I had more I wanted to post about my vacation week, but the Oscars were beckoning. Glad I watched, because I got to see one of my Boston faves, Ben Affleck, receive the award for Argo as Best Picture (ok, so I didn't watch THAT part until the next day, because who the hell can stay up late enough for the big awards??). J and I decided to watch Argo Monday night; I loved it, but we had to keep rewinding and rewatching parts when I would fall asleep. I have a seriously hard time making it up past like 8:30 nowadays.... Wahhhh! I kept fighting the shutting of the eyes, and I would lie to J when he would ask if I was awake. Eventually, I caved to admitting I was beat and needed to rewind a bunch of sections.
So back to vacation... Some stuff:
1. I like to think that I don't care anymore about getting a tan, but I sort of do. I can't be pleased. I'm pissed at myself if I don't drench my body in sunscreen and if I end up with even a remote burn. I'm super- careful about my face because I am already getting crow's feet and other garbagey, old- lady features on my mug-- including these nasty- ass sunspots that look like I just swept a chimney. So I go nuts with SPF 30, and consequently am whining that I don't have a Caribbean glow. By the fourth day of the trip, I went down to SPF 15. I got some color that way. I like to think I don't care at all anymore about getting a glow, but I feel I look a little thinner with some color, and my teeth look whiter. So, yes, very vainly speaking, I want to have my cake and eat it too-- tan without having to risk the danger of it. I am kind of tan, and now I'm paranoid about a few freckles. Must find a dermie to check them out.
2. I recommend doing any vacation you can all- inclusively. Worth every penny. Walked right up to any resort- owned bar and got as much as we wanted and didn't have to grouse or feel bad if we didn't finish anything. It was so much more relaxing and convenient not to have to traipse around with cash in our pockets ("service fee" AKA tip was already included in package). The downside is I think I drank about 4 Pina Coladas and 5 Balashi Chill beers per day "because I could." So maybe all- inclusive is bad for the waist- line but it is awesome for the wallet and for laziness.
3. I am now afraid of airplanes and this fear didn't even slightly start until 2002. I flew the friendly skies all the time as a kid. My parents had us in airplanes at least once a year-- sometimes twice. And it's a cliche, but I was never scared because I was an invincible kid who was going on trips within the comfortable security of my family unit. Surely my parents would never expose me to danger, right? I flew fearlessly right up through Sept 11, and even after that I had only minor misgivings about hopping aboard a 757. All through my twenties, and even into my 31st year, I was still all good-- even flying to Europe, with only the ocean below for several hours (my stomach just flipped while typing... erggg!) of the trip. Somehow, when I turned 32 and went to Puerto Rico with J, I was transformed into a little bit of a worry- wart on the airplane, but I had to fake confidence because J is a horrible flyer and needed comfort to know we should bother going. Now that we have Mabel, I am just like J, sadly: completely convinced there is no way a plane can stay up in the air for a number of hours; waiting for the one teeny glitch to happen that's gonna steer the plane face down, plummeting into the freezing cold ocean; and sweating at the first bit of turbulence or a strange sound. My reactions waned and reappeared a bunch of times on our four flights to get to and from Aruba: the flight from where we live to Phili was awful because it came first and it was short and we didn't reach a high altitude (hence turbulence). Once we got up high going from Phili to Aruba, I was golden. And landing doesn't scare me too much. But take- off, and really the first half hour or so (when, say, the gas tank malfunctions and fuel starts pouring out and the plane is toast) are almost insurmountable times of fear. "Please let us make it back for Mabel's first birthday... please!" No longer under the sheltering protection of my parents, I am a total wimp now when it comes to air travel. I'm not going to let the fear preclude my traveling, as I have to assume exposure to safe flights will eventually assuage my pains. And don't tell J-- because I still maintain a game face for him. (When the flight attendant somewhat brusquely told us, "Please make sure your safety belt is still securely fastened," J told me she didn't sound confident and something was obviously very wrong.) I know people who fly weekly for work-- maybe that's the kind of exposure therapy I need, but I think I would need some Xanax or like 5 wines to knock me out first. My mom always says that air travel is the safest kind and you are way more likely to get in a car accident; I see that point, but at least I have SOME level of control over my car. And people can survive car accidents sometimes, whereas if a plane goes down, there's only one result.
4. Yes, I can fit everything into a carry- on bag. When visiting the Caribbean, ladies, you do not need jeans. You do not need shoes. You need flip- flops, a few dresses to wear at night, and some bathing suits and cover- ups. You are not going to want to flat- iron your hair, so leave all those tools home. And you don't need five pairs of pajamas. When will I learn not to overpack? Also, I get irrationally mad when I overpack-- looking at the unworn clothing with contempt and disgust. Then it's like I have to try to wear as much stuff as possible so I didn't pack in vain. Mind games.
5. It really doesn't matter what you look like in a bathingsuit, and you'll never see these people again, but it's okay to still fret a little, because what if Bradley Cooper ends up on your beach? Now that I'm 34, I'd like to think I've made some peace with my body. I know there's lots I can change about it (no, not with plastic surgery-- with EXERCISE!), but there are things that are unchangeable unless I want to spend some serious money and I am not THAT vain. For instance, I have huge ears. I also have a large area above my boobs but below my neck-- what's that called- some fancy word that starts with a d and sounds French. I always feel when I wear something strapless like that area of skin is just so large. And I have to bleach my fore- arm hair every month because it is brown not blonde and I think that is just so nasty looking on women. But anyway, I guess to a certain point I have started to accept some stuff. Still, I always find myself in that pre- vacation rut when I try on bathingsuits-- "Man, I have a lot of side- boob spillage-- should have done those chest press exercises. And my thighs, ewww. And why is everything just loose looking?" Then I tell myself I am a 34- year- old woman, and these things are not worth worrying about and I need to have fun on the trip. Inevitably, I get to my destination and see some really heavy women in string bikinis and I feel way better (I know it's unhealthy to base one's self- image on a comparison to others, but let's be real and admit we all do this.). But THEN I see chicks with these amazing bods, and I feel like an old lame- ass in my straw- hat and SPF 30 with side- boob and a droopy body, and the whole stupid cycle starts back up. I think, though, that I need to submit to caring a little. Caring or being a little vain might be the only thing that will get my droopy ass to the gym any time soon.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Parents' First Vacation
We just got back from nearly a week in Aruba. It was very, very, very awesome, though I'm sure one could surmise that it would be-- I mean, I've never heard anyone say the Caribbean was a bad time. We loved everything about our trip, which is particularly good because before we went I was having major anxiety and misgivings. We were leaving Mabel at home with my parents, and I didn't know how I'd do being a whole plane ride away and knowing I wouldn't see her for a week. I spent a solid couple weeks leading up to the trip in this weird kinda sad/ kinda butterflies- in- my- tummy state. When J and I booked the trip (a belated honeymoon since we got married in October but my job doesn't allow for an October vacation), Mabel was about 5 months old. "By the time Feb comes around, I will be TOTALLY fine with leaving her," I conjectured. Um, no. False. In fact, I felt WORSE than I did back then about the prospect, as Mabel has been "talking" and walking a little and has been all- around more expressive. I didn't want to miss a thing! I had nightmares about crying every day of the trip, and that we would come back and she would not know who we were, and even some real dark, morbid thoughts about something happening to J and me. A number of wonderful people in my life were there to support me and tell me it would be fine-- more than fine-- and that I needed to go on this trip. They were right! When J and I stepped off the plane, and a wave of that 86- degree heat ran over me, I felt a- ok. My mom and dad did a fabulous job sitting (they went to Story Hour and shopped and pretty much spoiled Mabel). By the time Thursday rolled around, J and I were excited to get home and see Mabel, as Friday would be her first birthday. We were fortunate to have all our travels go off without a hitch (which is pretty much wicked rare in the land of air travel), and we were home early Friday morning for the gal's big day. As I sat with her and watched her clap after receiving her Elmo cake from Nana, I thought about how lucky we were to have things go so smoothly, and as I looked back over the week, I remembered some observations I made and that I wanted to blog about. So, here they are.
1. I don't like airplane jargon: Why must the flight attendant say, 'We would like to remind you that we are beginning our initial descent, and so the beverage service is ending in the cabin." What is the "cabin"? Is it just the PLANE? Is it a part of the plane? Are they ending the bevvie service in only one PART of the plane, being the cabin, and, if so, what part is that? And the word "deplane"-- did someone just make that up? Can I say I am going to "decar" when I leave my Honda? And what's up with "snack sack" for the little bag you can buy that has, like, four peanuts and three grapes in it for seven bucks? Oh, and then there is "During flight please remain clear of the galleys." WTF are airplane galleys?
2. Sugar is a good test of how Americanized a place is: It's stupid to complain about a paradisey place, and it's not a complaint of substance, but my one gripe with Aruba is that it is too Americanized. I felt like every stretch of every bit of ground there was saying, "We cater to you, Americans! Please keep touristing here!" There was a Starbucks or a Taco Bell or a Dunkin' Donuts on every corner. They accepted American money which was convenient and easy, and everyone spoke English and I swear pizza and fries were served everywhere. While these conveniences make a visit more comfortable and simple, they also sort of make you feel like you never left the USA. I kept thinking I was in Florida, not 17 miles from Venezuela. One morning at breakfast, I looked over to that little sugar container thing, and there they were: Splenda, Equal, and Sweet 'n Low. Shouldn't they have, say, "Bon Bini Sweet" or something? Lots of folks on the island talked about Papiamento being a widely spoken Aruban language, which culls together bits of Spanish, Dutch, and even English, yet I didn't see many traces of said Papiamento. The most unAmericany Caribbean place I have visited was the gorgeous Rincon, Puerto Rico, and they didn't have Splenda or Equal there. In fact, almost everything was in Spanish. I think that if you can easily find American sugar substitutes at most of the island's eateries, you are not going to find a lot of culture. It's going to be all about Americans.
3. The previous entry does not indicate I am exotic or worldly: Let it be a caveat that while I like being tossed into a new culture, I am not sophisticated. I can't speak Papiamento, and my college and high school Spanglish leaves a lot to be desired. My wanting not to find Splenda on the table has more to do with a selfish longing to feel like I am reeeeeally away from home, and so that I can FEEL traveled and non- provincial (struggling trying to think of a good synonym right now for non- provincial. I already used worldly and cultured, and I did promise at the outset of this blog that I wouldn't edit, let alone obsess, over stupid shiz).
4. A vacation sans baby is incredibly different from one with a baby: Yeah, I know you're probably thinking, "Well, duh! Doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that." But we saw first- hand this very disparity. Those parents had to bring their kids in to nap, and they had to chase them around and get them juice and stuff. They had to go to dinner early. And on the plane, the parents seemed quite stressed because the babies and toddlers (we had a few on each flight) cried a lot. We met a couple from Johnston, RI on a boat one day, and they had their 13- month- old son with them. The mom said he hated the sand and the heat, and he had gotten sick while there. I give the parents a weird credit, though, for bringing their kids abroad and to a beach island. I think it takes balls-- balls that J and I don't have right now. The thought of the the tears on the plane-- possibly insatiable ones-- coupled with the idea of no relaxation is enough to make me feel nervous right NOW despite the fact that I am comfortably recumbent in bed while typing. But I like cool, "eff it" type parents like that. I like that they still went to Aruba. Even though I wouldn't do it myself with a one- year- old, I dug that other people did.
I have some more observations, but you (which really may just be me later on...) will start to get bored, and I want to see who wins all these Oscars. I already like Seth McFarlane as a host. He is wildly inappropriate and just did a Cabaret style song and dance to a tune called, "We've Seen Your Boobs."
1. I don't like airplane jargon: Why must the flight attendant say, 'We would like to remind you that we are beginning our initial descent, and so the beverage service is ending in the cabin." What is the "cabin"? Is it just the PLANE? Is it a part of the plane? Are they ending the bevvie service in only one PART of the plane, being the cabin, and, if so, what part is that? And the word "deplane"-- did someone just make that up? Can I say I am going to "decar" when I leave my Honda? And what's up with "snack sack" for the little bag you can buy that has, like, four peanuts and three grapes in it for seven bucks? Oh, and then there is "During flight please remain clear of the galleys." WTF are airplane galleys?
2. Sugar is a good test of how Americanized a place is: It's stupid to complain about a paradisey place, and it's not a complaint of substance, but my one gripe with Aruba is that it is too Americanized. I felt like every stretch of every bit of ground there was saying, "We cater to you, Americans! Please keep touristing here!" There was a Starbucks or a Taco Bell or a Dunkin' Donuts on every corner. They accepted American money which was convenient and easy, and everyone spoke English and I swear pizza and fries were served everywhere. While these conveniences make a visit more comfortable and simple, they also sort of make you feel like you never left the USA. I kept thinking I was in Florida, not 17 miles from Venezuela. One morning at breakfast, I looked over to that little sugar container thing, and there they were: Splenda, Equal, and Sweet 'n Low. Shouldn't they have, say, "Bon Bini Sweet" or something? Lots of folks on the island talked about Papiamento being a widely spoken Aruban language, which culls together bits of Spanish, Dutch, and even English, yet I didn't see many traces of said Papiamento. The most unAmericany Caribbean place I have visited was the gorgeous Rincon, Puerto Rico, and they didn't have Splenda or Equal there. In fact, almost everything was in Spanish. I think that if you can easily find American sugar substitutes at most of the island's eateries, you are not going to find a lot of culture. It's going to be all about Americans.
3. The previous entry does not indicate I am exotic or worldly: Let it be a caveat that while I like being tossed into a new culture, I am not sophisticated. I can't speak Papiamento, and my college and high school Spanglish leaves a lot to be desired. My wanting not to find Splenda on the table has more to do with a selfish longing to feel like I am reeeeeally away from home, and so that I can FEEL traveled and non- provincial (struggling trying to think of a good synonym right now for non- provincial. I already used worldly and cultured, and I did promise at the outset of this blog that I wouldn't edit, let alone obsess, over stupid shiz).
4. A vacation sans baby is incredibly different from one with a baby: Yeah, I know you're probably thinking, "Well, duh! Doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that." But we saw first- hand this very disparity. Those parents had to bring their kids in to nap, and they had to chase them around and get them juice and stuff. They had to go to dinner early. And on the plane, the parents seemed quite stressed because the babies and toddlers (we had a few on each flight) cried a lot. We met a couple from Johnston, RI on a boat one day, and they had their 13- month- old son with them. The mom said he hated the sand and the heat, and he had gotten sick while there. I give the parents a weird credit, though, for bringing their kids abroad and to a beach island. I think it takes balls-- balls that J and I don't have right now. The thought of the the tears on the plane-- possibly insatiable ones-- coupled with the idea of no relaxation is enough to make me feel nervous right NOW despite the fact that I am comfortably recumbent in bed while typing. But I like cool, "eff it" type parents like that. I like that they still went to Aruba. Even though I wouldn't do it myself with a one- year- old, I dug that other people did.
I have some more observations, but you (which really may just be me later on...) will start to get bored, and I want to see who wins all these Oscars. I already like Seth McFarlane as a host. He is wildly inappropriate and just did a Cabaret style song and dance to a tune called, "We've Seen Your Boobs."
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Baby's First Blizzard
I don't normally blog again after only a couple days, but the blizzard has prompted me to. I know I will want to be able to look back on the details of the storm. Mabel experienced her first hurricane in October, and now she's lucky enough to witness quite a snowstorm before she is even 1. This storm is unprecedented in the lives of many-- even for me, as I was still 10 months away from joining the world when the infamous Blizzard of '78 hit.
There's a travel ban on, meaning only emergency vehicles may be on the road, and otherwise driving is punishable by a year in prison, which cracks me up. Winds are 75- 85 MPH on the Cape, and around here they are 50- 60. At this moment, 413,000 homes are without power, and restoring it will mean plowing first to reach the lines. Being without heat must be incredibly tough, especially with babies and kids. Nstar has called in reinforcement crews from Western Mass; they say they are working hard to expedite the process of power restoration, but the snow has to stop first. Snow is still coming down at a decent clip-- going on about 24 hours now. I'd say we have a little over 2 feet of snow, but it's hard to tell.
J went out with the snow blower last night, but you can't even tell now. We decided to wait until the snow is completely done falling before going back out to blow and shovel. Ought to be quite a project.
I keep thinking about how, being Feb 9, if this were last year, I would have been a little antsy since I was due to have the baby on Feb 15. The news has already presented stories about women being taken via ambulance to have their babies. How mightily stressful! Fun to think that not even a year later from that due date, we are watching the snow come down with our crazy, busy, curious, cute little toddler. Hoping she likes taking a few pounces right down in that packed powder. I will attempt to show her the methodology behind snow angels, but knowing Mabel, she will want to just sit and chow on the snow. :)
There's a travel ban on, meaning only emergency vehicles may be on the road, and otherwise driving is punishable by a year in prison, which cracks me up. Winds are 75- 85 MPH on the Cape, and around here they are 50- 60. At this moment, 413,000 homes are without power, and restoring it will mean plowing first to reach the lines. Being without heat must be incredibly tough, especially with babies and kids. Nstar has called in reinforcement crews from Western Mass; they say they are working hard to expedite the process of power restoration, but the snow has to stop first. Snow is still coming down at a decent clip-- going on about 24 hours now. I'd say we have a little over 2 feet of snow, but it's hard to tell.
J went out with the snow blower last night, but you can't even tell now. We decided to wait until the snow is completely done falling before going back out to blow and shovel. Ought to be quite a project.
I keep thinking about how, being Feb 9, if this were last year, I would have been a little antsy since I was due to have the baby on Feb 15. The news has already presented stories about women being taken via ambulance to have their babies. How mightily stressful! Fun to think that not even a year later from that due date, we are watching the snow come down with our crazy, busy, curious, cute little toddler. Hoping she likes taking a few pounces right down in that packed powder. I will attempt to show her the methodology behind snow angels, but knowing Mabel, she will want to just sit and chow on the snow. :)
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Ticking Time- Bomb
My best friend Doris and I have girls two months apart, her daughter Agnes being older than Mabel. After J's and my inaugural "baby- in- tow" restaurant outing (somewhere around Mabel's four- week birthday), I was telling Doris that it went well but that I was nervous the whole time she would wake up and scream and we'd have to leave Chili's immediately, ditching our Enchiladas in a panic. She commiserated, and suggested that having a baby out in public is like a ticking time- bomb. I loved the analogy then and still do.
There are many instances in which a baby or toddler serves as your own little bomb, so fickle in her decision to freak out or fuss. When babies are newborns, I think the fear of a bomb explosion is worse because newborns tend to wail when they are dissatisfied. Mabel was and is a pretty textbook kid in her conduct: whines when overtired, cries when really, really dissatisfied or sleepy, for the most part is calm and content. 90 percent of the time, Mabel is quiet in the car, either sleeping or day- dreaming. And out in public places, she stares at other patrons and at the store's wares. Unless I take Mabel to the store at 5pm-- the toddler's witching hour-- she's quiet as mouse and makes good company.
I typically pick Mabel up from day care around 4, and yesterday I was full of energy. We needed a bunch of crap from Target, and I figured there was no time like the present. Mabel and I drove over to the store, about 15 minutes away, and I plopped her into the store cart. For the first twenty minutes or so, she stared agape at all the Valentine's Day decor and at passers by. I'll admit I was going about my shopping in a leisurely way-- remembering I wanted one thing at one end of the store and then sauntering back to the other. It was nearly 5:00 when Mabel began her little whines. The sound is something like "ehhh", repeated in around 3 second intervals. After a few, the "ehhh" becomes "ehhhhhh." Oh, man, run and get Similac and Valentine's Day cards. Run, I told myself. I had thrown a few t- shirts in the cart for Mabel already, so I grabbed a colorful one and put it in her lap to play with. In sifting through boxes of Valentines based on kids' shows I had never heard of (Mabel needs Valentines to give out at day care), I took my eyes off her for a second, and didn't realize she was sucking on a little corner of the shirt and the price tag. Oh, well-- what's done is done. She had already drunk all the water in her Sippy, and since we had come directly from day care, I didn't have any reinforcements in the form of a bottle or another Sippy (her original had now hit the Target floor). Now I was really in the desperate place: Well, the Sippy that's touched the Target cart AND floor is probably worse to put a mouth to than this tag. And, yes, I let her continue to chew at the tag. I allowed my child to eat paper.
Racing through the aisles for shampoo and paper- towels, I put up with a few more choruses of "ehhhhh" but was impressed that I had, for the most part, squelched the fussiness. Now we would just need to pay. By the time we got up to the cashier and started emptying our stuff onto the belt, Mabel was really doing some good work on that t- shirt. When I had to give the cashier the shirt, the lady said, "Ummm, do you know how much this was? The tag is gone." I lifted Mabel up and found the tag in two halves under her legs.
Me: "Here you go, sorry they are both wet, but the SKU is there."
Her: "Let me see if the gun will read it..... Um, the bar code is too wet and the tag is too split."
Me (mortified):"That's okay,, you know what, we don't need the t- shirt. Sorry about all this."
Her (so kindly and patiently):"Let me punch the numbers in."
(More "ehhhhhhhhhhh". Mabel wants OUT of her seat.)
Her: "I can't read the last digit. Can you?"
Me: "Maybe a 5??"
Her: "Let me try that."
(It worked.)
I started flinging our purchases into bags to help the cashier. We paid (I should also add for the sake of the story that my total was 381 bucks, and that's because when you bring a baby to a store, you just throw everything you might want into the cart and tell yourself you can return stuff later... and then you don't). We got into the car, and I cleaned off the dirty Sippy with a sanitizing wipe and gave it back to Mabel. She took a few tugs off that thing and passed out.
I can't really express in this blog that feeling that comes on when the ticking time bomb creeps up-- when the whines begin. This sort of nervousness also is brought on when we take Mabel on long car rides and we have to stop for gas. Please don't wake up, please don't wake up. Once you've got them calm/ asleep, you can't risk their waking and riling. The anxiety when you fear the bomb is profound. Tick, tick, tick...
There are many instances in which a baby or toddler serves as your own little bomb, so fickle in her decision to freak out or fuss. When babies are newborns, I think the fear of a bomb explosion is worse because newborns tend to wail when they are dissatisfied. Mabel was and is a pretty textbook kid in her conduct: whines when overtired, cries when really, really dissatisfied or sleepy, for the most part is calm and content. 90 percent of the time, Mabel is quiet in the car, either sleeping or day- dreaming. And out in public places, she stares at other patrons and at the store's wares. Unless I take Mabel to the store at 5pm-- the toddler's witching hour-- she's quiet as mouse and makes good company.
I typically pick Mabel up from day care around 4, and yesterday I was full of energy. We needed a bunch of crap from Target, and I figured there was no time like the present. Mabel and I drove over to the store, about 15 minutes away, and I plopped her into the store cart. For the first twenty minutes or so, she stared agape at all the Valentine's Day decor and at passers by. I'll admit I was going about my shopping in a leisurely way-- remembering I wanted one thing at one end of the store and then sauntering back to the other. It was nearly 5:00 when Mabel began her little whines. The sound is something like "ehhh", repeated in around 3 second intervals. After a few, the "ehhh" becomes "ehhhhhh." Oh, man, run and get Similac and Valentine's Day cards. Run, I told myself. I had thrown a few t- shirts in the cart for Mabel already, so I grabbed a colorful one and put it in her lap to play with. In sifting through boxes of Valentines based on kids' shows I had never heard of (Mabel needs Valentines to give out at day care), I took my eyes off her for a second, and didn't realize she was sucking on a little corner of the shirt and the price tag. Oh, well-- what's done is done. She had already drunk all the water in her Sippy, and since we had come directly from day care, I didn't have any reinforcements in the form of a bottle or another Sippy (her original had now hit the Target floor). Now I was really in the desperate place: Well, the Sippy that's touched the Target cart AND floor is probably worse to put a mouth to than this tag. And, yes, I let her continue to chew at the tag. I allowed my child to eat paper.
Racing through the aisles for shampoo and paper- towels, I put up with a few more choruses of "ehhhhh" but was impressed that I had, for the most part, squelched the fussiness. Now we would just need to pay. By the time we got up to the cashier and started emptying our stuff onto the belt, Mabel was really doing some good work on that t- shirt. When I had to give the cashier the shirt, the lady said, "Ummm, do you know how much this was? The tag is gone." I lifted Mabel up and found the tag in two halves under her legs.
Me: "Here you go, sorry they are both wet, but the SKU is there."
Her: "Let me see if the gun will read it..... Um, the bar code is too wet and the tag is too split."
Me (mortified):"That's okay,, you know what, we don't need the t- shirt. Sorry about all this."
Her (so kindly and patiently):"Let me punch the numbers in."
(More "ehhhhhhhhhhh". Mabel wants OUT of her seat.)
Her: "I can't read the last digit. Can you?"
Me: "Maybe a 5??"
Her: "Let me try that."
(It worked.)
I started flinging our purchases into bags to help the cashier. We paid (I should also add for the sake of the story that my total was 381 bucks, and that's because when you bring a baby to a store, you just throw everything you might want into the cart and tell yourself you can return stuff later... and then you don't). We got into the car, and I cleaned off the dirty Sippy with a sanitizing wipe and gave it back to Mabel. She took a few tugs off that thing and passed out.
I can't really express in this blog that feeling that comes on when the ticking time bomb creeps up-- when the whines begin. This sort of nervousness also is brought on when we take Mabel on long car rides and we have to stop for gas. Please don't wake up, please don't wake up. Once you've got them calm/ asleep, you can't risk their waking and riling. The anxiety when you fear the bomb is profound. Tick, tick, tick...
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