We had Mabel's birthday party this weekend, which was the first party we have ever hosted at our house. I hate to admit this over a 1- year- old's birthday, but I was kind of a nervous wreck. I always feel like I am going to majorly eff up when I am in charge of something like this. I feel like some people are born with this incredible hosting gene-- they seem to inherently know what to serve, how much to make, and exactly what decor to put up and where. Oh, and how to make those cool Fondant cakes. They don't leave out details, and their parties look effortless. While I'm sort of OCD when it comes to planning stuff, from vacations to parties (I made about six different lists for this party), I am definitely not one of those effortless- party- planner types. I had to think real hard about what we would need and make a bazillion trips to the store.
I really wanted the party to be at the house as a personal preference. I have nothing against parties at halls, but for my nervous- nellie self, I like smaller parties. We decided that since the weather wouldn't allow for going outdoors, we would have to trim our initial guest list substantially, which at first I thought stunk because it meant we couldn't invite many friends. J and I decided we would invite two friends each, with their significant others/ kids, of course: I had my bestie/ Mabel's godmother, and my other really close friend E. J had B and S come up from CT. Other than that, it was all family. I thought it would make me a little sad not to have other friends of ours come over and celebrate, but a little ways into the day, I saw we had the perfect number of people for a 1- year- old to have at her party, and since a lot of my girlfriends are single, they probably would have been bored stiff having to watch a 1- year- old eat cake and open puzzles.
Knowing we would have to massively clean our hellstorm of a house the morning of the fiesta, I didn't want to leave a ton of cooking to be done. We ordered two party pizzas and a 3- foot long sub from a local grocery. I made meatballs and a mac n cheese dish and a salad. My mom also made a salad and brought the cake and cupcakes. After we all housed cheese and crackers and a bunch of other apps, the main stuff went out, and I laughed at how badly I had misjudged. I was convinced it would not be enough food; meanwhile, we didn't even touch the second party pizza, and not even half the sub was consumed. Again, I lack that planning gene that tells you that you don't also have to do meatballs and mac n cheese. People just want to eat food and it's not all that important to have a ginormous variety.
By the time the cake part came along, Mabel was going on an afternoon of non- napping. There was no way this kid was gonna go down for a slumber upstairs with her party going on downstairs. Miraculously enough, she did awesomely-- the cake part was very cute, as it is at most babies' parties. To me, this marked the conclusion of the itinerary, and peeps could just sit around and continue to chow and talk and drink and whatever. Apparently, not everyone agreed. A family member was in the kitchen complaining that I wasn't having Mabel open her gifts in front of everyone, because "it [was] a birthday party after all." Ummm, really? Do YOU want to sit there and watch Mabel (me) open up outfit after outfit, toy after toy, and forcefully "oo" and "ah" at it all? I have learned that in family crap, you have to keep the peace. And so on we went to open the presents. Mabel wanted nothing to do with such a task-- who can blame her? SHE IS ONE. SHE DOES NOT KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON. She preferred to play with bags and bits of tissue paper and other toys that were already sitting nearby, and I let her. I flew through the opening (perhaps too briskly), but I have been at those parties where the gift- opening is an absolute effing eternity, and since this party had gone real well up to that point, I didn't want to slow it down with the ridiculousness of a 1- year- old ripping off wrapping paper bit by bit.
As Shakespeare said, all's well that ends well, and that's how this party went. No complaints. Mabel was great, our guests were great, and the food ended up being, I think, okay too. Lessons learned for you, or for me:
1. You don't need the amount of food you think you do, and people will bring more than you think. I didn't want to give anyone except my mom a job to do (there's a comfort in asking your own mom, but I hate for anyone else to be put- upon), yet my BIL brought baked brie and crackers and grapes, and my MIL brought a whole tray of apps. We didn't even NEED the apps J and I bought.
2. Always serve alcohol. Not everyone will drink, but many will, and a few beers makes gift- opening all the more palatable. I say if you have a tight budget, have fewer people so you can have alcohol. This is my same thought on drinks at weddings; you should always have at least one hour of open bar for folks, and if you can't, have fewer people.
3. You don't need to open the gifts. But if you do, don't have the baby do it. I am not being all "I did it perfectly" here. I almost DID have Mabel open them with me, but then saw it would have taken a century. People are standing around. They don't want that.
4. Even if you're not an emo person, you will get emo watching your baby blow out her candle and eat her cake. It's weird but true. I didn't feel sad or recognize that Mabel's first b-day party was monumental until everyone was gathered around singing to her. It was precious. And she was so happy. Melt.
5. No matter what you do for a party, it will be fun. I agonized over the Dr. Seuss theme, searching on Etsy for the perfect personalized cupcake toppers and making a couple of banners using Dr. Seuss letters. I got themed balloons and a themed cake, and we set up Dr. S. books and stuffed animals on the window sill. We had red and white napkins, and a decorative Dr. Seuss hat. It sounds cliched, but in the end, none of it mattered. Mabel certainly didn't know any better, and everyone there would have had fun with food, drink, and a few laughs. Do what makes you happy for the party, but keep in mind the baby has not a clue. :)
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Thursday, February 28, 2013
More Observations from Vacation
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.
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.
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...
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Time for a Snapshot
Yup, it's that time again that I want to post a snapshot of Mabel's doings. It's going to be quick, because I am utterly swamped with grading. But I was afraid if I didn't do it while thinking of it, I'd forget to do a snapshot any time soon.
Mabel is desperate to walk. She can stand momentarily without holding onto anything, and a couple of times she has taken a step from one thing (say a couch corner) to something else (a table). She can race up the stairs (we only allow this when we are behind her-- otherwise the stairs are gated), and she wears this shit- eating grin of achievement when she gets to the top. It's fun to see her be proud of herself. And speaking of being proud, she also is so when she walks behind her carriage or train, which she now pushes all around the first floor. Her walk while doing so is straddled and awkward; I love it. Mabel makes a lot of sounds now and babbles like crazy. She says both "mama" and "dada" but without association. In fact, most things are either "dada" or "ba." When she DOES call her bottle a "ba" or "baba" I wonder if it's purposeful, similarly to how I wonder if her saying "mama" twice now when I have arrived at day care is coincidental or intentional. Mabel waves hi and bye, and T (day care provider) told me yesterday that Mabel says "bahh bahh" a lot when waving "bye bye" to kids. So far, we aren't counting any of these as first words; we feel we need a little more context for these to be REAL words, but we like that she is making all the fun sounds and syllables.
Mabel laughs hard when her doll Abby Kadabby "talks." She also enjoys flopping down on her stuffed Penelope dog. Mabel's heartiest laughs come when J does this whole tickle monster routine with her. They both are down on all- fours, and they chase each other while shrieking in excitement, and eventually, when J catches up with her and tickles her, she roars giggling. In fact, now when J's key goes in the door, Mabel looks at me inquisitively as if to say, "Is it him?? The tickle monster?" When he enters the room, she goes nuts. Mabel is still loving cell phones and remote controls, and she is dying to play with the ipad but has not been allowed. Dolls and toys are played with for a few minutes usually, but eventually Mabel wants to attack tupperware and other safe kitchenware we let her play with. She has many toys, yet the simple house stuff is what entertains her most... go figure! My favorite skill of hers is the high- 5. If you say, "Mabel, gimme 5!" she will reach up and give you the daintiest and lightest but proudest high- 5 you can imagine. She's even good with low- 5. That girl knows her 5's!
Mabel is desperate to walk. She can stand momentarily without holding onto anything, and a couple of times she has taken a step from one thing (say a couch corner) to something else (a table). She can race up the stairs (we only allow this when we are behind her-- otherwise the stairs are gated), and she wears this shit- eating grin of achievement when she gets to the top. It's fun to see her be proud of herself. And speaking of being proud, she also is so when she walks behind her carriage or train, which she now pushes all around the first floor. Her walk while doing so is straddled and awkward; I love it. Mabel makes a lot of sounds now and babbles like crazy. She says both "mama" and "dada" but without association. In fact, most things are either "dada" or "ba." When she DOES call her bottle a "ba" or "baba" I wonder if it's purposeful, similarly to how I wonder if her saying "mama" twice now when I have arrived at day care is coincidental or intentional. Mabel waves hi and bye, and T (day care provider) told me yesterday that Mabel says "bahh bahh" a lot when waving "bye bye" to kids. So far, we aren't counting any of these as first words; we feel we need a little more context for these to be REAL words, but we like that she is making all the fun sounds and syllables.
Mabel laughs hard when her doll Abby Kadabby "talks." She also enjoys flopping down on her stuffed Penelope dog. Mabel's heartiest laughs come when J does this whole tickle monster routine with her. They both are down on all- fours, and they chase each other while shrieking in excitement, and eventually, when J catches up with her and tickles her, she roars giggling. In fact, now when J's key goes in the door, Mabel looks at me inquisitively as if to say, "Is it him?? The tickle monster?" When he enters the room, she goes nuts. Mabel is still loving cell phones and remote controls, and she is dying to play with the ipad but has not been allowed. Dolls and toys are played with for a few minutes usually, but eventually Mabel wants to attack tupperware and other safe kitchenware we let her play with. She has many toys, yet the simple house stuff is what entertains her most... go figure! My favorite skill of hers is the high- 5. If you say, "Mabel, gimme 5!" she will reach up and give you the daintiest and lightest but proudest high- 5 you can imagine. She's even good with low- 5. That girl knows her 5's!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
What kind of mom?
I saw a post on a website yesterday that jarred me. It was titled, "What kind of mom are you?" and there was an accompanying quiz to take so you could figure out some handy- dandy word to describe your maternal habits. I felt it stupid right when I glimpsed it, but later I found myself thinking about the concept. Are there really kinds of moms? Am I a kind, one particular type that can be described succinctly?
As you know from early posts, I'm a worrier. Even at 11 months into this game, I still check on Mabel all the time when she's sleeping. I still get nerved up that a cough means an illness, and I still worry that I am doing everything wrong. I have this almost visceral fear that no matter what choice I make, I am messing up Mabel's future somehow. That if I am a teeny bit under a full scoop of formula I will build up in her some horrid disease. That if I don't react to her whines the right way she will be emotionally inept. That if I don't wash her clothes in the right detergent she will have a permanent skin condition. It's probably about my self- esteem, and I probably belong on the couch of a shrink's office, but I have nearly convinced myself I am an inept mom.
I suppose it's because I've never been in charge of a life before. Does every mom go through some level of this "I suck" feeling? Do moms tend to feel more or less confident when they have more kids? Is there any relief?
So even though I know I am a worried mom, I still don't know what "type" of mom I am. I know what I don't want to be. I don't want to be a helicopter mother (seen wayyyy too many of those on my job), and I don't want to be an uninvolved, figure- it- out- yourself parent either. I want to be protective but to a degree that allows for independence. I worry that I can do that. What if I become more and more worried, to the point I want to quarantine Mabel??
I also know that I don't want to be impatient, and I don't want to yell a lot. My parents were awesome in many, many ways while we were growing up-- they were constantly supportive of our endeavors, and they loved us with more heart than I can describe here. But they were also coming off of a generation of old- school, Irish- tempered households. My dad yelled a lot, and got exasperated a lot, and my mom did too. I don't fault them-- they didn't know any other way. And we learned to be respectful of our elders, and to work hard, and to be humble, among other crucial lessons. But I have to wonder if I would have ended up less a Nervous Nellie if they had been calmer. I put a lot of pressure on myself for fear of letting them down (which is funny, because my dad asked only that we always try our best, and said the effort grade was more important than the actual grade. I think I ended up translating that to mean that if I were working hard, I WOULD do well. Maybe I had that perfectionistic way in my hard- wiring. Anyway, I digress...). But I feel myself getting impatient around the house all the time: when the bottle brush won't get all the formula off, when Mabel tips a basket of laundry over, when she changes the channel with the remote and I can't figure out how to fix it. I have to really try-- and calming words from J help too-- not to get unreasonably ticked off sometimes. Argh- the curse of the Irish temper! Temperamental is NOT the kind of mom I want to be.
If I want not to be impatient and angry and tight- assed, then it would logically follow that the kind of mother I want to be is calm and more roll- with- the - punches- esque. I need to have these traits at work too, and in my interactions with J and my parents and everyone else.
While I am not ready to label myself as a kind of mother, at least I have figured out what I don't want to be-- what might be detrimental to Mabel's well- being. She's worth it to me to try-- to try real hard. I hope that no matter what happens, I turn out to be the kind of mom that Mabel needs. She won't be a perfect mother, and she will screw up and act impatient and get nervous and pick at the skin on her thumbs when she's really anxious. But dear goodness, please, please don't let her neuroses eff up that sweet little baby girl.
As you know from early posts, I'm a worrier. Even at 11 months into this game, I still check on Mabel all the time when she's sleeping. I still get nerved up that a cough means an illness, and I still worry that I am doing everything wrong. I have this almost visceral fear that no matter what choice I make, I am messing up Mabel's future somehow. That if I am a teeny bit under a full scoop of formula I will build up in her some horrid disease. That if I don't react to her whines the right way she will be emotionally inept. That if I don't wash her clothes in the right detergent she will have a permanent skin condition. It's probably about my self- esteem, and I probably belong on the couch of a shrink's office, but I have nearly convinced myself I am an inept mom.
I suppose it's because I've never been in charge of a life before. Does every mom go through some level of this "I suck" feeling? Do moms tend to feel more or less confident when they have more kids? Is there any relief?
So even though I know I am a worried mom, I still don't know what "type" of mom I am. I know what I don't want to be. I don't want to be a helicopter mother (seen wayyyy too many of those on my job), and I don't want to be an uninvolved, figure- it- out- yourself parent either. I want to be protective but to a degree that allows for independence. I worry that I can do that. What if I become more and more worried, to the point I want to quarantine Mabel??
I also know that I don't want to be impatient, and I don't want to yell a lot. My parents were awesome in many, many ways while we were growing up-- they were constantly supportive of our endeavors, and they loved us with more heart than I can describe here. But they were also coming off of a generation of old- school, Irish- tempered households. My dad yelled a lot, and got exasperated a lot, and my mom did too. I don't fault them-- they didn't know any other way. And we learned to be respectful of our elders, and to work hard, and to be humble, among other crucial lessons. But I have to wonder if I would have ended up less a Nervous Nellie if they had been calmer. I put a lot of pressure on myself for fear of letting them down (which is funny, because my dad asked only that we always try our best, and said the effort grade was more important than the actual grade. I think I ended up translating that to mean that if I were working hard, I WOULD do well. Maybe I had that perfectionistic way in my hard- wiring. Anyway, I digress...). But I feel myself getting impatient around the house all the time: when the bottle brush won't get all the formula off, when Mabel tips a basket of laundry over, when she changes the channel with the remote and I can't figure out how to fix it. I have to really try-- and calming words from J help too-- not to get unreasonably ticked off sometimes. Argh- the curse of the Irish temper! Temperamental is NOT the kind of mom I want to be.
If I want not to be impatient and angry and tight- assed, then it would logically follow that the kind of mother I want to be is calm and more roll- with- the - punches- esque. I need to have these traits at work too, and in my interactions with J and my parents and everyone else.
While I am not ready to label myself as a kind of mother, at least I have figured out what I don't want to be-- what might be detrimental to Mabel's well- being. She's worth it to me to try-- to try real hard. I hope that no matter what happens, I turn out to be the kind of mom that Mabel needs. She won't be a perfect mother, and she will screw up and act impatient and get nervous and pick at the skin on her thumbs when she's really anxious. But dear goodness, please, please don't let her neuroses eff up that sweet little baby girl.
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