I may be patriotic, but I’m also lazy
So I’m reprising my Independence Day post from 2006 - A Woman in Uniform.
(Yeah, that woman would be me.)
Happy Independence Day! Be safe and be proud.
Published by mothergoosemouse on July 4th, 2008 tagged Bloggy-linky-meme-y | 2 Comments »
At least he knows where he falls in the pecking order
When we left New Jersey, we found a new home for our elderly cat, Cleopatra.
She was really Kyle’s cat; he’d bought her shortly after he graduated college and taken her with him from Arizona to Oregon, North Dakota to Ohio, Panama to Delaware, and New York to New Jersey. She was one well-traveled kitty.
She and Tacy developed a mutually acceptable relationship. Tacy would pet and hug Cleopatra as gently as a toddler can, and Cleopatra would tolerate it.
When we left New Jersey for Colorado, Cleopatra wasn’t exactly on death’s doorstep, but she was clearly making her way up the front walk. Given that she was really Kyle’s cat, I left it up to him whether or not we would bring her with us.
Our His other cat, Caesar, had died just after Tacy’s first birthday. While she recognized him in pictures, she had no concrete recollection of him. Cleopatra, on the other hand, was a fixture in Tacy’s life. When her ninth life was spent, Tacy would definitely realize what was happening…and have plenty of questions.
Hoping to avoid questions about Cleopatra’s imminent death, Kyle gave her to a co-worker and told Tacy that Cleopatra was staying in New Jersey, thus unleashing a barrage of questions. We reassured her as best we could that we weren’t going to leave her or infant CJ behind in New Jersey. I’m pretty sure she believes us by now.
Even so, she has continued to ask after Cleopatra. At first, it was several times a week. Then it was a few times a month, and then only once in a while. “Is Cleopatra still with Marlon?” Sweetie, she’s probably gone by now. She was an old kitty. “You mean she DIED?!” Yes, I believe so.
So much for avoiding the death discussion. We prolonged it instead.
But she hadn’t mentioned Cleopatra in a long time - several months - until the other day when I was holding Oliver, and Tacy was cooing at him. She told him: “You’re better than Cleopatra, you know that?”
Hear that, pet-lovers? Your pets may be just like babies to you, but my six year-old is here to tell you different.
Published by mothergoosemouse on July 3rd, 2008 tagged Baby makes three (kids), Bwahahaha!, Kids say the darnedest things, Miss Goosie | 7 Comments »
Bodacious tatas - all the better to drink from, my dear
Congratulations, Oliver. You’re five months old. You have officially stuck with breastfeeding longer than either of your sisters did.
First, let me thank you. Formula is expensive, and I haven’t yet had to buy any. We’re barely into the second sample can, and it’s been weeks since we touched it. Of course, you never actually drank any of it anyway - just gargled a bit with what dripped into your wide open, wailing mouth.
I haven’t had to pump much either. Pumping is what kicked the milk keg for your sisters, I’m convinced. Even with this crazy-yet-phenomenal contraption, pumping generates a mere trickle of milk (and a whole bunch of plastic stuff that needs to be hand washed).
I also haven’t had to replenish the tampon supply. They’re not quite as expensive as formula, but they ain’t cheap.
Finally, I do think that breastfeeding helps speed post-partum weight loss. At least for me. At least the first several dozen pounds. Thank you for that.
Unfortunately, I do have a few complaints to air.
Formula may be expensive, but it’s not poison. Bottles may be cold and clammy, but I gave you the top of the line. I may adore you beyond all words (okay, no “may” about it), but I can’t go anywhere without you. Even though your daddy is thrilled to feed you, and he holds you and cuddles you (albeit while he watches “South Park” or sings “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”), that’s just not enough for you. YOU WANT MOMMY.
While I’m not polluting our water supply with tampons, all of those Lansinoh breast pads have filled up a landfill or two.
Finally, the weight loss has stalled out entirely, in spite of all the running, swimming, and biking. My body refuses to let go of those last few pounds for fear that I won’t be able to feed you anymore.
And that’s the cruelest part of all - that in just a few weeks, I have to see my high school classmates, your father’s high school classmates, and almost the entire blogosphere while carrying around these extra ten pounds. Oh, and carrying you around too. Because like I said, I can’t go anywhere without you.
But just keep looking at me with those big blue eyes. I’ll get over it.
Published by mothergoosemouse on July 1st, 2008 tagged Baby makes three (kids) | 31 Comments »
I would if I could, but I can’t so I won’t
Imagine that your daughter did something so hilarious and yet so horrifying that you knew it would make for fabulous blog fodder in the short term, but for utter humiliation in the long term - long term defined here as the years spent in public school.
That same day, I told the story to my mother, who would have literally killed me if I’d done the same thing as a child, and she couldn’t help laughing. A week later, I told the story to a friend who also laughed long and hard.
And then she said, “You’ve got to write about that.”
But I can’t.
It’s not that I’m not tempted. If nothing else, I might hear from a few comments whose daughters did something similar, which would be reassuring because we all know misery (or maternal embarrassment, in this case) loves company. Plus, I like it when people laugh in appreciation of what my kids have done or said, and this incident is definitely funny in the “Damn, I’m glad MY kid didn’t do that” sense.
But I don’t ever want to be a party to making people laugh AT my kid, in an unkind and finger-pointing sort of way. Because we all know that the years spent in public school involve a lot of unkind finger-pointing no matter where you rank on the pecking order.
It’s difficult to predict what’s going to be funny and what’s going to be humiliating even at present, let alone years down the line. Many times already, Tacy has objected to our laughter, insisting that we were making fun of her when we were simply appreciating her silliness. Likewise, although she hasn’t yet gotten upset about it, CJ has also objected - “Don’ wanna crack you up!” - when we’ve laughed in response to something she’s done or said.
Interestingly, both girls seem to dislike our laughter most when it’s in response to clever turns of phrase or insightful connections they’ve made. When they’re being smart, they want to be taken seriously. And it’s impossible to explain that we’re not laughing at what they’ve said, merely in amazement that they said it.
But this incident wasn’t a clever turn of phrase or an insightful connection. It was a childish mistake, not at all unique to my daughter, and it’s one that I’m guessing that she - even as young as she is - wishes to forget. Therefore, I won’t document it here to be used against her by others in the future.
So while it won’t become blog fodder, you can bet I’m going to keep it in my back pocket and take it out now and again when I need a giggle. Especially when she’s a teenager.
Because while a mother uses all the tools at her disposal, she’s careful not to abuse them.
Published by mothergoosemouse on June 28th, 2008 tagged Bwahahaha!, Kids say the darnedest things, Miss Goosie, Miss Mousie | 22 Comments »
All the parenting expertise I need is right there in my feed reader
Last year in mid-May (yes, just about three weeks before we found out about Oliver), Kyle and I loaded up the last of our baby items into my in-laws’ car for them to take to Kyle’s brother, his wife, and their new baby.
While I wish we would have hung onto items like the high chair and exersaucer, I was more than happy to give up all the books on pregnancy and parenting (with the notable exceptions of Body, Soul and Baby, and the Girlfriend’s Guide, of course).
What to Expect, The Baby Whisperer, and Dr. Sears all went on their merry way to give my poor unsuspecting sister-in-law a complex of her own. In fact, I’m betting that these books even threw my ever-confident brother-in-law for a loop too.
What to Expect is widely documented already. The entire series reads like the “Scared Straight!” guide to pregnancy and child-rearing. Unsurprisingly, I received these tomes courtesy of my former employer’s “Employee Assistance Program”.
Dr. Sears is insidiously evil. The passive-aggressive tone of his books really did give me a complex - it’s as if he’s saying, “You don’t HAVE to practice attachment parenting, you CAN leave your baby all alone in what amounts to a miniature jail for hours and hours while she cries out in terror and wonders where her mommy and daddy went, if THAT’S the kind of parent YOU want to be.”
Jesus. What brand-new parent is immune to that sort of manipulation?
I did have a friend who practiced attachment parenting religiously. She hit the wine bottle at 4pm every day. Attachment parenting might not be right for you, even if you really want it to be.
I picked up The Baby Whisperer after about six nonstop weeks of holding Tacy, which didn’t necessarily prevent her from crying or help her to sleep. On the up side, this book countered Dr. Sears’ assertion that babies don’t have a routine - maybe not, but you can certainly put them on one - and gave me some framework to help structure those endless days.
But it still liberally dished out the guilt. One passage discussed the importance of narrating what we’re doing each time we touch the baby, because how would we like it if someone laid us down on our back and yanked our legs over our head? I see the point about being calm and gentle, but the analogy doesn’t work.
So I re-read Body, Soul and Baby and the Girlfriend’s Guide while pregnant with Oliver - mainly for entertainment - but I decided to go by memory once he was born.
Memory served me well, until he reached four months and still wouldn’t sleep through the night. Four hours at a stretch was typical.
We started him on cereal right away, hoping that would help. He ate like a champ - better than either of the girls did when we started them at five months - but he still didn’t sleep more than four hours.
Tired and frustrated, I went against my instincts and ordered another parenting book. Instead of reading it straight through, I flipped around to find the parts I needed. Average nap duration and intervals for this age? Check. Average night wakings for this age? Check. Suggested bedtime? Check. Questions answered, book closed, guilt avoided.
But I did read enough to sense the self-righteousness that seems to be present in all pregnancy and parenting books. Even the Girlfriend’s Guide has a bit of it here and there. The “I suppose you can do it THAT way, but really, anyone who cares about their child (or themselves) does it THIS way” attitude that makes me start questioning myself all over again if I read too much of it.
It’s not limited to pregnancy and early parenting books either. I started to read another parenting book with the intention of reviewing it, one that’s geared toward older children and specific circumstances, but the first few introductory chapters left me cold. Essentially, it called out several communication styles as being hurtful, counterproductive, and just plain wrong - and we probably use three-quarters of those “bad” tactics.
Granted, I’m sure our communication could use some improvement, mine especially. But it’s discouraging for someone who considers herself to be a more-than-halfway decent parent to read a laundry list of what she’s doing “wrong”, particularly when everything seems to be going right the majority of the time.
So chalk up one more point for the blogosphere, and one more point against so-called expert advice. Take what you need from the experts and leave the rest. But if you want friendship and camaraderie and validation, stick with the bloggers.
Published by mothergoosemouse on June 26th, 2008 tagged Daring you to disagree | 17 Comments »
The top ten gym annoyances
Watching personal trainers yap and yap and yap. You carry on a conversation with your clients while they’re supposed to be exercising, and then you CHARGE them for it? Get a psychiatrist if you want to chat, and pay THEM.
Watching someone do push-ups, moving only his head. Get down on your knees until you’re ready to do a real push-up. You look like a bobble-head doll.
Glimpsing a whale-tail. Nobody cares about your VPLs at the gym. Put on some underwear, woman!
Listening to dudes lift weights. I understand that great exertion sometimes produces a grunt or two, but you sound like you’re giving birth. Ease up on the drama.
Listening to dudes drop weights. If you can’t replace it on the rack with a minimal amount of noise, perhaps you ought to try some lighter weights. Might help with all your histrionics too.
Being left alone on the treadmill with a thoroughly revolting program on the TV. Like…oh…maybe COWS. Giving BIRTH. With assistance from HUMANS. Maybe the dudes upstairs lifting (and dropping weights) turned on this show, but I don’t want to watch it.
Avoiding people who swim through the lap lanes. Get your lazy ass out of the pool and walk around to the diving board. Don’t get in my way.
Discovering that the only lap lane available is the one that extends into the deep end. Yes, I know I’m irrational, but can I swim in the shallow end, puh-leeeeeeze?
Sitting down on the toilet in the locker room after swimming lessons have ended. Yep, that’s pee on the seat, all right.
Being WATCHED in the locker room. You know what I mean. And you know who you are. Cut it out, m’kay? I know my belly looks weird - I’ve had three children. What’s YOUR excuse?
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New post up over at Mile High Mamas, antagonizing those who love trucks, those who drive trucks, and those who love those who drive trucks. Anticipating death threats (”I’m going to run you over with my truck! How d’ya like THAT?!”) from the local Association of Truck Lovers.
Published by mothergoosemouse on June 25th, 2008 tagged Bwahahaha!, Daring you to disagree, Dirtying up other corners of the web, Home on the range | 10 Comments »
Out with the new, in with the old
I’m going to break up with my cleaning service tomorrow.
I pay someone else to clean my home and then bitch about it on the Internet. Poor, poor me.
Kyle hired them when I was a month away from delivering Oliver. I was huge and exhausted, and I could hardly bend over to pick up errant peas from the kitchen floor, let alone scrub out the bathtub. We were living in squalor (well, by my definition at least), and no nesting mother-to-be can abide the thought of bringing a newborn into such conditions.
We’d had a cleaning service before, back in New Jersey. They came recommended by a close friend, whose apartment always looked great to me, and I gave them a shot.
They didn’t last long.
Their slap-dash methods (yes, sometimes we were at home when they cleaned, so I saw them in action), their inconsistent schedule, and the weird places they put things (does a paint brush belong in a litter box?) were enough to irritate me. But when they simply left the key to our apartment on the concierge’s desk - and didn’t actually physically hand it to him - that was enough. Buh-bye.
This service is better. There have been no cancellations, and while they don’t put everything back exactly where they found it, nothing has been put anyplace completely nonsensical. I haven’t observed actual cleaning methods, but I’ve been disappointed with the results.
At first, I told myself to give them the benefit of the doubt. I know I’m a stickler, and even though they claim to be sticklers too, that doesn’t mean they’re up to my level of…stickletiveness?
But then I noticed sticky fingerprints that were still present after they’d cleaned. Crumbs still under the coffee table. Layers of dust still on the kitchen and bathroom light fixtures and bedroom ceiling fan blades. Drips of coffee still streaking the faces of the kitchen cupboards.
It wasn’t as if the kids had gotten home and run rampant. Vacuuming and dusting (table tops, fixtures, fans) and wiping down cupboards were part of the standard list of tasks, and it seemed like they were being accomplished half-heartedly, if at all.
I asked the owner about these things, and she told me that her employees respond well to notes reminding them of what needs to be done. I wasn’t altogether comfortable with that approach - it seems kind of passive-aggressive to leave a note reminding someone to do exactly what it is I’m paying them to do - but I tried it. And it worked - that week, anyway.
Yesterday, Kyle brought the ladder into the house so he could slice through the strings of some balloons that had gotten caught in the family room ceiling fan. In doing so, he knocked loose several enormous chunks of dust from the fan blades. I was not pleased.
Then I went after the toilets, which were looking pretty gross even though the service had been here less than a week ago. I won’t get into details, but suffice it to say that I was even more displeased.
I know I sound like an insufferable bitch, but remember that I’m paying these people - much more than average, I should add - to do a job. And it’s not getting done - not to my satisfaction and not in accordance with the standards they’ve espoused.
Yes, I could leave a checklist every week. But that seems even more insufferably bitchy. And again, for the rates I’m paying, I shouldn’t have to do that.
So I’m going back to my old methods - doing the job myself. It may not get done as often, but it will be done ten times better.
And it won’t be long before I can outsource some of the work to Tacy - for free.
Published by mothergoosemouse on June 22nd, 2008 tagged Daring you to disagree, Home on the range, Who me? | 20 Comments »
Never wore a bikini in Biloxi, but I’ve still got the blues
Edited below
I’ve worn a bikini both when I was at my heaviest (not including pregnancy) and at my most slender.
When I was 22, I put on several pounds. I’m not sure of the precursor, but I do know that I wasn’t really aware of it until I got some film developed and looked at the prints - including me in a two-piece swimsuit (albeit a sporty style, not a string bikini). It took another six months after this shot before I started hitting the gym regularly, but even now, mumble-teen years later, I can still use it as motivation to get my rear in gear.
(The picture is of me when I was 22…the bad, bad bikini shot. Which makes the compliments even nicer - thank you.)
Ironically enough, when I was 29 and at my most slender, I rarely went to the gym. I was living in New York, working long hours, and subsisting mainly on coffee, wine, pizza, and Chinese food. Even so, I could easily crank out a few dozen push-ups (with good form, not on my knees), and my size 2 clothes from that era have long since been donated.
I bought a bikini - a real bikini - in the spring of 2001, and I took it with me on a business trip to South Beach that July. I wore that bikini one afternoon on the beach, with only the slightest inkling that it would be the last time I wore it. I was two weeks pregnant with Tacy.
No more bikinis for me. Now I wear a Speedo racing suit for swimming and a skirted tankini for lounging. I see other mothers at the pool wearing real bikinis - some of whom look fabulous, and some of whom look like me. Do I wish I could count myself in the “fabulous” group? Of course! Do my imperfections keep me hidden under a towel, or worse, away from the pool entirely? No way.
This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by BOCA.
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The famous punk rock mother herself, Sweetney, has graciously allowed me the use of her place today. Come read and commiserate on the topic of buying jeans…for little girls.
Published by mothergoosemouse on June 20th, 2008 tagged Bloggy-linky-meme-y, Dirtying up other corners of the web, Look at me, look at me!, Who me?, Youthful indiscretions | 11 Comments »
Deleted faster than you can say “link exchange”
If there’s one thing about blogging that I find even more annoying than spammy press releases, it’s requests for link exchanges.
I’m not talking about individual bloggers. Most personal bloggers know better than to ask for a link exchange: “I’ll link you if you link me, okay?” It’s just not the way it’s done. We link who we like (and just because we don’t link someone, doesn’t mean we don’t like them).
Link exchange requests are another testament to the fact that the folks who shotgun press releases don’t understand blogs. The blogroll is just as sacrosanct as the rest of the blog - totally under the discretion of the blogger him/herself, and not for sale or trade.
If I can’t manage to update my blogroll with links to people I actually read, why would I pollute it with links to sites that I don’t care about? Or am I supposed to care enough about those sites to link them, purely because they’re offering to link to me?
Yes, I do consider link exchanges to be pollution. Personal bloggers pride themselves on honesty and transparency, or at least I think they ought to. The people I like to read do so.
Even with spammy press releases there’s an opportunity to capitalize on them, to create a relationship. A link exchange is no more than quid pro quo, a potential bump in your Technorati ranking (which, frankly, I haven’t checked in months).
So I’ve updated my Who Me? page to address link exchanges, because I delete those even faster than I delete those spammy press releases. PR professionals and small business owners, you’ve been warned.
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The Parental is Political - I’m all for honesty and transparency. But tell me, why is it a “smear” to be mischaracterized as a Muslim?
Published by mothergoosemouse on June 18th, 2008 tagged Bloggy-linky-meme-y, Daring you to disagree, Dirtying up other corners of the web | 15 Comments »
What a country!
We were on our way to Tacy’s “sailing off” ceremony when we heard.
My first thought was, I must have heard that wrong. Kyle hit the brakes, and we turned to each other and said in unison, “WHAT?!”
We listened to the newscaster relay the unbelievable: Tim Russert was dead after a heart attack that afternoon.
As we pulled up in front of the elementary school, I welled up behind my sunglasses. But it was my daughter’s special time, and she deserved my full attention. I pushed the thoughts and questions from my mind.
I returned home to phone calls, emails, and tweets. I turned on MSNBC to watch Keith Olbermann, with red-rimmed eyes, anchoring the remembrances and tributes. It felt surreal. This couldn’t be happening; Tim Russert couldn’t be dead.
I watched on Saturday morning too. Every so often, the realization would hit me again, and the tears would start afresh.
Saturday afternoon, Kyle asked me, “What’s wrong? You just aren’t yourself.”
My voice broke as I replied, “You’ll make fun of me.”
“What is it?”
“I’m so sad about Tim Russert.” And once more, I started to cry.
I can recall many terribly sad moments in our country’s history. The only one that has sparked a more emotional reaction in me was 9/11.
Yes, I’ve joked about my intellectual-turned-physical attraction to Tim Russert. But the truth is that I absolutely loved watching him because he asked tough questions and listened to the answers.
He had no personal or political agenda. He was direct yet respectful, and I never sensed a bias, which made him truly unique among journalists. I watch other journalists to be entertained; I watched Tim Russert to be educated.
In a political season where partisanship is the norm, and the rhetoric grows even more heated than usual, my Independent sensibilities begin to wilt. Inside, I lament, It won’t matter who’s President; how can we get anything done when we’re at each other’s throats like this?
It was Tim Russert whom I saw as the voice of reason, the one person in the news whom I could count on to present a truly fair and balanced view of the issues and the candidates through his rigorous questioning.
Some people, like Kyle, can listen to a variety of sources and piece together the big picture. Others, like me, relied on Tim Russert to cut to the chase. To do his homework in painstaking detail so that we could learn from him.
I regret that I never had the opportunity to meet him, or even spot him around town in Washington. And I know it sounds silly, but I regret that I never wrote him a “fan” letter or any sort of correspondence to express just how much I appreciated his style and his substance.
And as much as I will miss watching him during the rest of this political season and beyond, I have to resist my impulse to disengage from politics. Because NBC is filled with new rising star journalists - bright young minds brought on board by Tim Russert himself - and I’m confident that they will strive to uphold the standards he established.
As a matter of fact, I already have a bit of a girl crush on Norah O’Donnell.
Goodbye, Tim. And GO BILLS!