Goodreads

Just wanted to take a moment to plug my goodreads page. I'm gearing up to review a massive amount of books (all that I've read since April) in the next month or so. If you love YA fiction, you're going to love what is coming. My real passion is reading (not blogging, but you probably already guessed that with my lackluster blogs), so come on over and check it out.

Literally

The necessary background:

My parents watch our son for us while we are at work during the day. They live in the country and have many neighbors with farm animals. They frequently take walks with our son to visit the animals and they know many of them by name, including a cow named Grace.

The story:

A few days ago we were going through the normal bedtime routine for our two-year-old. One of the last things we do is say bed-time prayers. It was my husband’s turn to pray (we switch off) and he said something along the lines of, “and we thank You for Your grace…” Our son interjected, “grace go?” which is his way of asking where something is, in this case, grace. My husband stopped mid-prayer to try to explain God’s grace and how it works to forgive our sins to a toddler. Deacon listened attentively. I don’t know how my husband felt, but I felt pretty pleased with the reception he was getting and I was thinking that maybe some of it was getting through. …Until my husband finished and Deacon said, “Grace is a COW.”

And we couldn’t argue with that. Yes, yes, she is. And now he probably thinks she can forgive our sins AND chew her cud.

I cannot help but love how literal kids are.

Two things...

1. dear caller,

don't call me and then ask if you can put me on hold. no, you can't. YOU called ME.

2. dear person,

when i can smell your perfume outside at 10 yards away upwind, chances are you're putting too much on.

A fine line.

Until yesterday, I had no idea what a fine line there was between courteous and creepy for grocery store baggers.

Courteous
Male Bagger (mid 30's):
"Can I help you out with your groceries?"

Me:
"No, thank you."

Creepy
Male Bagger (mid-30's)
"Are you sure? I'd really like to help you out."

Me:
(Hmmm, let me think: Am I sure that I don't want a creepy man walking me out to my car trying to make conversation with me for ten excruciating minutes while I pray he doesn't say, or do, anything else creepy that forces me to wave the wedding ring on my hand in front of his face or pull the mace out of my purse. That's a tough one.)

"Yes, I'm really sure. No, thank you."

Imperfect

The fact that I can see cellulite on Selena Gomez' leg here DELIGHTS me.
(click the photo to enlarge)

STARS: They ARE just like us!

It's as glorious as soaring through a sunset...

I bought this Onna Erlich handbag on Monday. I bought it partly because my current black handbag is over 5 years old, I've been wanting a new one forever and I was able to get this for 70% off, partly because I'm back at work now after my customary month off in the summer and I needed the boost to my morale and partly, because I can't help but feel that it's going to revolutionize my life and make all my dreams come true. (I don't feel like this is too much to ask from a purse that normally retails for $650. Who's with me?)

(Bonus if you know the books/movie I'm quoting from in the post title.)

Vintage Truck Party

Someone totally awesome turned 2 last month and we celebrated.

Fighting a Losing Battle

We have been locked in a battle with our cat, Griffin, since the day we brought our son home from the hospital. It’s unclear, at this point, who is winning, although I suspect it isn’t us. Griffin has always been a “talker”. Yes, occasionally it was too much, but not very often. And he would run to greet me at the door when I got home from work and then snuggle up next to me on the couch while I read in the evenings. He loved his tummy rubbed and would chirp his happiness. So what if he occasionally became anxious about a change to his schedule and would lick a bald spot on the inside of one of his back legs. I would regal co-workers with tales of my neurotic cat. They would chuckle and I would shake my head in mock aggravation. Then, we had a baby…and taking an immediate, and permanent, back-seat to a squalling lump of swaddling blankets did not sit well with Griffin. His meows turned up a notch, then another, and another until we found ourselves whisper yelling at him to “SHUT UP” while Deacon napped. We kept telling ourselves he would adjust. People, it’s 21 months later and nothing has changed. I think we need to face the facts, it’s not going to. But, I’m not willing to give him up yet. He’s such a good cat underneath all that loud, terribly annoying, incessant meowing during bedtime and naptime. So, here we are still engaged in battle. This morning, I lost. Our house is very small. We have two bedrooms and one bathroom and our bathroom is located between the two bedrooms. I have to get up pretty early for work and Deacon is still sleeping. I also have hair that requires blow-drying. I can’t do this in the bathroom without waking Deacon up. So, since I went back to work when Deacon was three months old, I have been doing my hair in our laundry room (the farthest room from his bedroom). My hair-care products have been moved there, along with my blow-dryer and curling iron and a mirror that I prop up on the clothes dryer. Sure, the light in there isn’t great, but I’ve adapted. Unfortunately, the cat’s litter box is also in there and Griffin won’t use it if someone is in the laundry room. Instead, he’ll sit at the doorway meowing until you leave. In the interest of keeping my child sleeping, I always vacate and let him do his business. It works out. But the last couple days, his meowing has been out of control and I’m sorry to admit he’s been spritzed with the water bottle a lot. I think he’s been harboring resentment. This morning, he waltzed in there and took his sweet time to drop a load and then, barely covered it, leaving noxious fumes floating all around where I needed to be to finish doing my hair. Round #1,782 goes to the cat.

Weaning

Before I had a child, if you had told me that I'd be working full-time and still manage to breastfeed not only to the year mark, but beyond, I would have thought you were crazy. Instead, here we are: Deacon is 21 months old and I'm still nursing at night. And I'm proud of this. He's been talking since he was 8 months old when he said his first word besides "mama" and "dada"; it was "bloo" (balloon) and I will always picture him saying it in the aisle at the Nugget Market as he looked up at a birthday balloon. He's only had one cold. And his favorite thing besides trucks: books! I'd go on record as being very pro-breastfeeding...I should be, for someone who had a very, VERY low pain tolerance, I suffered through eleven weeks of the worst pain and emotional trauma I've ever experienced to make breastfeeding a success. And although it's left scars (both literally and figuratively), it was worth it. Even though sometimes I wish I could have a cocktail with dinner instead of waiting until after his bedtime. And even though there are lots of other reasons why it's been a sacrifice (just one of many when you start having kids, right), it's still been worth it. Now, I do not plan to breastfeed indefinitely. (You will not see me on some Dateline special with my pre-teen hanging off my chest.) The official plan is to wean at two years (while I'm off work for Spring break), unless he weans himself first. And last night may have hinted towards this. He stopped nursing early and told me I was "quishy" and "limey" (squishy and slimy) and wouldn't nurse anymore. Clue number one that your child is ready for weaning: the gourmand requests a different (and impossible) texture.

Unbelievable

As a working mom, I am always trying to juggle everything into some semblance of cohesion. If any of you have mastered this yet, please tell me your secrets. Also, as evidenced by my last post, I am on the look-out for some good working-mom friends (although where I would find the time to spend with them is something I haven't figured out yet). I think having another female who truly understands what it's like to work full-time, but still try to cook delicious meals and keep the house clean (and have people over for dinner sometimes or plan the occasional party - I have already started planning my son's 2nd birthday party in APRIL) is something that I really need. What I don't need is to read something like this post where Gwyneth Paltrow shares what it's like being a working mom. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You are a celebrity. You have assistants. You have nannies. You have a bazillion-million dollars. You are pathetic. Come and live my life for a week and then write your column, you ignorant douche. (The saving grace of the article is that it's written by someone who thinks it's as appalling as I do, albeit with a lot more colorful language.) Enjoy.

Letting go.

I think I've stewed about this long enough. I'm ready to get it off my chest. No one involved even reads this (or knows about it; that would imply that they actually were interested enough in my life to care), but I think I'll feel better just by getting it out. And if by chance, one of the involved parties stumbled onto this by accident, fine with me. I'm sure my take on the situation will be skewed by hurt and anger, but as I haven't spoken with anyone else involved for almost a year (and don't plan on contacting them to find out what they thought), you'll just have to go with my side of the story.

I had some friends. They were good friends for a while through many church events, bridal showers, weddings, and countless baby showers. One of them was the maid of honor in my wedding. Then, something happened. I"m not sure what it was exactly, but I suspect part of it was simply, life.

And then it was my turn to have a baby shower. The friends planned it. And it was nice. But that was it. The other baby showers I helped throw (and sometimes, hand--washed 40 sets of antique china for) were extravagant. They were full of vintage details, hung banners, amassed glassware, linen tablecloths, and full teas for 40 served on china. I slaved at these showers. My shower boasted paper plates and cups, disposable tablecloths, and nary a vintage detail in sight. I was hurt, but I didn't say anything. Part of me wanted to attribute it to the fact that the friends were busy with children of their own. One was pregnant herself; I'm sure she was tired. This thinking helped me get [mostly] past my hurt feelings. Then, I had my baby and I thought I was going to die. Lots/most people have a great experience. Mine was jarring from the start when I needed an emergency C-section. Then, I had every breast-feeding issue known to man, along with various other personal issues. I felt alone and I couldn't leave the house because when I wasn't crying, I was pumping. (I suspect I had some post-partum depression.) Finally, (and I credit the Kaiser Permanente lactation consultants and God) things turned around...just in time for me to go back to my full-time job. This didn't hasten away any lingering sadness I felt. I coped as well as I could and spent every precious minute when I wasn't at work holding that darling baby. I wasn't willing to give up any of my free time for things like "half-hearted shower giving" friends, not that they were calling (or arranging meals to be brought. That task was undertaken by one of our guy friends. Yes, a GUY. And he did a great job.)

Come winter, one of the girls in the group got engaged. She was getting married hours away from where I lived on the weekend before Christmas. For many reasons, I knew we wouldn't be able to attend. I had a good conversation with her about this and made sure she knew I hoped she didn't feel obligated to ask me to be in her wedding. We parted happily. Then, via Facebook, I discovered that every one of our other friends was in her wedding. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to not be in her wedding. However, it would have been nice (in my opinion), if she had told me that everyone else was going to be in it. I would have felt left out anyway, but finding out on Facebook was like a slap in the face. Fast forward to her bridal shower weekend. Originally, there was just a Saturday shower which I was planning to attend. Then, the friends decided to throw together an intimate Friday night bachelorette party. I decided to forgo the Saturday shower and just attend the Friday night party the night before, mostly because I could go to this after my son was asleep for the night and I wouldn't miss any time with him. When I arrived (a little late as I told them I'd be after putting my son to sleep), no one, but the bride, acknowledged me. I felt invisible and unwanted. Then a game was played and we had to partner up. One of the friends asked to be my partner and I felt better because they were now including me. Until we won and she said, "I knew we would win. That's why I wanted to be partners with you." Thanks. I'm glad that's all I'm good for. I didn't stay very long after the gifts were opened. And that is the last time I've seen or spoken with the friends.

Not long after this, I learned that the shower they threw that Saturday was the most lavish one to date. Apparently, they weren't too busy to throw a shower for someone they cared about. I was hurt (then angry) for a long time after this, but I've come to realize many things in the past year. First, I don't think they were very good friends to begin with. On some level, I always knew the two of them had each other and the rest of us were just on the sidelines. I just never expected to get pushed completely off. Second, they are lucky enough to stay home with their children, something I've wanted ever since I can remember. Since we like being able to pay our mortgage every month, I must keep working until my husband gets a fantastic promotion, he finds a much higher paying job, we win the Publisher's Clearing house (which I enter every day), or I find a job where someone pays me to read. I think the friends must have no imagination because my having to work was something they never seemed to understand. And now, since I'm out of their lives they won't have to stretch themselves and try to understand it. That must be a relief to them. Third, I would much rather spend my free time with my husband and child than with friends who make me feel like they are judging me the whole time I am with them.

Nonetheless, the way they treated me still has the power to hurt sometimes. Like recently, when one of my co-workers ran into one of the friends at Pottery Barn and my co-worker mentioned me to her. And the friend didn't even acknowledge my name. I like to think I am above this type of behavior and past it all. I think I mostly am. It's a process and it's getting easier. I am hopeful that by this time next year, I will have gotten past the hurt and anger completely and moved on to some richer and truer friendships. But that doesn't mean the friends should expect a Christmas card from me.

More coming, but for now...

And they lived happily ever after.

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