Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Nights of 1000 Soups

When the snow starts flying, whether you live in the wilds of Northern Ontario or halfway between the beach and the mountains in sunny North Carolina, it’s time to bunker down. For the Southerners this means freaking out and racing to the store with a false sense of safety in their SUVs, buying stores out of water and milk and bread and sausage biscuits. For those of us raised miles from the closest Piggly Wiggly or equivalent, taught to keep a fully-stocked pantry of dry goods and at least 7 or 8 different freezers chock-a-block full of assorted meats and vegetables, it means time to make soup. Because nothing keeps the howling winds at bay like, well, some nice bay. Leaf, that is.

First understand that it’s just me and Jellybean living in the house. There are no hungry woodsmen or field hands or hockey teams. Plus, Jelly is a toddler. This means she doesn’t like any vegetable, even the simple unassuming potato. If she were ever to deign to eat a vegetable, such as a perfectly cooked tiny carrot, if it happened to have ANY part of it even TOUCHING another vegetable, like the lonely tasty potato, the carrot would be immediately ostracized for the association. Poor, bad influence potato. This means that Jenny will eat no soup. None at all. Not Mulligatawny, with crunchy apple bits and a hint of curry. Not White Bean, slow-simmered with a smoky ham bone. Not Minestrone, with fun-shaped pastas, nor Avgolemeno, simple and salty and just a bit tart. I love to make soup in winter. I love a cheesy Cream of Potato, started with a basic white sauce and sometimes jazzed up with a bit of roasted garlic. I like Roasted Squash, swirled with a hint of exotic truffle oil and served with toasty brioches.

I give you - The World's Best Veg Beef. Why the best? Because if you poured a spoonful in a bowl and added a can of water it would taste exactly like Campbell's, and it would taste like childhood, and that rocks. Also, check out how thick it is with all that nice barley. Some onions and garlic were sauteed in a touch of butter and olive oil, and made nice with celery and carrots. There's plenty of happy potatoes, and even a turnip just to mix things up. I slow-roasted a chuck roast then diced it in little chunks - they melt in your mouth. Some frozen mixed veggies, because that's just what you're suppose to do when you make soup. And that broth! It's practically gravy. The only thing missing that other people might like is some nice meaty mushrooms. Because mushrooms are the devil.
Then there was was a decent enough Italian Meatball. Too heavy and red for my taste though. I thought Jellybean might like it. I thought wrong. Let's go back and eat some more of that other one.

The closest Jelly will come to touching soup is chili. And that’s only if it’s spooned onto rice and wrapped in a fried corn tortilla, in which case it’s not really part of the soup family any more but a freaking taco, which she adores almost as much as McDonald’s French Fries. Alas, poor Jenny was forced to endure not one but TWO meals of soup, slow-simmered while we played in the snow and watched movies and explored Christmas gifts. I think she’ll pull through.

Luckily she's got a Canadian Nana who sent her an inflatable sled. And her resourceful mama fashioned a handle (because of course I don't have rope or clothesline or anything stronger than cooking twine laying around the house) out of - wait for it - this crazy stuff that is meant for wrapping plants on posts. It was bendy, and sturdy, and didn't hurt my hand, and stayed on the sled handles. And could haul 40+ lbs of Beans.

Her reward for not screaming and sobbing too much during the Soup Trials was to make Maple Syrup Candy. This is something Laura Ingalls Wilder taught me how to make, and made sound crazy delicious. I guess for kids who never get candy or sugar this would be a pretty big deal. Jenny didn't really think so, but still enjoyed the idea of eating snow. I used up all of the little souvenir bottle of real syrup I brought back from my last Canada trip - Aunt Jemima just wouldn't give you the same results.

Melt a little butter with some real syrup.
Make sure you have a helper and taste-tester, preferably one who is going to sneeze without warning in everything you are cooking.
Get things rocking with a nice rolling boil.
Keep it rocking for about 5 minutes. Test occasionally by spooning over the snow.

See, this isn't quite done

But this - this is the money. The candy cools instantly in the snow and hardens to make either a toffee-like chewy candy (my favorite stage), or a harder suck-on-it candy.

Make sure you eat your fill before the snow melts, because then all you'll have is a bowl of goo.

Then, when you're done screaming at your kid for refusing to eat dinner, get the leftover snow and pick out some of the veggies from the untouched soup and build yourself a nice little snowman. Check out his saucy biscuit hat - so debonair.
Well, you have to play with your food SOMETIMES.
Yes, this is what being snow-bound does to me. It's not a pretty thing.

I got a night out for New Year's, which was nice, but then Jelly refused to allow me to go anywhere today so used the time wisely, for once. I got every last speck of Christmas, including the glow-in-the-dark window snowflake stick-ons, packed away. Jealous much? Yes, it is a little early, but hey, Christmas is over. Let's move on. Plus, I leave for Canada in a week and don't want it to be March and there I am all white trash with a tree still in my single wide.

Happy 2011 Jellybean Mama fans and stalkers! Love you, mean it. Also - I turn 40 this year. Gulp.

Moving Right Along

When Jellybean was a baby and I tried to sing her lullabies, she wept. I figured it was because she didn’t want to go to sleep, but as she got older I realized no, she just really, really did NOT like lullabies. She thinks they are too sad, and she’s got a pretty fair point. They’re slow, and quiet, and sometimes a baby falls out of a tree. As a result, I sound like a mental patient when I sing her to sleep. She frequently requests ‘Down By The Bay’, or something with a train in it, like ‘She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain’. ‘On Top of Spaghetti’ is a big hit. I was extremely grateful for Christmas because it meant I could sneak in carols like ‘O Little Town’, ‘Silent Night’, and ‘Away in a Manger’.

Last night I figured Christmas was over and it was time to go back to the Top 100 FUN! Songs for Toddlers That Make Me Insane, and I made one more go of that old classic, ‘Nighty Night’. There was silence for a moment after I finished, then heart-breaking sobs. “Jenny!” I was frantic with apologies, “I’m sorry! Mama did not mean to make you cry!”

“Mama,” Jelly wailed reproachfully as tears streamed down her face, “Now I gots sad cheeks!”

Since I’d committed the unpardonable sin of attempting to sing something other than a very white girl rendition of “Zippity Doo Da”, Jelly lay in bed for a whole 10 seconds before appearing at the top of the stairs. “MAMA!”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Mama, I sleep in your bed?” “Yeah, I guess so” (there goes my freakin’ back again). I trudged up the steps dutifully and helped her into my mile-high pillow-top that may very well be part of the cause of the back pain. Is 10 years about when you should replace a mattress? Jelly scampered up happily.

“Oh, thank you mama! You such a nice lady!”

Well, you're most welcome, ma’am, glad I could help after making you bawl your eyes out.

- - - - - - - - -

If you hadn't heard, Raleigh got dumped on with snow. Not like, New York amounts of snow, but there was almost a foot of the fluffy white stuff on our piece of the cul-de-sac pie. I panicked and made 476 gallons of soup, because I'm Canadian and that's what I do. Jelly was thrilled to be able to finally make a real snow angel, but then was disgusted by the fact that she had snow on her mitts that then got on her face.

Jelly's favorite Christmas gifts were definitely the 'Wonder Pets' fly boat, her Puppy Playdough set ('from Nana!'), and the MobiGo handheld video game system. Dear VTech people - I heart you so freaking much. You are the Sony for Toddlers. The Dora TwinsDay game is brilliant. Jenny has learned more letter recognition in the past 48 hours than in the past 6 months.

It's cute, she calls it her 'dideos', which sounds kind of like a breakfast cereal that aspiring young rap artists would eat. 'Hey mom, can I have some more great-tasting Diddy-O's?' 'No, son, you should have some fruit instead, you're looking a little puffy'. The best thing about the system is that she can CHANGE THE GAME CARTRIDGES HERSELF. Yes. You read that correctly. And each cartridge has a bunch of different game options. AND you can download free games online and save them to a special cartridge! So it's not like you're shelling out constantly for new games. This, combined with the fact that she received a Trunki from my sister N, means we had no choice but to immediately book a flight somewhere. Since my parents would murder me if we took off on a cruise after not going home for Christmas, we are going to Canada. Like, next week.

So what did we do this holly holiday season? Let's not talk about it. Flu and family. 'Nuff said. But girlfriend LOVED the train...

Friday, December 24, 2010

One More Sleep Til Christmas

We are moving forward with Christmas plans, despite the weather forecast calling for a white Christmas for the first time since 1947 or thereabouts. Really, how awesome will that be to be on a train with the snow falling? It will be less awesome if we get trapped at the train station and I have to give sexual favors to hobos for Christmas dinner for Jelly, and still less awesome if we are stranded in Charlotte and Cousin J and I end up cage fighting for the bed. However, I am adventurous if not a little bit thickheaded, and have decided on this plan for the holiday so therefore, it MUST BE SO. And I do think it will snow, just because I have willed it to, and because it will make Jelly so happy. But I need to send thoughts of 4-5pm, because I would prefer to be safe and snug and warm either at home or at Ta's, where there are several crockpot meals and no urine-soaked homeless people.

I hope you have all enjoyed your special Jellybean Mama gift of several days in a row of posting. As my Grandma said about my enormous check this year, 'don't expect it to happen again'. We Jellybean family members are generous but like for you to know where you stand.

I hope you have an enjoyable holiday, whatever you celebrate. The days are going to start getting longer again, and those of us who have a touch of seasonal depression should start to see the light, literally and mentally. Hopefully this means at some point I'll feel motivated to both tear down decorations AND put them away, as well as steam mop whatever sticky stuff is on my kitchen floor that keeps snagging my socks. I hope Santa or Black Peter bring you and yours what is deserved, be that iPads or the Puppy Playdough set or time outs on the steps, and that family doesn't make you too crazy, but just crazy enough so that you are reminded where you came from and that it all makes the world go 'round.

Happy Holidays from Jellybean and Mama!

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Hurry, Christmas, Hurry Fast

Seriously, is it Christmas YET?!!! I am dying here. Not in a super sad, the-holidays-will-forever-be-ruined way, but in an OMG I AM SO IMPATIENT!!! way. I am ready to have a few days off work, I am ready to not have to worry about meetings with my boss, I am ready for some extra peanut butter and JELLY time, I am ready to eat too much and laugh too much and watch junk TV and delight in watching people open presents.

I've been reading people's status updates and blog posts about their favorite Christmas memories and favorite gifts. It's made me want to play with a Lite Brite really, really bad. My mum made the best lite brite peg holder for me one year - she covered all kinds of little boxes in shelf paper, and they all fit securely in a little hinged case. For someone just a teensy bit compulsive it was fantastic. And very smart of her. I can't imagine letting loose anything like that in my house any time soon. Although Jellybean is really good about not putting toys or anything stupid in her mouth, those little peg thingies would be EVERYWHERE, and I don't particularly want to roll over in bed onto a fistful of them.

I don't know what my favorite memory or favorite gift would be. I know I was really stoked when I got my tape recorder; my sister N and I would read stories out loud ('Little Orphan Annie') and sing songs, and I'd tape stuff off the radio ('Tainted Love'). My favorite memories are of Christmas mornings in Cincinnati at my grandmother's farmhouse, waking up when it was still dark because I'd rolled over in bed and the bell on my stocking had jingled, and I would lay in delicious torture trying to go back to sleep or wait til a more decent hour to bound out of bed and join my cousins at the tree.

It's crazy to think that I'm helping Jenny build her memories.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Unto Me a Child

I was working as an Application Consultant at a small software company when I first met Loud. He was brought in by our Engineering VP, who also happens to be buddies with Loud and was an awesome mentor to me until he started hitting on me too frequently. Right from the start I adored him (Loud, not the pervy VP). He was funny, self-deprecating, smart as a whip, well-dressed, and liked to drink scotch at lunch time. It took me a while to catch on that he was gay because I’m just really kind of oblivious sometimes, and it took even longer for him to admit that he had a long-term partner sitting at home while we were out partying and passing out in Mexican restaurant bathrooms.

The first few years of our friendship were a blur of crazy roadtrips, video games, and fast food. I hit it off with his Quiet, funny, smart, well-dressed partner almost immediately, despite the fact he was not the outgoing party monster that Loud was. We went to New York, Ottawa, Myrtle Beach. We attended weddings and funerals and Rocky Horror events (not all at the same time), devoted weekends to City of Heroes and Final Fantasy Online, drew straws for who had to run to Wings to Go. It was a fun time. We had money to burn, crazy stressful jobs, and annoyed pretty much everyone who knew us.

I’m not sure what came up first, the idea of asking one of them to be a donor or us slowly starting to live together. We lived in neighboring cities bordered by massive snarls of commuter traffic, and I was spending over three hours a day just getting to and from work. It simply made sense for me to stay over at their place once in a while to save the almost 2-hr drive, as their place was just a few miles from our office. It was easier for them to stay over at my place on the weekends, where the food was better and the house was cleaner (I know, can you believe someone could be dirtier than me?!). We settled into a comfortable routine, but my Baby Plan, first considered in my 30’s then laughably tossed into a drawer when I looked at diapers and daycare, was always at the back of my mind.

I knew that while Loud would be more than willing, he was not the ideal candidate. Too much like me in all the bad ways (stubborn, crazy, Type A, covered head to toe in furry black Italian hair) and too erratic, I had my eye on Quiet. Rational, artistic, sensitive, and with totally awesome hair, Quiet seemed like the perfect baby daddy. However, he immediately said no when asked. As you know from the second sentence in this paragraph, I am nothing if not stubborn. I mounted a ‘Make Me a Baby’ campaign that eventually wore him down. I promised no strings, no involvement, no commitment, no financial or emotional responsibilities of any kind.

If I knew then what I knew now, would I have done things differently? I don’t think so. I still wouldn’t have listened to all the good advice I ignored. I wouldn’t want to give up the great times the three of us had together. I think a lot about what I’m going to tell Jellybean about her biological father, and how she’ll feel about him. I wonder if, years from now, enough time will have passed that Quiet can be in a place where he can take her calls or write her letters or send holograms to see her, or whatever the heck it is we’re doing in the future. I still have dreams where we’re friends. I still have nightmares that we’re trying to sell the The House. This is only my third Christmas since moving out, but it feels like much, much longer. There’s still a lot of hurt, and anger, and bitterness, but three years ago right around this time I learned that I was expecting a girl, and I have never once stopped being grateful for that. You know I’m not religious, and certainly don’t believe in miracles. But I am a woman who did not lay with a man nor did I give birth, yet I have a child of my flesh and blood dancing around my house at all hours STILL singing Frosty the Snowman. And that is a Christmas blessing, plain and simple.

Top News - Most Recent

Let me start off by saying that Facebook is a great invention. Brilliant, even. I love that I can check in on all my ex-boyfriends and delight in their miseries, snicker at the mean girls from high school getting divorced, and tsk at the questionable behaviors of some of my distant family members. Yes, I use Facebook mainly for evil. I have been very honest with you all that I love hearing tales of unhappiness, because nothing makes me happier faster than realizing someone else has it worse off than me. Especially now, when I have a filthy Hoarders-style house and zero motivation and bought even MORE, dinosaur-shaped, nuggets to feed the Bean instead of a wonderful balanced and nutritious made-from-scratch brilliant hot meal. When I’m working the week of Christmas. Isn’t there a law against this?! Living so far from my family has always meant I’ve taken at least this week off to go up North. Except for this year, when it would have cost me $1400, which is prohibitive and mean.

So yes, I am the voyeur on Facebook, peeking into everyone’s little day-to-day musings and pictures and declarations. There's nothing better than Failbook, a blog dedicated to sharing all the idiotic things people do and say. And there are plenty. But sometimes it's not the crazy things that make me, well, crazy. It's the everyday things. So here for your child/work/in-law-avoidance pleasure is a list of...

My Facebook Pet Peeves

1. People who constantly bitch about it. Yes, it is far from perfect. There are security holes you could fly a sleigh through. Stuff keeps changing. Other stuff is slow to load. But you know what? IT IS FREE. And if that changed tomorrow? You would have a choice – pay a subscription fee, or don’t use it. We wouldn’t all die if it went away. Once upon a time, there was no Facebook. It’s nice to have, but it’s not oxygen or Pepsi.

2. I think in status updates now. Like, when I’m driving Jelly to the caregiver’s in the morning, or watching something that I think is funny, or enjoying a good meal. Jellybean Mama quite often catches herself thinking in the third person, trying to sum up her current experience in a brief and witty format. Twitter is just a shorter (and, for most, more frequent) version of the status update. Same thing. What started with blogs now has more far-reaching powers; what I think and what I do is potentially observable by an audience, and I want that audience to be amused and entertained. Is this changing behaviors? I’d be willing to bet yes. I'm trying my best to do something really wacky right now, just for you.

3. This one time, a friend of mine didn’t repost that she supported dinosaurs, and all the dinosaurs died. True story. If only she’d changed her status update, there would be no more cancer or lost puppies or child abuse or socks lost in a dryer. I’m as guilty as the next person as riding a current wave of ‘change your _____ to _____ for ____’, but it’s mostly because I hate to be left out of anything. We can’t save the polar ice caps by getting a whole bunch of people to type it in that little box. Let’s come up with a more results-oriented solution instead of an electronic chain letter, shall we?

4. Because we don’t pay a fee and Mark has to be a bazillionaire SOMEHOW, there is some questionable targeted advertising. Which I can largely ignore, even though It thinks I live in Boston and keeps trying to tempt me with nice restaurants and nicer single people in that area. The other big revenue source is the games. Games aplenty on The Book. I am currently in the final phases of my detox program, having been hooked early on Farmville and Pet World and CafĂ© World. I weaned myself off them by focusing on Frontierville, the methadone of FB games, and by the new year should have kicked that. They’re fun time-suckers, but I don’t like the way they reward you for spamming your friends. Giving you heroin to hand out to other people is just not nice. I also hate that people are pumping so many hard-earned dollars (or more accurately, parents’ dollars) into the net.

5. I’d like to let you know I’m excited for you. I want to show you I support you and wish you the best. I love that your child/pet/parent/vehicle/garden is doing well, and I would comment to that effect. But. I don’t want to hear from your Aunt Ingrid, and I can do without your husband’s coworker’s terrible grammar, and that side conversation that’s happening is just kinda inappropriate for me to be included on. Is there an option somewhere that you don’t get notified every time someone else Comments after you, without disabling all email? I’m just going to Like what you said, to save myself some trouble. It doesn’t mean I’m lazy or didn’t even really read the whole thing. I just don’t care that 14 other people also wish you virtual hugs. With lots of smileys and exclamations points.

6. Look folks. It’s a public forum. Online. Everything, EVERYTHING you type is permanent and forever and seen by the entire world. So don’t be a jerk. Don’t be dirty. Don’t spill secrets or update while driving or in class or in bed with your sister’s husband. Be smart about your kids. You know, the ones who can’t read yet? One day they will be able to, and that posted custody battle you’re having is going to be a really nice treat for them to find. Do try to be polite. Research your facts first. Quit telling us when it’s damn Friday, or Monday, or Hump Day. And drop the @#$% passive-aggressive behavior. If something is wrong, deal with it or work it out, don’t make us guess or play the martyr. Don’t friend coworkers or strangers, and if you do, learn enough about your setup options to put them in a special little group so they can’t really see what you’re doing, or when. Which leads me to the final and most important one.

7. Facebook is not your friend. Facebook does not care about you. Many of the people you Invite or Accept probably feel the same. It’s great to catch up and stay connected with long-lost folks and far-away family, but don’t get lost in it. Try not to destroy lives or jobs, and try to keep a little focus.

End rant.

Also, we had a freaking awesome weekend. Swimming, a playdate at Aunt Jonesy’s with new friends, a Karate Birthday Party, and lunch with The Ta. AND IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS!!!

Thursday, December 16, 2010

With Royal Beauty Bright

People who have children (I hear they are calling them ‘parents’ nowadays) often like to wax poetic about how their little monsters loved ones change their lives. Like, for the better. Constantly. They speak eloquently about beauty as seen through the eyes of a child, share agonizing hilarious little cute things that kids misinterpret or explain in their own precious little words, and swear that every day is enriched and filled to the brim with wonderfulness and sunshine and Christmas cookies that you bite into without fear of toddler saliva or boogers. In fairness I will admit that I do laugh out loud (that’s LOL for anyone younger than 20) a lot more than PJ (pre-Jelly), but I will also point two centrally located fingers at the reason I have more frustration and stress and general man-I-wish-I-could-sleep-in-ONE-DAMN-DAY-ness.

Every parent of a toddler knows who’s really in charge, no matter how brave they act. You live and breathe for the happiness of the little dictator, watching what makes them happy and cooking what they’ll eat and reading the same damn Berenstein Bears ‘Go to School’ book every single damn night. You tell yourself you’re still the boss while you watch Wall-E for the 84th time and eat another chicken nugget meal, while struggling to maintain enough sanity and strength to fight the big battles when they come.

Christmas propaganda has been in full force in this house since December 1st. Books, movies, songs, and toys are filled with the jolly man in the red suit, the gameless glowy reindeer, and the cold dude with the magic hat. Jelly has learned the words to Jingle Bells, Mary’s Boy Child, Jingle Bell Rock, Frosty the Snowman, and We Wish You a Merry Christmas. She studies the books like she’s cramming for Christmas finals, and has watched more than one seasonal favorite well, more than once. And there are lots of Christmas trees throughout the wilderness of the media maelstrom; small Charlie Brown trees, wacky Seussian trees, trees with lights and ornaments and balls and bows. You may be interested, or politely feign interest, in the fact that there are VERY FEW TREES WITH ANGELS. I don’t think it’s a PC trying-to-avoid-Reason-for-the-Season-controversy thing. Apparently, the general public feels that their Christmas tree is a starry one.

I am an angel girl. I have been for at least 15 years, if not longer. The earliest angel I had was a slightly creepy hand-me-down that my then-roommate and I nicknamed ‘Frieda of the Tree’. It was a very formal name for a mid-1970’s homemade-looking gal with a plastic head and a few cheap fire hazard lights. I loved Frieda, and still have her, although she has definitely seen better days. Over the years I upgraded to newer, bigger, brighter shinier models. Frieda 3.0 has fiber optic wings and holds a light and has a pretty sash on her dress, and I would have probably had to install some elaborate strut system to get her to stay on my lightweight artificial tree this year. That is, if a toddler wasn’t the boss of me.

It was a fight I was destined to lose from the beginning. Jellybean believes that Santa will bring her a choo-choo and new playdough on Christmas morning. She believes that Swiper shouldn’t be on the naughty list. And she believes, with absolute 2 1/2-year old certainty, that a Christmas tree has a star on the top. Absolutely and positively NOT an angel. So I dug out a cheap crappy white plastic silver-garland trimmed star and dutifully placed it on the tree. It lit up only sporadically, when I jiggled the crappy wires, and was a constant source of irritation for both of us. I finally gave up and unplugged it yesterday, fearful of coming home to flames and fireworks (I never used that whole bag of stuff I bought in Georgia last January, I wonder if they’re still good? And where I put them?). I dug out Frieda 3.0 and commenced trying to sell her to Jelly. I showed her the beauty of the fiber optic wings, the delicate china head and hands. I asked if she wanted to touch her pretty dress or look at the book the angel held. Jenny was immoveable. She refused to touch her or look at her. She shrieked at me to get that abomination off the tree. She brought me a yellow construction paper star she’d made at preschool, and ordered me to put that up instead.

So this morning we were at the Wal-Mart running errands on our hell-no-we-won’t-stay-inside-because-of-a-little-snow day, and I asked if she wanted to pick out a new star. Yes, I know it was a stupid thing to say, I was giddy with skipping work and the holiday music playing and the promise of McDonald’s for lunch. We hit the tree toppers aisle and Jenny saw her star. Was it the gorgeous silver star, or the cheap white plastic star exactly like the one in the trash at home? No, I'm not that lucky. It was a red star. I repeat. Red. It was probably the last thing in the entire aisle that I would have chosen. A promise is a promise, so I bought the damn thing begrudgingly and waited til she napped to put it on the tree. And oh my god (that’s OMG for those of you having to read this for a school assignment or something) the damn thing is beautiful. BEAUTIFUL, I say! I didn’t think it even lit up, but it does. I didn’t think a red star had any place on a Christmas tree, but let me tell you, when you apparently have a tree that is all white lights and 85% red ornaments, a red star is freaking STUNNING.

When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong. I haven’t become a better person or solved world peace, but today my daughter reminded me that beauty can be found where you don’t expect it, and not in a cheesy plastic bag blowing in the wind way. More importantly, I remembered she is not a baby but a person, unique and special (as previously discussed), with likes and dislikes and tastes all of her own, and this house is not just mine. It is ours. I thought being single meant not having to compromise, but this is now officially a 2-person home. I have to remember not to impose my own style on her anymore, and at some point am going to have to take her seriously when she wants to contribute to her living space. I won’t always like the decisions she makes or the things she chooses to dye/wear/pierce, but sometimes she’ll surprise me, and sometimes it will be totally awesome.

Uh, yeah, that's an Amidala ornament. There's no judging at Christmas.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Pretty Little Head

One of the many, many reasons I often daydream about a move back up North (although not on a day like today, when it’s 20 degrees out and I had to wear a coat, a COAT! The OUTRAGE! In December!) is the, uh, Southiness, of the Ol’ South. Yes, it’s nice to get a sweat-beaded glass of icy cold sweet tea on a hot summer’s day, and the biscuits are the best you can find. But there are still quiet, scary undercurrents of racism hidden in everyday polite conversations. And the men are suppose to be brave and strong and reckless (and heterosexual), and the women are suppose to be God-fearing and delicate and just a little bit helpless. And heterosexual.

I’ve never claimed to be a feminist. I’m one of the ones who constantly sets the Women’s Movement back a few paces with my fondness for cooking and knitting and baby-making. I’ve only voted once, and that was because I had a daughter who I realized needed to see her mother do it. I do appreciate the ‘hold property’ thing, though, because I despised apartment living (too light a sleeper).

However. Listening to my favorite holiday radio station this morning (the one that plays 24/7 Christmasy tunes, and had the damn Glee song on before it even aired), they had Part 1 in a ‘Point/Counterpoint’ cheesy little morning feature about Men Versus Women Drivers. Here are the three points the women said they liked about male drivers;

  1. They can parallel park better
  2. They can change a flat tire
  3. They can drop us off at the front door of the mall

I had to double-check my dashboard to make sure I wasn’t in a DeLorean and it was suddenly 1952. For the record, I am an EXCELLENT parallel parker. No, ladies of the morning show, there is not ‘something in the chromosomes’ that makes men better at it. And I can also change a flat tire, as long as the damn lug nuts aren’t cemented on. And that last one just made me really, really mad. Partially because I’m lazy and would love to be dropped off at the front door of the mall but don’t have a husband, but mostly because DAMNIT MY DAUGHTER IS IN THE CAR! Ok, she actually wasn’t, because I don’t get to listen to the radio when she’s in the car because I can’t hear it over the @#$% ‘Frosty the Snowman’ DVD on repeat. But still. I’m sure there were plenty of other little girls listening, thinking, ‘Why, yes, it IS handy to have a nice man help me shop, because I’m a girl and that’s what I do’. Obviously it made me mad enough to write in my damn blog, which I’ve ignored because the only other thing I could think of to write about were the constant migraines, and that just made me depressed.

It’s not that I am deluded enough to think that this kinda stuff doesn’t still happen in Canada, or other parts of the world. I am sure there are plenty of Australian men whose womenfolk are proud of their boomerang skills and koala gathering (see what I did there? Now I’m pretending to be small-minded about other countries and cultures. Everyone knows there’s much more to Australia. Like the criminals, and Crocodile Dundee.). It’s just that it is so natural here. So assumed. I know plenty of thought-to-be-emancipated women who won’t buy their sons dolls, or trucks for their daughters. People still laugh nervously about boys playing dress-up, or a girl with a Star Wars thermos. C’mon, people, really?

I read something last week that said the average age for eating disorders to begin has dropped again. When I was a kid it was 14. In the ‘90’s it was eight. Now it’s six. Also, I’m making those numbers up, so don’t quote me, but I’m in the ballpark; it’s something totally awful. Also, there are all kinds of special ‘thinspiration’ websites, and there’s a new term, ‘pro-ana’, as in, ‘how cool is it to be someone who starves themselves’. I hadn’t thought about it much, but the article was dead-on when it said that the new crop of tween and YA actresses gave much younger girls something to compare themselves to – when I was a teen I just had baby-fat Madonna, who was like a grown-up, and therefore a bazillion years old to me.

Very few of those youthful female role models are self-saving princesses, and not a whole lot more real girls are being raised to be so. What is so bad about encouraging independence and fostering uniqueness? Why is it so hard to break from the Disney mold of sweet and pretty and seen-but-not-heard? People like to talk big about celebrating individuality but sure as hell don’t walk the walk. Look at the whole bullying thing that’s made big news lately. Our technological leaps have made it painfully easy for someone to terrorize a victim across a wide array of social media, and in much more public arenas.

I worry, like any mother. I look at a sunny, happy little girl who bounds out of bed to greet each new morning with a song, and I get a panicky feeling. She is smart, and she is a nice person, and she knows who she is. That means she is going to struggle, and be hurt, and have to fight, because the rest of the world doesn’t play by our rules. There are other little boys and girls getting out of bed who aren’t told that they are special and that someone is proud of them, who see and hear behaviors that just should not be. Somewhere out there is a little girl who someday will tell Jenny she can’t be her friend because her hair is too curly or she’s not wearing the right clothes, and somewhere out there is a boy who is going to knock her down simply because he can. All I can do is try to teach her to believe in herself, always try her best, and, damnit, do ANYTHING. Because she is a girl. In spite of being a girl. Because she is Jenny. And she is much more than just a pretty little head.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Put a Little Love in Your Heart. Or Sand.

I love Christmas.

Like, love. Despite having a father who was a bit of a grinch as December headed towards the inevitable, who would rather be outside working on an old Plymouth or Buick than dealing with his antagonistic brothers, my mom always made a big deal over ol' St. Nick. There was always a live tree, and cookies and eggnog, and if you rolled over in your cozy sugarplum bed in the middle of the night you'd hear a faint tinkling that was the bell on your stocking, and then you'd go crazy waiting til morning. Many, many nights my mum stayed up hand-sewing miniature buttons on homemade Barbie clothes, or putting the finishing touches on a Pajama Doll (will I be a dork if I make one for Jelly?! Don't answer that).

I love the magic of Christmas. I love that a child believes in the magic of flying sleighs and reindeer, and the all-seeing, all-knowing fat man in red. I like the lights, and the music, and the cackle of a fireplace, even if it is just a DVD (seriously, I own that). I hang stockings on the mantle with care, hurl LED and glow-in-the-dark snowflakes all over every possible window, and have been considering one of those inflatable monstrosities for the front yard. Maybe an 8-foot high snowglobe. That lights up. And plays music. And can unload the dishwasher for me. I like baking Christmas cookies, and making candy, and even the hours and hours of laboriously curling ribbon on gifts. I wrap in blue and silver, those are my signature Christmas colors.

On December 1st my shopping is done. I do 80%, if not more, online. Amazon ought to spend November sending me chocolates and flowers for what I pour into that site. But I also like to find the little odd-ball places, like and Romp. I order myself a big sampler from The Popcorn Factory, now that I sadly no longer have grandparents that do that, and damnit, I love getting that freaking stupid tin. I like to hang ornaments in a certain order that someday is going to make Jelly insane. I cannot, CANNOT decorate the tree until there are homemade cookies and eggnog, which is why mine is not up yet; this Saturday afternoon will be baking, and Sunday afternoon there shall be mayhem.

Tonight we will officially kick off the season with our first event - the local tree-lighting ceremony in the neighboring town. This weekend will be xmas card pics, and a parade, and a holiday party. Oh, and the baking and the tree, of course. Jelly will have a few more days to open on her Playmobil Advent Calendar (so darn cute), I will find more crap hidden that I bought for her a zillion years ago, and we'll meet up with my mommies group to hand over the clothes and toys we bought for a little girl who otherwise wouldn't get very much this Christmas. Yes, there is a PSA hidden in this post; if you haven't already, please consider sponsoring a child this holiday. Or, a senior citizen; I was shocked and horrified to see the wishlist of a 79-year old woman, who wanted nothing more than warm slippers, paper towels, and a few favorite treats. Yes, I know that Christmas has become overly commercialized and there's plenty of reasons to lose sight of the spirit of the season. But whether you are celebrating a religious event or not, it's still a time for togetherness; family, humanity, peace and goodwill. And that's why I like Christmas.

Although it's REALLY hard to get in the mood when I was doing this one week ago;

Oh yeah, Thanksgiving ROCKED. That right there, my friends, is why living in NC is sometimes really, really awesome.

Except now I want snow.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Shut It, I'm Comfortable

Many, many years ago, when I was young(er) and foolish(er), I use to observe Women of a Certain Age and their apparent total oblivion to the current styles in denim wear. ‘How sad’, I’d think to my teenaged self, dressed in safety-pinned acid wash, ‘They don’t even realize how terrible that looks’. Ahh, young self, if I told you the secret behind the uniform of the middle-aged mom you’d be even sadder. Because I’ve learned that those women just really, really don’t care. They know. Believe me, they know. Those pants are pulled over sore feet and bruised calves and fat knees, up past lumpy thighs and ever-widening hips and over a saggy c-section gut, and there is no way anyone can pretend they’re fashionable or sexy or a trendy color.

The Mom Jean, found in many cultures, is a rite of passage for those who are past the New Mom Pants phase. The New Mom can still get away with wearing maternity jeans for quite some time, and can blame her inexplicably ever-shifting weight patterns on the baby. That lasts for approximately one year, max. Anyone trying to do this longer is in the denial phase. The denial phase can last anywhere from 1-25 years. This is the time when a mother tries panels, pleats, lycra-blends, and long sweaters, to no avail. Many, many women over 40 can be immediately recognized as being in jeans denial by sporting skinny jeans, ripped jeans, or having a massive ‘chef’s hat’ or ‘muffin top’ lapping over a low-rise waist band.

At some point, every woman who weighs more than 80 lbs must accept the Mom Jean. You will know a pair of pants are Mom Jeans if the following are true;

  1. The legs are too wide to be fashionably skinny, but too narrow to be fashionably boot-legged
  2. Your friends look at them, then look away in embarrassment, and can’t even mock you
  3. They are either a little bit longer or shorter than a normal pair of jeans
  4. The dye color is even and consistent, and is either too light or too dark to be trendy
  5. Your butt looks like a cement mixer was overloaded with oatmeal
  6. The waist falls somewhere above the belly button and just below the bra line
  7. You can fit a sippy cup in the front pocket
  8. The zipper is a solid 8 inches
  9. None of your trendy tees look right with them, and you are forced to wear either a ¾ sleeve cotton blouse in a pastel color, a sweatshirt with a rustic snowman, or something that has been bedazzled. Or has a picture of a kitty on it.
  10. People start calling you ma'am a lot more

I just bought my second pair. I both hate myself, and rejoice in the unrestricted comfort and lack of back fat that shows when I lean over.

Next stop – elastic-waist rayon. Grandma Pants.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Ta's Kind of Town

Sooo.... yeah. Vegas. City of lights, and machines that go *ping!*, and great shows and meals and shopping and whatnot. Also, city of smoke and dark and dryness, and expense and greed and timelessness. I understand the attraction, don't get me wrong. When we first stood in line to check in to our room, in the expansive lobby with the lion and the blinky things in the casino nearby and the crush of people, it was very exciting. It was someplace new, filled with possibility and adventure.

And it's not that I hate to gamble. I love to feed money into the slot machines, and pull the handle, and feel that thrill of winning. It's just that I hate the feeling afterwards, angry at myself for throwing money away on something so dumb. People who enjoy gambling say that you have to look at it the same way as spending money on a good meal or show - you're paying for the entertainment value, and as such you're not going to have anything to show for it, and you have to just accept that. I can't. I'm the kind of person who gets more happiness out of a good show or meal than kissy fish when you get a bonus at the Goldfish slots. The Ta, on the other hand, LOVED Vegas. Like, has already booked her next trip in February. She loved the gambling, and didn't feel the crushing disappointment and fury when she lost like I did. She loved the convenience of a Starbucks in the hotel, and the strip; these things were much better amenities than a pool or beachfront room for her, and she had a hard time understanding how I would prefer boring ol' swimming.
Maybe it has something to do with the different ways people unwind. On my weekends I'm a doer. I like to shop, and take Jelly places, and meet friends, and eat out. When I'm on vacation I like to divide my time between doing, and relaxing, and the beach is ideal for me for that. Some people like to just relax. Some people like to just do. All I know is, I would never choose Vegas as a vacation destination for me. And I was grateful every single second that I was there that I had decided not to take Jelly along.
It wasn't all the advertisements for Girls, Girls, Girls, or the sad bleary empty-eyed zombies still sitting at the tables at 4:30 am. It was partially the cloud of cigarette smoke that imbued everything, from the bathroom towels to the hallway carpets to my hair. It was partially the tourists, shoving past baby strollers like they were pieces of obtrusive furniture. But it was mostly the fact that, no matter what they are advertising, it is NOT a family-friendly place to visit. M&M World? There were identical items for sale at the Raleigh airport, and for better prices. None of the restaurants I saw were toddler-friendly. There sure as heck wasn't anything for short people to do in the casinos, unless you were staying somewhere like Circus Circus, and even then everything looked like it came with a price tag. And smoke. And scary clowns.

Since we unexpectedly stayed on East coast time, we were up before sunrise and in bed by 8pm most nights. This meant I missed out on some fun stuff. I also got a migraine one night, which I really tried not to let color my experience. Barfing all over the hotel bathroom wall was not cool. It meant I definitely wasn't going to risk any more drinking though, which probably impacted my fun factor. We did get to take in a Cirque de Soleil show, 'Ka', courtesy of Jonesy, which was awesome. We were so close we could feel the heat of the fireballs. There were a ton of things on our wish list that didn't get done simply because work or our bank balances got in the way, and to be fair, it was a work trip first and foremost. I'm not exactly dreading going back again next year, since there were definitely some high points. But I'm super-glad The Ta went with me for this first visit, as it would have been pretty lonely otherwise.

Also, I got a tattoo.
Can you believe it?! A freakin' TATTOO!!!
I love it.
I've been thinking about getting one for YEARS, and I figured Vegas was the perfect place to do so. I got it done on the fattest place on my body, the knickknack ledge between my waist and butt (NOT a tramp stamp, it would be fully covered by a bathing suit). Maybe that's why it TOTALLY DIDN'T HURT. No, seriously, at one point I felt very soothed by the whole thing - laying down on the table, the hum of the needle, the artist's delicate touch. I would honestly compare it to waxing - you know, that ouchy-but-short-lived pain. I was thrilled by the whole thing. Not in a 'going to get kitty whiskers tattooed on my face' way, but yeah, it was way more awesome than I expected. 'Club Tattoo', in the Planet Hollywood shops, tell Krystof I sent you.

And now my parents are here for a visit, which is SUPER awesome, because it meant that after a week away from home, Jelly gets to stay home for a full week! And then NEXT week - Thanksgiving vacation! Myrtle Beach!

Ok, right, back to this work thing...

Thursday, November 4, 2010

What Happens in Vegas Will Definitely Be Shared on This Blog

Hello, bloggy friends, acquaintances, family, and stalkers. Can you believe it’s November? The weather here sure is winter-in-the-South; grey and rainy, and I almost considered wearing a jacket this morning. Of course, in sunny VEGAS! this weekend, it’s going to be 83 degrees. Oh, did I mention VEGAS!? Yes, for once I scored a work trip that is not to Detroit in January, or Orlando in August. And TheTa is going with me. AND we’re staying at the MGM Grand. AND Jonesy may have scored us a real money deal. But I’ll keep that a surprise for now. Also, Cousin J gave me some sort of magical cup that I can pay like five cents to fill with some sort of alcoholic slushy. So I’m pretty stoked about that.

It’s been a zillion years since I’ve had time to sit down and write. Apparently, not posting to your blog means that people don’t comment, no matter how many times you check your blog. And I’m very comment-hungry today. I have had a whole slew of topic ideas come and go in the past few weeks, sadly because work prepping for the upcoming VEGAS! conference has been soul-consuming. Also, Jellybean was SO. MAD. that I had left her for the Boston trip, she spent a full week making me regret every second I was gone. And now I have to leave her again. That poor little Bean. A full week of MsD hugging on her and cooking for her and taking her fun places, and sleepovers with MsD’s girls and playing dress up, and getting read to a gazillion times a day. Yes, it’s a hard life for her. I think the hardest part is that she’s away from her house. That kid is a homebody like her mama, she cracks me up. I just keep telling her that I’ll bring her presents. Hopefully she likes empty Tylenol bottles.

So here are the blog posts I didn’t get to write, and you’ll never get to read. Sorry. Blame my boss, The Nice Lady Who Signs My Paychecks.

Gluteal Amnesia – Why My Butt Forgets to Not Get Bigger

(seriously, this is a real thing, and probably the reason for my chronic back pain)

Toddlers – The Worst Invention, Ever

(omg – where did that whiny noise come from, and why won’t it stop? We spent 4 awful nights fighting about the fact she refused to pull the damn plug in the damn bathtub drain, it was just STUPID)

Trip to the Farm/Fair/Boston/Trunk or Treat

(Farm with my CSM group was great, JR is definitely a hardcore hayride fan; the fair was ok, she probably liked the petting zoo the best and gave me crap because I didn’t let her ride on the rides enough times; Boston was a whirlwind, the ‘Taste of Boston’ tour freaking ROCKED; Halloween was out of control, we did too many events this year and suffered some burnout, but she was cute EVERY SINGLE TIME)

The Scientist – Yeah, I Bailed on that Shit

(Every email he sent annoyed me further. You probably shouldn’t tell an agnostic ‘I’ll pray for you’. And the pics of his Etsy stuff – ugh. Yes, I’m a mean person. Yes, I am aware this is why I am single. Yes, I chickened out on bailing outright and said something along the lines of ‘it’s a busy time for me, blah blah blah, maybe in the Spring’)

I’ve managed to squeeze in one more activity between VEGAS! and the Thanksgiving Myrtle Beach Extravaganza. My much-adored friend S and I are taking the wee wench and young knights to the Renaissance Faire. And spending the night. So we can go to IKEA the next day! You may remember how much I enjoyed my Ikea trip last spring in Cincinnati. Cousin J was embarrassed to be with me. I might have wept a little with happiness. Swedish Meatballs and well-designed children’s storage bins make me weak, who knew?

So yes, as you can imagine we are still as busy as ever. I have a few pics for your enjoyment. Hopefully I will have some embarrassing and blurry ones for you the next time I post. First VEGAS! trip, omg, I cannot wait.

No, it's not all smiles and puppies with a 2-year old. Sometimes it's kicking and shrieking and public humiliation.
Happy Halloween! Yes, I am forcibly restraining her in this pic, good catch.
She does love to accessorize, a word which my spell check refuses to acknowledge.
That's my girl.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Two Months

til Christmas! Yep, can you believe it? Man, I love Christmas. Yes, it sneaks up on me because I'm Canadian and after 16 years STILL cannot deal with Thanksgiving being like, 5 seconds before the most joyous of all holidays. So I just wanted to help everyone out in case this wasn't on your radar. Or if the malls hadn't started decorating yet like they have here. CRAZY! Before Halloween! I will have a problem buying scented pine cones and cranberries to string in July. Oh, I'll do it, but I will have issues with it.

So, um, we've been busy here. Things are a bit better now that Jenny is feeling much better (albeit giving me grief for being gone to Boston for a week). I was able to handle discovering a dead car battery at 7:40 am with poise and a call to AAA instead of cursing and Southern Comfort Cheerios. I swear I will have some hilarious pics of Jelly posted soon (vague, yes, but well-intended). And I have sadly mistreated the Scientist, so I need to give an update on that.


One week from Saturday is Vegas! It's just nuts. I can't believe I'm home only two weeks before leaving the Bean again. At least it's technically work travel so I can't feel TOO guilty. And then, two weeks after that is Myrtle Beach for Thanksgiving (yes, I am keeping it on the books, screw the credit card). And I made my first Christmas reservation today - 'Milk and Cookies with Santa' at the local community center. So freaking cute. Tis the season for everything to get really, REALLY busy. Cause you know, we're all just sitting around watching our stories and eating our kids' Halloween candy.

How cute is this?
(Answer: SO cute!)

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Jellybean = Rockstar

Just a quick update for all the FOJies out there - Jelly did AWESOME. Like, crazy ridiculous awesome. The surgery took like 11 seconds, she was PISSED OFF when she came to but once home was up and about within the hour. Eating, sleeping, playing, totally like nothing happened.

So, yay :-).

More later.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

To Do

But why, Jellybean Mama? Why are you so stressed? What is making you lie (lay?) awake nights, other than your possible bad grammar?

I thought I’d share today’s Reminders list to provide some perspective. And also because I hate leaving such a depressing post as the last thing for you to stare at until next week. I know it will be fine, I know I’ll find a way to get my shit together and my head above water, I know everything will work out and this time next week I’ll have had a few drinks and a few good night’s (nights’?) sleep and I’ll have a better outlook.

  • Move or provide coverage for tomorrow’s scheduled conference calls and edit out-of-office message; update any relevant documents required for the meeting status updates
  • Finalize and submit at least the key deliverables for tomorrow’s deadline; work late tonight to get as much done as possible, then message manager that I will not deliver the remaining items on time and outline plan for completion/how to avoid this next release cycle. Update resume.
  • Pack for next week’s business trip; drop off jacket at Dry Cleaners if time
  • Finish prep for Monday’s Annual Review and Tuesday’s Retrospective Team Meeting
  • Check in Sunday morning for Monday's flight
  • Complete, print, sign and date a Medical Consent form for caregiver
  • Pack bag for Jelly for next week and take to caregiver; include outfit for school picture day next Tuesday
  • Pick up donation items for preschool since I didn’t sell any @#$% cookie dough for their @#$% fundraiser (due last Tuesday) and I don’t want to be That Mom
  • Drop off and pick up post-op prescription
  • Complete pre-op paperwork
  • Pack bag of items for surgery (blanky, books, Ernie and Mickey, socks, sippy, Pull Up and underpants)
  • Call for surgery time after 2p; message friend who will be going with me once I have the schedule (Edit: Ha, and let her know where it is! See what happens when something isn’t on my list?!)
  • Get any groceries/items for post-surgery (soup, juice, popsicles, vodka)
  • Give caregiver a copy of post-op instructions for next week
  • Remember to take prescription and blanky to caregiver’s Monday morning
  • Re-schedule post-op appointment (work conflict)
  • Remember to not give Jelly anything to eat or drink tomorrow before surgery. Do not eat or drink anything in front of her so as to avoid being shanked.
So, um, yeah. That's why my head hurts right now.

Thanks again for all the well-wishes and happy positive comments, blog friends.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

A Week of Mondays

You know how when you wake up on a Monday, there’s a brief second as the last vestiges of sleep dissipate, when you stretch and yawn in a land between dream and reality – then, with a sudden sick feeling, you remember. Monday. You have to rush, you have to plan, you have to pack and dress and drive, there are timelines and deadlines and urgencies. If you are retired or work on the weekend, the day might not be the same for you or you may start to feel the panic and then get to luxuriate in relief, but you know what I’m talking about. The crushing, bone-wearying chatter that you know won’t quiet again until Friday.

If asked, I’d probably say I like Thursdays. Thursday means tomorrow is Friday, and that the whole weekend is open with possibilities. Friday makes me a little nervous, like I’m not appreciating the time I have or using it properly, and Saturday means the best part of the weekend is already over. Sunday is 12 hours of reminders that the following day is once again not your own, so what’s to like about that?

The past week and more has felt like one Monday after another, with a moment of calm wakefulness followed immediately by a nervous turn of the stomach and a laundry list of worries. Yes, ‘doing laundry’ is, in fact, on the list. As are about a dozen deliverables for work that I’m definitely not going to have ready for Friday, not including prep for the big meeting next week. The mortgage payment hit at the same time as the daycare check, then I was told I was late paying preschool tuition. The Ta had to cancel watching Jelly nights next week because of work, so I owe another daycare check. And this afternoon I put $578 on a credit card, just a small portion of what will be owed in a few days.

Jenny’s ENT appointment was yesterday morning, where the very nice Doc Brown told me yes, little Bean would need to have the teensiest of holes cut in her ear drums. He was mousey and mustached and made me feel very at ease, but it was still a Bad Thing to hear. Also, Jelly had to have the creepiest hearing test (scary toys in opposite corners of a tiny claustrophobic room – a terrifying rabbit that lit up and played cymbals, and a horrific bear that lit up and played a drum). But the staff were very nice, and my ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ bag from my youngest sis made an excellent conversation piece, so we were told we’d get a call to schedule the surgery and off we went.

The call came within a few hours, and despite the fact I’d gone over my calendar four times to try and find good dates, there was no good answer. The sweet Doc Brown only operates on Fridays, and that didn’t leave me with a lot of options. So then it became a question of what we would have to compromise. And then it was what we would give up. One of the hard things about being a parent is making the unpopular decisions, but one of the truly shitty things about being a parent is making the decisions that are lousy for you. Jelly has been sick for months, in pain off and on. Not sleeping. Her behavior has radically changed. So the surgery is day after tomorrow. The Yo Gabba Live tickets, purchased months and months ago for this Saturday’s show were sold to a friend, the hotel room cancelled, the third weekend trip in a row called off. I will get on a plane to Boston for work on Monday morning with extra guilt and worries. I will once again be in debt, Christmas plans will most likely be cancelled, and damn it, it made me furious to read the stupid hospital brochure where it advised to have both parents at the surgery, “so that one could drive and one could tend to the child”.

I’m not very rational right now because Jelly has not been sleeping. It’s been a few weeks now, where she’ll creep into my room in the wee hours, or wake for the day long before the sun appears. I am doing my best to NOT FREAK OUT because there is no other parent to tend to the child, so I need to at least pretend to be the strong one. Lots of nice people have told me it will be fine. I am reminding myself that I am lucky to have an awesome network of supportive friends and family, so I won’t be alone in that waiting room. I am reassuring myself that other people must take endless hours off work for sick children and appointments at times that are not ideal for their managers, and they don’t lose their jobs. I have to come up with a better way to keep it all straight – the house, the job, the budget, the commitments. I’m doing everything in a fog right now, including parenting.

I’m just so tired of Monday.

*I will post as soon as I am able to let you guys know that The Bean is totally fine and that I was a moron for being so worked up.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Totally Tubular

Sooooooo… how’s your day going? I just got back from yet another pediatrician adventure, where I learned (shock! gasp!) that BOTH of Jelly’s ears are chock-a-block full of fluid. Since what we’re doing doesn’t seem to be working, I now have a referral for the local Ear Nose & Throat Nice People (the ENTNP). I am going to refer to them as Nice People in a very optimistic manner, because hopefully when I call I’ll be able to get in right away, and get her on the schedule right away for EAR TUBES.

Tubes. Whenever I’ve heard that word from other parents, it’s been followed by ‘avoid them at all costs!’. I’ve heard more horror stories about ear tubes than bad things about bottle feeding (just kidding there, we all know that nothing is more evil than giving an innocent baby formula). I am freaking out a bit. You know how to tell I’m freaked out? I called the biological father. Yep. You know how he knew I was freaked out? He ANSWERED.

It was not a long conversation, so don’t fall off your office chairs or out of the driver’s seat or into the pool (hey, I don’t know where you do your blog reading, I don’t like to assume). I asked if he had problems with his ears as a kid, or if he knew of any family history. I just don’t know where the heck this is coming from – this would have been her FIFTH round of antibiotics since July. What kid gets ear infections in the summer? Oh, right, one who lived in the pool. Do I feel guilty now about taking her swimming so much? Why yes, as a matter of fact I do, thank you for inquiring.

Quiet answered that no, there was no likewise no history of ear infections in his family, and that he’d been just fine as a kid. I very politely thanked him for taking my call (still massively traumatized that he’d actually answered), wished him a pleasant evening, and hung up. So, either he didn’t look at caller ID (no chance, since I called his cell), he deleted me from his Contacts so he really didn’t know who I was, or he isn’t going to be totally incommunicado. So I’m oddly reassured. But, you know, still guilty about the whole swimming-in-the-dirty-lake thing. And for every single time I’ve splashed her. And also for all those baths. Damn you, cleanliness!

Please, PLEASE if you have had experience with tubing a kid, let me know. But say something reassuring, not ‘OMG it was HORRIBLE they fell out/got infected/exploded and the child DIED’. Because I would rather not hear that. I would prefer hearing something like, ‘OMG it was the BEST thing that could’ve happened and the child had no more pain and learned 3 languages and listens to EVERYTHING I say now’. I’ve had some FB friends post things like this that made me feel better already, so I’m back down off the wall, but I’m still looking at it. I called my parents, who put things into perspective by telling me to calm the hell down and think about what it would be like if I were having tubes put in her heart. Or if it were like 100 years ago, and it went untreated and she went deaf or got meningitis. They also reminded me how lucky I was that it was outpatient surgery, since they had to leave their eldest daughter as a baby overnight, alone, in the hospital, and when they got back the next morning she had lost her voice from sobbing and her legs were black and blue from kicking at the crib bars. Isn’t that freaking SAD?! And there’s why I don’t like hospitals, if you are a psychiatrist.

But still. My Jelly girl. Surgery.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

A Thirst

Ok, kids, here's fair warning that it's time for a serious post, so if you would rather come back another time to look at pics of me trying to sew a Renaissance Faire costume for Jelly, or hear about the awesome homemade Mac 'n Cheese I made for dinner last night, I understand.

My first drink was most likely as a toddler, slipped to me by either my father or one of my uncles, who still think it’s hilarious to give small children cigarettes, alcohol, and crystal meth (ok, fine, everything except that last one). It was the 70’s, and taking pictures of babies in stupid-looking hats with a stogie was acceptable, even encouraged. This is what the world was like before people had Frontierville to keep them occupied. My second drink was nipped from a crystal decanter my dad kept on the formal dining room table. Strictly for ornamental purposes – the crystal was lead. And the alcohol was scotch. I shudder thinking about it, but I felt very naughty at the time, dancing around to my Paul Lekakis single on the record player when I was suppose to be watching my youngest brother and sister (who, thank you very much, have very fond memories of those impromptu slightly-drunken-lead-poisoned dance parties).

I got a little more serious about the whole thing when I started waitressing, and everyone in my small town assumed I was of age. I had a few drinks now and then at the odd corn roast, but it was the street dances where I really threw down (I had you at ‘corn roast’, didn’t I?). And, more often than not, threw up. I was young and underage, and only knew to order what the big kids were drinking, which was usually Rye ‘n Coke. It was the wilds of Ontario, remember, so it was either that or Molson Canadian.

My parents have always been very lenient about us drinking; my house was the place to get loaded before hitting the bars. My dad was usually right there doing shots alongside us (and sometimes, still sitting there when we got home). If you can inherit a taste for the bottle, I definitely got it on both sides. The folks have likewise always been very responsible drinkers, and encouraged the same. My dad had a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule when I was in high school that I never fully appreciated; if I got into a situation at a party and needed him to come get me, he wouldn’t yell or force me to spill the details, no matter what. I only had to call him on two occasions, but it was a very smart rule for a parent (whose kids were largely terrified of his wrath) to make. I plan to do the same thing with Jelly, who hopefully will likewise be terrified of me beating her senseless if she does something stupid.

At the tender drinking age of 19 I went off to college. My roommate and I may not have had money for luxuries like bread and shampoo and schoolbooks, but we had a fully stocked bar. I learned that I really wasn’t crazy about beer, but oh man, I loved the girl drinks. If it required a blender, fruit, umbrellas, and no less than 14 assorted exotic and overpriced liquors, it was put in my watering hole. It was during my second year of college that I learned Drinking Can Be REALLY Bad. There was an incident involving stolen cocktail glassware that could have been even worse than it was (we liked to shove highballs in our coat sleeves, and there was a fall, and lots and lots of broken glass very close to important veins). There were other incidents, too, although less life-threatening; some curling iron burns, some green pastrami that definitely should not have been consumed, exclusion from several local establishments.

After graduation I found myself in the fine state of NC, and my then-roommate enjoyed the drink just as much as I did. Because we worked in daycare and made approximately 75 cents per day, we did a lot of ‘pre-drinking’ to save money at the bar. If you know NC you know that nothing is convenient; we had a drive that was taxi-prohibitive, which, if you’re smarter than me, you’ve already figured out meant a slightly buzzed drive to go clubbin’. And, as logically follows, an extremely drunken drive back home. How do you know you’re too drunk to be driving? Take my quiz and find out.

  1. You can’t find the car in the parking lot, and have to wait until everyone else has left.
  2. You have a designated ‘pull over and vomit and/or urinate’ location in a nice suburban neighborhood halfway home.
  3. You have to evade a police checkpoint, not because you’re worried about failing the breathalyzer (which you totally would), but because you have a large ceramic burro in your lap, stolen from the nearby Mexican restaurant.
  4. You think it’s a good idea to follow other drunk strangers to their house for a make-out session, and steal frozen chicken from their freezer.
If you are nodding your head sagely, thinking ‘Yes, yes, I have done all these things’, well, I am kind of embarrassed for you. You may be seeing a pattern here of drinking and stealing stupid things. I am much better about that now. Mostly.

Around this time was also when I had my first official blackout. It was very scary for a control freak like me. I could remember bits and pieces, but there were whole chunks of time that were just – gone. And there were some extremely regrettable activities that occurred during that obliterated time. I swore I wouldn’t drink that much ever again.

The next time I drank that much again it was at a work function. I was in charge of Sales Training at the one company I worked for, and a big part of that involved taking the team out to party. This was my first introduction to expense-account-drinking, which takes things to a whole new level. It’s almost like you have an obligation to drink – everyone else is doing it, it’s free, the stupid Sales people are utterly unbearable to be around if you don’t. There was some dancing on the bar, and I left both my driver’s license and credit card there, and there was an embarrassing Marriott glass elevator encounter with one of the male reps, Mark Who Was Totally Hot.

Then. I drove home.

I woke up the next morning, fully dressed complete with shoes, in my own bed to the shrill sound of the phone. I had made arrangements to meet one of my employees before work at the local automotive shop, where I was planning to leave my car for an oil change appointment. It was now 3 hours past that time. My recollection of the previous night’s drive included lots of grass and gravel under my tires, trees very close, and the occasional missed stop sign. Then, nothing. It was the last time I ever got behind the wheel drunk. I was very, very lucky.

In the early days of living with the guys, we’d occasionally have a few drinks but nothing too crazy. Loud and I went out a few times, but nothing like what I use to do. Now that I’m a mom I’ll go out once in a blue moon and have, well, a Blue Moon or two, but I am very aware of my limits if I’m driving.

I tell you this story because I think about drinking a lot. There are a few bottles of wine cold in the fridge right now, an icy bottle of Limoncello in the freezer, some Amaretto above the stove with the tea, and some reds on their sides in the dark of the pantry. If you wanted rum I could offer you 5 different kinds; vodka, 3. Liquors cover the common fruits (apple, banana, blueberry, melon, orange, cassis, raspberry) and the not-so-common fruits (lychee, guava, kiwi ), nuts (hazelnut and cashew), plus coffee and chocolate and honey. There are several schnapps including root beer and butterscotch, after-dinner aperitifs including vermouth (both sweet and dry), port, sherry, madeira, and marsala, and staples like brandy, gin, sloe gin, and tequila. More exotic temptations, ordered online, range from Pimms to Green Tea, Pink Lemonade to Sweet Tea. There’s beer for visitors, champagne for just in case, and convenient pre-mixed beverages like canned Bloody Caesars and frozen individual daiquiris. I’m pretty sure there’s Southern Comfort and Jack Daniel’s in there somewhere, plus I keep a little Glenfiddich around for my dad. And that doesn’t include the mixers and accessories – various juices, soda and tonic waters, nice fat green olives, swizzle sticks and straws, colas and flavored sugar and salt rimmers, fresh citrus.

I think there are probably people who worry about how much I drink. I think there are probably more, now that they’ve read this list. The truth of the matter is, I very rarely indulge. There’s something about just having it that is comforting, like I’m totally prepared for a mass Pina Colada emergency (yes, I have both the frozen Bacardi canned mix as well as coconut milk and pineapple juice). When I’ve had a really tough day, I can tell myself, ‘Ah, almost quittin’ time, I’ll really throw back then’. What usually ends up happening is, well, not that. Maybe a small flute of ice wine, on the extremely rare occasion I make it into the tub without Jelly and Dora. I think that my past experiences make me very nervous to drink by myself with Jenny in the house, and that’s a good thing; I know that one perfectly frosted dirty martini isn’t going to make me pass out with all the stove burners on and a ‘Welcome, kidnappers!’ sign on the door, but I know that sometimes when I have one, I would like another one. And another.

I hear the stories about the soccer mom loaded at three in the afternoon, smashing the minivan. My friends joke about putting away a bottle or two of wine by themselves to unwind. When I burned my hand quite badly Sunday afternoon, my first instinct was not to reach for the painkillers but for a Cosmo (which ended up being very smart, since holding the icy glass was the only thing to give me relief). I’ve never been tempted by drugs, and hate taking even prescription medications. I’ve heard that alcoholics sometimes force down the drink, but it’s not like that for me; I’m not compelled by it, I’m driven to it. The promise of a warm, fuzzy feeling, the satisfaction of clinking cubes and a flavorful refresher, the hope of a happy distraction. I sometimes think that if things were a little bit different, my drinking might be more like my nail-biting; always present, impossible to control, shameful, and unhealthy. I struggle with how to model responsible, sensible behavior to Jenny. But I think a good first step is talking about it.

Anyone else really, really like to drink, but doesn't? Anyone who doesn't really like to drink, but does? Lemme know. I promise I won't be judge-y on this one. Everyone wants to escape something.

Monday, October 4, 2010

I Was Never This Popular in High School

I was nominated for the Versatile Blogger award by an awesome blogger (interesting yet confusing info here - who the hell likes to UNLOAD the dishwasher, instead of load it?). Like so many of these crazy things, I apparently have to share seven things about myself, then nominate seven other bloggers.

Seven Things That Are Mostly Kinda Lame About Me

  1. I’m left-handed
  2. I have dual citizenship
  3. I have a natural immunity to Hepatitis-B
  4. I bite my nails, horribly, below the nail line, but can't quit
  5. My favorite number is four
  6. I love salt
  7. I’ve done professional voice work

Seven Blogs That I Read Almost Every Single Time They Are Updated, Except When I Don't

  1. My Little Slice of Mommy Heaven, who is so impossibly different yet the same as me in a zillion ways. Also, I think if I were to have a stalker, it'd be her, so that's pretty sweet.
  2. Motherhood is Not for Wimps, because Damomma taught me that it IS possible to be an awesome mom, even if no one else sees it or thinks so
  3. Baby For 1, another single mom making her own way one really hard day at a time.
  4. Scattermom, a real-life friend who is stubborn, manic, driven, and creative - just the way I like 'em. Also, I want her eldest to marry Jelly. He's too sweet for words.
  5. My virtual friend at The Next Few Steps, whose honesty makes me want to reach through the internet void and give her real hugs, not just text hugs.
  6. The stay-at-home dad over at Sweet Juniper!, who alternates between hilariously creepy children's book reviews, weird street-fruit recipes, and winsome stories of his adventures with his kids. I want to hang out with him, even if he is a damn hippy.
  7. Tales of a Batty Nurse, who I don't have much in common with except for understanding that all-encompassing, desperate drive to have a baby of your own, and who I admire deeply for her plan of action.
So, uh, there you have it. Two posts in one day. Don't get use to it. And thanks for the nomination! You like me, you really like me! (hey, one person counts, shut it)

A Cool and Sunny Monday

Just a quick little 'Happy Monday' post. Man, I am LOVING these cooler mornings. And afternoons. And evenings. Northerner much? I feel more awake and focussed, and I get fewer headaches. Stupid heat. It's so strange, one day it was 97 and the next day it was 67, and that was that. I guess I can probably deflate the toddler pool, huh? I did manage to clear out my local Dollar Store over the weekend, they had all kinds of summer toys on clearance. I got all the little boats and balls that JR kept trying to steal from other kids, that I didn't realize were so CRITICAL to toddler pool play.

It was a pretty good non-beach weekend. Miss Bean was in a bit of a mood, which I am blaming partially on the cold and hacking cough she's still dragging around, and partially on the fact that she is just so darn, well, two. Lots of whining and dawdling and 'look how cute I am as I say 'no!'' that just doesn't cut it with a Very Mean Mama. So lots of fights. But we also found a fun new local farm, complete with requisite bounce house (you know how those cows love to bounce), made it halfway through the Sing-a-Long 'Beauty and the Beast' showing at the local theater, finished the playroom (mostly), and dug out some Halloween stuff.

Two weeks from today I'll be back in Boston for work. Sigh. Performance reviews. Blergh. More talking about how I need to step up and be more of a leader. I don't wanna be a leader, I want to keep my head down and do the minimum to get a paycheck, why can't my boss just accept that and go develop someone else? But, how cool is this - we're doing a team activity that Wednesday that doesn't suck! We're taking the whole day to do a Boston Food Tour, starting in Chinatown and ending in Little Italy. You know what that means - Dim Sum for breakfast!! Omg, I cannot wait. I've worked for my company for 5 1/2 years and have never once gone into Boston proper, so it's doubly exciting. And Jelly gets to have a sleepover party at The Ta's, so she will hardly notice I'm gone.

I'm trying to decide if we are camping next weekend. I have a feeling it's another no-go. It was just really, really nice to be at home this past weekend to get stuff done. Staying home next weekend could mean curtains. And a Renaissance Faire outfit for Jelly! (see, I told you I get an over-inflated ego from minor successes).

Look! I SEWED!! I am a 1950's housewife ROCKSTAR!! Um, I mean 1850's.

We've had some rain, but Jellybean doesn't mind one bit.

It was the place to be.

A lovely fall day to re-enact 'Children of the Corn', everyone's favorite kid's movie.