you drop something back there?” “No,” I replied. “Just felt like moving really heavy furniture by myself.” The phone then started ringing and he looked at me. I just looked back and he actually answered the call himself. It took some time for me to work my way out and replace all the furniture.
Granted, I am not a model employee. Many days I am not entirely sure what I am doing. I am sarcastic and occasionally insubordinate. I know this and am not proud of it. I am not a consummate professional, but I do come into work every day, get work done and work well with my coworkers. What drives me crazy more than anything is having two or three hours of downtime in the afternoon, then 15 minutes before the end of the day, my boss will appear at my desk with a project that has to be done right away. Twice I told him verbally that I had a doctor’s appointment this past Tuesday and I also did a memo so he would have something in writing. Sure enough, at 2:15, fifteen minutes before I need to leave for my appointment, he came to my desk. “This needs to be done right away,” he said. “You do know that I am leaving at 2:30,” I reminded him. So, we began working on the project (trying to figure out grade point averages for several students’ past four years – in short, not a fifteen minute project.) At 2:30, I told him again I needed to leave. He replied “We’re almost done.” That was it. I cried. Frustration + hormones = crying fit in front of my boss. It was not the first time that I cried in front of him either. Still, it was very embarrassing. A coworker who works in the building behind mine recommends just affecting an I-don’t-care attitude and not taking him too seriously. Of course, she was offered the job to work directly under my boss when the former employee quit, but she declined that job, even though it was more money. That should have told me something.
Just a frustrating situation and I really need to vent about it. The next two weeks will be awful and stressful because of impending graduation (yes, graduation is really this late into summer), but after that, things will calm down. At least I hope so.