Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Wow that was a lot of run-on sentences in that last entry. I blame the Nescafe. Anyway, I so wish I could actually afford something like this Stokke thing, because I would get it even if I could only kind of afford it just a little bit. We have this hand-me-down Peg Perego we've used for both kids, and while it looks kinda cute (if you're into blue checks. me neither), it's that lots-of-cracks-and-crevices-for-food-to-get-stuck model, and it's driving me bananas. Let me just say, that I hate cleaning off the high chair. Really, I HATE CLEANING FOOD OFF THE HIGH CHAIR. It's just one of my least favorite things ever. And yet I have this persistent desire to keep feeding the child who sits in it, not just for three meals a day, but sometimes also snacks. And so I fantasize about dumping the Perego thing and only having to take the damp dish rag and just gliiiiding it right along the nice, smooth surfaces of that gorgeous Scandinavian creation. I have the Stokke Kinderzeat which I got for much less on ebay, and it's fabulous. I have to somehow get another for Carl soon. It's not only easier to clean, but it means each meal isn't ended with Casimir pushing his chair away and tipping over. And while I'm going on about baby gear (so mommy blog cliche), I think I would quite like this for Carl as well. Only I think the pusher of that should wear a space suit or something.
Today I actually had two kids sleeping at the same time, which pretty much never happens since they try to keep up some sort of constant vigil to keep me awake- probably to make sure I don't run away. Paul was home, and we both had some work to do, but I discovered that I'm incapable of working next to him. I just couldn't shut up. I'm one of those people who will be like, "So it got nice out now after all" and then I'll mention what we could make for dinner. And then I'll ask how his work is going, and then I'll sharpen my pencil and start eating chips until he finally just tells me to leave, and I say "Okaaay, jeez" and then I talk some more.
Today I actually had two kids sleeping at the same time, which pretty much never happens since they try to keep up some sort of constant vigil to keep me awake- probably to make sure I don't run away. Paul was home, and we both had some work to do, but I discovered that I'm incapable of working next to him. I just couldn't shut up. I'm one of those people who will be like, "So it got nice out now after all" and then I'll mention what we could make for dinner. And then I'll ask how his work is going, and then I'll sharpen my pencil and start eating chips until he finally just tells me to leave, and I say "Okaaay, jeez" and then I talk some more.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
I'm dark. and pink and purple.
Someone please explain to me why becoming a mother suddenly makes me so susceptible to staining all my clothing, constantly and mysteriously, because I really thought that was an annoying stereotype about having baby food stuck to your sweat pants. But I'll bathe and put clean clothes on (well, sometimes) and go about my business and at some point after normal daily activity that didn't involve any bicycle-gear cleaning or second-base sliding, I'll realize that I look like I've traipsed through sprinklers of olive oil.
The other week when I ran screaming from the house for a break, I found myself shopping for a swimming suit on sale at Field's. And in between realizing that they only had about 8 one-piece swimsuits available among hundreds of racks of bikinis, and that all of the one-pieces were ugly and only available in rather large sizes, I saw that my pants were stained, almost as much as my t-shirt. (you don't say!). I felt so slovenly and pathetic among all the darling teenagers who had nothing better to do but go shopping after the pool and before seeing a movie that I marched right on over to the athletic section to get some new yoga pants --unstained-- and even hemorrhaged a bit of money for some adorable green puma pants in a fit of insanity and irresponsiblity. And now. They're stained! With something oily! For god's sake. Am I really desined to just completely deterioriate to the laundry detergent commercial mommies who gleem and smile as they work their magic on those stained baseball uniforms with all those chemicals? Although actually that might not be bad, because they're always so skinny and have such giant, sunny laundry rooms.
After reading something online about young children remembering their birth (I know), I decided in a quiet moment of cuddling and stories to ask Casimir, with some forced nonchalance, if he remembered when he was in my tummy. We had been talking about Carl's upcoming birthday anyway, and what that meant, so I figured why not. I felt rather new agey and moronic, but then he answered: Hm mm. It was dark. It was real dark, except for a little bit of pink, and (with a squint and a point) a little bit of purple. But it was dark and I didn't like it and I wanted to come out to see you and daddy.
I asked him if it was noisy and he said it was calm and he slept a lot. Seeing as I've never told him that it might be dark in a womb, should one decide to be in one, it freaked me out and I half epected him to go on about his other life before he died and a light and how he sometimes talks to great-great grandpa in his sleep or some such. Could he really remember that? I'm not sure. But then I kind of pressed him and asked what happened when he came out and if he remembered and he went on about monsters in the tummy and cars racing out and what not. So his credibility might be hampered a bit there, but I'm not sure. I think I still might believe that he remembers part of it. The part about the cars racing out.
The other week when I ran screaming from the house for a break, I found myself shopping for a swimming suit on sale at Field's. And in between realizing that they only had about 8 one-piece swimsuits available among hundreds of racks of bikinis, and that all of the one-pieces were ugly and only available in rather large sizes, I saw that my pants were stained, almost as much as my t-shirt. (you don't say!). I felt so slovenly and pathetic among all the darling teenagers who had nothing better to do but go shopping after the pool and before seeing a movie that I marched right on over to the athletic section to get some new yoga pants --unstained-- and even hemorrhaged a bit of money for some adorable green puma pants in a fit of insanity and irresponsiblity. And now. They're stained! With something oily! For god's sake. Am I really desined to just completely deterioriate to the laundry detergent commercial mommies who gleem and smile as they work their magic on those stained baseball uniforms with all those chemicals? Although actually that might not be bad, because they're always so skinny and have such giant, sunny laundry rooms.
After reading something online about young children remembering their birth (I know), I decided in a quiet moment of cuddling and stories to ask Casimir, with some forced nonchalance, if he remembered when he was in my tummy. We had been talking about Carl's upcoming birthday anyway, and what that meant, so I figured why not. I felt rather new agey and moronic, but then he answered: Hm mm. It was dark. It was real dark, except for a little bit of pink, and (with a squint and a point) a little bit of purple. But it was dark and I didn't like it and I wanted to come out to see you and daddy.
I asked him if it was noisy and he said it was calm and he slept a lot. Seeing as I've never told him that it might be dark in a womb, should one decide to be in one, it freaked me out and I half epected him to go on about his other life before he died and a light and how he sometimes talks to great-great grandpa in his sleep or some such. Could he really remember that? I'm not sure. But then I kind of pressed him and asked what happened when he came out and if he remembered and he went on about monsters in the tummy and cars racing out and what not. So his credibility might be hampered a bit there, but I'm not sure. I think I still might believe that he remembers part of it. The part about the cars racing out.
