So I joined Facebook, and immediately and unintentionally sent an "invitation to join" to every one of the 400 or so people in my Yahoo address book. I feel like an idiot. But I can't be the first person who's done that. Right? Right?
More importantly, Henry had his first day of preschool!
The first question everyone asks is, "Did you cry?" and the answer is no, because they want the parents to come to the first three sessions, because it's this parental-involvement program for 2 year olds. So I was there, and Henry spent most of the two hours pretending he didn't know me.
But he loved it! He played with cars and trucks, he kissed the fish tank a few dozen times, he painted a picture, squished play-doh, had a snack, played outside. What's not to love?
He did better than me, anyway. All the parents seemed to be chatting with ease and I felt like, well, I guess like a kid on her first day of school. All awkward and socially incompetent. Proof that I still have a ways to go in becoming less self-centered, because this was about Henry, and
not me.
On another note, I am outraged that McCain has dodged the first presidential debate. Outraged! Even I had no idea how much I was looking forward to Friday. I follow this campaign with the intensity only a shut-in could muster. I'm not an Obamamaniac by any means, although I've really been impressed in the past week, now that he's acting like his campaign isn't being run by handicapable gerbils.
Oh, little potato has just opened her eyes. My time is up.
One last thing: This morning Simon had Amelia dozing on his bare chest, and she bobbed her head around for a minute, then clamped her vise-like gums onto his nipple. Simon howled in pain, and for one brief moment, I felt very, very happy.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
All hail the baby swing
Here's the solution to Amelia not sleeping during the day: the battery-operated baby swing. She loves it. She'd spend all day in there if that didn't make me want to vomit with guilt.
I am still in survival mode. Each day--each hour--that I get through is a small victory. So much the better if I get through it without crying. It's not the lack of sleep so much as it is the lack of any time to myself. And the guilt. I am currently a half-assed mother to Henry and my swing-bound Amelia. I feel guilty when I can't help Henry because I'm feeding Amelia, I feel guilty when I'm reading to Henry instead of talking to Amelia, I feel guilty when I have to pee and stay in the bathroom 30 seconds longer than I really need to just so I can breathe in a room by myself.
Also, my nipples may wear through soon. Everyone who has successfully breastfed for 12 months (or more!), you have my deep respect. I would quit now except that a) if I had to load up formula and the portable bottle-warmer I would never leave the house and b) the size of my rack makes me feel better about the size of my stomach. This is the closest I'll get to implants. I have cleavage!
Today we went to Target. Henry was a star--never running away and calmly leaving the toy aisle when I told him it was time to go. Amelia screamed half the time, which is a state I have come to accept in some instances, but which seemed to alarm every grandmother-aged woman in the store, each of whom offered me different advice about what I was supposed to be doing. If I had any energy I'd have felt either irritated or incompetent. Instead it was just nice to talk to people.
I like going to Target. It reminds me that I'm not dead yet.
I am still in survival mode. Each day--each hour--that I get through is a small victory. So much the better if I get through it without crying. It's not the lack of sleep so much as it is the lack of any time to myself. And the guilt. I am currently a half-assed mother to Henry and my swing-bound Amelia. I feel guilty when I can't help Henry because I'm feeding Amelia, I feel guilty when I'm reading to Henry instead of talking to Amelia, I feel guilty when I have to pee and stay in the bathroom 30 seconds longer than I really need to just so I can breathe in a room by myself.
Also, my nipples may wear through soon. Everyone who has successfully breastfed for 12 months (or more!), you have my deep respect. I would quit now except that a) if I had to load up formula and the portable bottle-warmer I would never leave the house and b) the size of my rack makes me feel better about the size of my stomach. This is the closest I'll get to implants. I have cleavage!
Today we went to Target. Henry was a star--never running away and calmly leaving the toy aisle when I told him it was time to go. Amelia screamed half the time, which is a state I have come to accept in some instances, but which seemed to alarm every grandmother-aged woman in the store, each of whom offered me different advice about what I was supposed to be doing. If I had any energy I'd have felt either irritated or incompetent. Instead it was just nice to talk to people.
I like going to Target. It reminds me that I'm not dead yet.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Mysteries
Amelia still takes two to four hours of soothing to go to sleep for longer than 20 minutes at a time. WTF??? She's tired--exhausted even. Why does that not translate to sleep? When she's hungry, she cries, I give her a boob, she eats. Yet when she's tired and she cries and I soothe her to the brink of deep sleep, her eyes fly open and she is suddenly WIDE AWAKE and mad as hell about it.
I had no idea Henry was such a brilliant sleeper.
This gets better, right? Anyone with kids who didn't sleep right off the bat? I mean, I'll be sleeping more than four hours a night by next February, right? Maybe? Throw me a bone. I need some glimmer of hope to cling to.
And back to the gender stereotyping. MargaretJames blogged about people giving her son NASCAR sheets. The only thing worse than big machines being shoved down the throats of little boys is the offal that gets presented to little girls. Can't they wear anything other than pink? And not just pink--I have nothing against pink, I got her a couple of T-shirts with little salmon-pink birds on them--but Pepto-Bismol pink. With flowers. And ruffles. And maybe bunny rabbits with pink bows on them. Christ. Let's just change her name to Princess and be done with it.
I know--crab, crab, crab. Things are actually fine. Great, even. The fact that I have time to write this is a testament to the fact that my life is not over, as I had thought in the first couple of days. There's still a lot of crying in this house, but now it's mostly Amelia and Henry, and not so much me. Progress!
I had no idea Henry was such a brilliant sleeper.
This gets better, right? Anyone with kids who didn't sleep right off the bat? I mean, I'll be sleeping more than four hours a night by next February, right? Maybe? Throw me a bone. I need some glimmer of hope to cling to.
And back to the gender stereotyping. MargaretJames blogged about people giving her son NASCAR sheets. The only thing worse than big machines being shoved down the throats of little boys is the offal that gets presented to little girls. Can't they wear anything other than pink? And not just pink--I have nothing against pink, I got her a couple of T-shirts with little salmon-pink birds on them--but Pepto-Bismol pink. With flowers. And ruffles. And maybe bunny rabbits with pink bows on them. Christ. Let's just change her name to Princess and be done with it.
I know--crab, crab, crab. Things are actually fine. Great, even. The fact that I have time to write this is a testament to the fact that my life is not over, as I had thought in the first couple of days. There's still a lot of crying in this house, but now it's mostly Amelia and Henry, and not so much me. Progress!
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