munchmom

Snippets

2010-09-30T09:13:00.000-07:00

Griffin, after hearing some "Glee" tunes while eating frozen yogurt:
"You know, 'any way you want it, that's the way you need it' really is true sometimes."

Duncan, nightly:
"Can you read Semester and the Magic Pedal?"

Life According to Griffin

2010-09-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

On the playground: "Griffin just taught my son a new technique. And the word "technique."

On life: "The three most important things in life are Love, Fun, and Gravity." Hard to disagree with that.

On the bike

2009-11-18T19:22:00.000-08:00

Griffin: "How come some people get two and some only get one?"
Me: "One what? Sister? Sibling?" (We just found out that our neighbor was pregnant with her 3rd girl)
Griffin: "Yeah."
Me: "Well, babies are a lot of work, and I already have enough work,"
Griffin: "I can help. We can have another baby, and you can take care of one, and I can take care of the other one!"

On behavior

2009-01-07T08:39:00.000-08:00

Tom: "Okay, I have to go to work."
Griffin: "Daddy? Daddy? Just be good and don't hit anybody, okay?"
Tom: "Okay."
Griffin: "Just be gentle all day."

Lessons

2008-07-21T08:36:00.000-07:00

Griffin, in deep, dark frustration:
"I lost my great idea out of me!"

The Dawning

2008-07-02T22:03:00.001-07:00

Earlier this week:
"When I grow up, my nibbles will get bigger and I can feed Duncan."

Later this week, in the car:
"Girls [something something] better bwestes."
"What?"
"Better bwestes."
"Right, better breasts. What about them?"
"BETTER BWESTES!"
"Are you saying that girls have bigger breasts?"
"Yes! That's where the milk comes from. That's what I already TOLD you!"

Questions about latte-drinking remain

2008-04-23T14:53:00.000-07:00

Overheard today at Starbucks in Palo Alto. Three seriously non-palo-alto working men.

Man 1: Did you hear the union is backing Obaraka?
Man 2: Obama.
Man 3: Oburqa.
Man 1: What do you think about that?
Man 2 or 3: That's fine.

How's that for an endorsement? Hillary, eat your heart out.

Swiftly, sadly, sweetly

2008-04-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

Nobody warned me that baby #2 would grow twice as fast as #1. With Munch, I lamented the passing of every phase, but deferred my feelings as I anticipated having a second child. This time, as the phases pass, I must take my leave of them for good. And this time, the come and go so quickly that I find I can hardly breathe. Clothing, once rendered too small, is not stashed this time around. Putting each tiny romper or onsie into its appropriate departure bag is almost physically painful, as my mind flashes to the photos I have taken of each of my sons in that particular outfit. There will be no more do-overs.

I miss already the look of wonder in newborn Nugget's eyes, as it is replaced with recognition, observation, interaction. I delight in his new mobility just as I mourn the passing of that utter helplessness that first bonds parent and child. No more do-overs, I remind myself.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the universe, Griffin charges along on his own timeline. His ability to comprehend abstract concepts and articulate his view of the world amazes and delights me every day. His sophisticated ability to read me and play me to meet his own needs drives me to the very brink of desperation on a regular basis.

Two Shoe Stories

This week at school: No shoes at the end of the day (of course).
"Griffin, where are your shoes?"
"I don't know. I think they are lost"
"Where did you lose them?"
"I don't know."
"Where were they when they were lost?"
"Well, they used to be on my feet."

This week at Nordstrom Rack: Griffin wants new Crocs. I ask him to try them on to see if they fit. The imitation Crocs are connected together by a plastic tie.
"Do they fit"
"Oh! They do fit..." Griffin puts both sandals on, "but I can only hop." (proceeds to hop around store.)

Coming up for air

2008-03-11T16:20:00.001-07:00

Now, on occasion, they sleep at the same time. This allows me time to, you know, pay bills, check email, and breathe.

Nugget no longer looks like E.T. Instead, he looks like his dad. And his dad looks nothing like E.T. He is smooth and rounded, and he giggles when you tickle him. Like dad.

Knowing this is your last child, your last baby, is difficult. He is now growing out of his clothing, and I need not keep it this time around. As each stage passes, I must mourn its passing just as I celebrate Nugget's new developments. And then, and then. I miss my son. The older one. I miss the quality time we used to have together. Much of what was our quality time is replaced with struggle after battle, as I try to meet each child's basic needs. I sorrow, also, for those wonderful months I spent with Griffin, focused on him, that I don't now have with Nugget. Poor little guy seems just plain thankful for every little bit of attention he gets.

Dark in Here

2008-02-25T14:59:00.000-08:00

Today G told grandma a story about a little boy called Griffin and a crocodile as I sat nearby. The crocodile got hungry and ate a mommy. "But it is okay, because there was a daddy left. The daddy's name is Tom."

Duncan coos now, and reaches out. He looks like the very much like the daddy that escaped the crocodile's fictional jaws.

Second Son

2007-12-10T15:51:00.000-08:00

Does it make me a bad mom if I think that my baby looks just a little bit like E.T.?

Meanwhile, in Preschool...

2007-12-06T09:14:00.000-08:00

A note from one of the parents in Griffin's class:

ps - I caught Griffin today "drying" his pants and underwear in the pretend dryer in the back classroom today. How cute. But he was totally naked. I had to make him put his cute little boxers on, but he wouldn't wear his pants. Said they weren't dry yet......

Homecoming

2007-12-04T10:49:00.000-08:00

We are home now, and adjusting to life as a family of four. So far so good. Our greatest struggle is getting Griffin to bed before 11. It is a two hour battle every night. The baby (whom we seem to continue to refer to as "the baby", as if he didn't have name) sleeps, eats, poops in equal measures. Just as he should.

This time around I am keenly aware how quickly this time will pass. If I blink, he grows and inch. Sneeze, and he will roll over and crawl away. For now, he spends all of his time held close. I set up the co-sleeper we used with Griffin, but I am happy to have Duncan in bed between us. The fear that kept me semi-awake with Griffin is gone, and when I sleep, I sleep deeply. The insomnia and vivid dreaming that followed me through pregnancy are gone. I was so panicked about the stress and difficulty that would come with caring for a baby and chasing a 3 year old at the same time, that I forgot to anticipate the joy. I forgot how good it feels to hold your new child close. I did not imagine the impossible sweetness of holding two children (mine!) on my lap at the same time. I was not prepared for the affection that the older would shower on the younger.

The books talk about how to avoid jealousy, how to prepare your child to become a sibling, how to make sure he doesn't feel left out. To our surprise and delight, Griffin can't get enough of "my baby." He hugs (perhaps a little to hard) and kisses (perhaps a little to close) his brother as much as we will allow. He wants to feed him pizza and make him talk. He has discovered that if he puts the side of his face up to Duncan's nose while Duncan is awake, the baby will root against his head. "He's wiggling my hair!" Griffin shrieks with delight.

Recovery from the c-section is a bit more difficult for me this time around. I remember not needing the pain meds after I got home with Griffin. This time, I need them. All of them. Standing up, sitting down, are unbearable acts. Worse than a bikini wax.

Tomorrow...

2007-11-26T16:02:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow I meet this little guy who has been making me miserable. Already the source of countless sleepless hours, worries, aches and pains. I can't wait. I simply can't imagine how he will be, how he COULD be different from Griffin. Strange this time to know the day and hour in advance. I've had weeks to prepare the house, my bag, my life. I feel like I am preparing for a long exotic trip. I am both nervous and excited. I've been to this country before, but so much will have changed for this visit. A change of regime, new highways, landmarks lost to time. Yet much of it will be familiar territory.

As I write this I watch my belly bounch and wave. Goodbye, pregnancy. I do not anticipate being back here again.

So not as exciting this time around...

2007-07-20T16:14:00.000-07:00

I have made it to the half-way mark. While standing I think I finally look pregnant, but when I sit down I still just look/feel fat. This time around I don't have all of the excitement I had with Munch. It is an interesting mix - I am at once not as paranoid or virtuous as the first time (enjoying my coffee, feta cheese, etc.), and at the same time I am quite anxious. I don't feel like I trust the pregnancy - I have heard too many horror stories to get to that happy place. Every new little pain or cramp throws me into doubt. But we are chugging along, expecting the best, and suppressing any negative thoughts.

The nesting instinct kicked in last week, big time. I moved Munch to his new room and cleaned out the closets of both kiddie rooms. Here I am at 20 weeks, not comfortable with the pregnancy, and yet fully set up with a clean and organized nursery. What gives.

Munch gives me both aggravation and great joy these days. We are potty training, and it is a learning experience for both of us. My frustration lies in the fact that he can control his bodily functions - he can hold his pee/poop for hours if need be - and yet he continues to make Bad Choices, such as pooping in his underwear five minutes after I provided him with a Potty Opportunity, or simply not pooping at all for 36 hours. We are working through it. I read Madeline to him over and over again while he sits on his throne, and eventually he relaxes enough to push one out.

He is certainly at the stage where he says funny things. I feel that I have been remiss in not recording them. Yesterday, he lifted the lid to the sanitary napkin disposal bin in the public restroom, and told me that Oscar lived there.

Now I need to go pick up the house. Again.

Joining the Club (to which I never wanted to belong)

2006-11-17T14:54:00.000-08:00

For a week, I didn't know what to tell people, even my closest friends. I hadn't had a miscarriage, not yet. But I was waiting for one. It was hard enough to find an appropriate moment to interject, "By the way,...", "Speaking of uterine cramping,...", "Drinks? Oh, I'll have two, since I can now!" And then, what do you say? "I had a miscarriage" isn't right. "I'm in the process of having a miscarriage" sounds like you should be doubled over in pain on the toilet. "I'm expecting a miscarriage" sounds like you are just being negative. Buck up, li'l camper!

Last Thursday I went to my OB. It had been about nine weeks since my last period. My earlier appointment had shown a gestational age of 5 weeks, 5 days. No heartbeat, but then again it was so early. The ultrasound last Thursday showed no progress. The nodule of cells still measured 5 weeks, 5 days, and there was no heartbeat. "I'm sorry," said my doctor. And she was. Griffin, strapped in his stroller next to me complained - he had been restrained for too long. After Griffin's nap that afternoon I took him out, fed him french fries and bought him toys. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Two options, she said, wait for my body to run its course, or intervene medically. Ultimately, I chose the second, but still, I prayed that my body would rush to beat the deadline I had set by making the appointment with the hospital. I just could not bear to let this in-between state drag on for how long, two weeks? Four? My body still felt pregnant, and still made corresponding irrational demands on me - naps, snacks every couple of hours. I worried that my body would choose 30,000 feet altitude as it's time to finalize the situation. We get on a plane for a little vacation next Wednesday. I could see myself sweating and crying in the 2x2 airplane bathroom, unable to exit as the plane begins its final decent. No thanks.

Yesterday, one week after seeing less than I wanted on the ultrasound screen, it was over. An outpatient procedure that, except for the lack of cutting and stitches, felt very much like surgery. OR, two nurses, anesthesiologist, doctor, and nursing student in the room with me. Twenty minutes later I wake up and it is over. Another half hour, and I am wheeled out to the car, and sent home.

Today it is almost as if it never happened. The pregnancy, the miscarriage, erased from my body. No pain, just a maxi pad waiting to catch any residual mess that might yet materialize. So many women have been here. My OB. The nurse who wheeled me to the car. The friend who dropped off dinner at our house last night. It is not an exclusive club - indeed, it makes us feel better to know we are not alone, and to offer support for our newest members.

Thunka, Thunka, Thunka...

2006-09-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

I decided to replace the yucky gold cabinet knobs in our house today. I have decided to start "Project: Remove shiny gold stuff" in an attempt to ice the cake that is our house. So Munch is at the stage that any errand that takes longer than 14.6 seconds is a serious affront to his sensibilities. I bring toys and food in the hope of buying myself just enough time to make a split decision (do I want the plain knobs or the ones with a ridge around the edge?) and rush for the checkout line. While checking out, I notice that one of the inventory numbers is not like the others. For normal people, this is not a problem. One can simply excuse themselves from the line for a moment and collect the correct knob. With a toddler in tow, it is cause for serious alarm.

I must navigate the extra large Home Depot cart out of the aisle and back into the store, going against traffic. Removing the child from the cart is not an option, as the cart serves as a restraint system. Munch has already started to squack at this point. He throws his tractor emphatically out of the card and then pleads, "tackta, tackTAAA" until I retreive it for him. At which point he flings it to the ground again. Tractor removed from his reach, I rush back into the store ailes, hoping to make a round trip back to the checkout counter before Munch realizes that he can, if he really tries, climb through the belt and stand up in the cart.

I am Jack Bauer, and Munch is my ticking time bomb. Nobody else seems to notice this. I try to play off my distress, smile, and say "excuse me" to the nonchalant shoppers who park their carts diagonally accross aisles, or stand a full ten feet away from the good on the shelves to get a better view. I am really good most of the time at being polite even when I am near panic on the distress scale. Smile, say "excuse me," say "thank you."

Well, today I forgot the last part. An older man, standing calmly in the middle of the aile, reminded me of my omission by saying "your're welcome" as I passed by. While I am usually good at thanking bystanders, I will occasionally forget when I find the bystander to be particularly clueless and unaware of the impact of their own actions on the rest of the world. This was a borderline case, but I think it qualifies. I threw a "thank you!" over my shoulder none the less. But in my mind, I wondered how he could not see that I had a TICKING TIME BOMB! in my cart. Peace, justice, and national security were at stake - could he not see that??? Munch was almost out of snacks, for godssake!

I'll bet Jack Bauer doesn't even smile and say "excuse me" as he rushes to save the world.

12:57
12:58
12:59

Evolution

2006-09-24T19:44:00.000-07:00

I am convinced that babies are born with the biological ability to recognize their mothers and Elmo.

My son has a very small musical toy with a miniscule red Elmo on it. That is all it took. He can recognize an 18 inch picture of the furry creature from 30 feet. Celebrations ensue.

This is how it happens

2006-08-31T08:55:00.000-07:00

One of the results of not going to work and being in an office environment, is that you quickly lose touch with pop culture. I miss those bonding sessions of peering over a coworker's shoulder to see the latest website or video. I feel like I am the last one to the party. When Jon Stewart finally mentions snakes on a plane I rush to the computer to google it.

Somehow, when you drop out of the workforce, you become invisible. I wonder if people assume that you no longer check your email, or that you no longer get a kick out of OK go videos. Since I am last to the party on these and other internet phenomena, I can only assume that I just didn't get the invite for so many other jokes and stories. I rely exclusively on the radio for my knowledge of music, as nobody I know tells me about their favorite new musical discoveries.

I fear that this is how one becomes tragically unhip, and that I am well on my way. Almost makes me want to go back to work!

Me, so far from cool

2006-08-24T13:32:00.000-07:00

This morning in the car on my way to Trader Joe's with the Munch in the back seat, a song came on the radio and I took one of those trips in the way-back machine inside my head. It was David Bowie's "Oh, You Pretty Things." It happens that this song comes off of one of my all-time favorite albums.

I bought the Hunky Dory cassette in a massive grocery store in a massive mall in Madrid when I was 16. I bought it because it was David Bowie, and I LOVED David Bowie. Still do. I was having a hard time and I needed new music to make me feel better. It was a splurge - I think I probably spent about $12. When I got back to my room and popped it into my Sony Walkman, I was perplexed. There was not much to like about this album. It was amateurish. The songs wandered all over the place, pulling at this piece of imagery and that, with no regard for logic, sophistication, musical norms. I kept listening. After about 10 or 12 trips through the tape, it clicked with me. To this day, Hunky Dory remains one of my favorite albums. I love how naive it is. Not even a tipping of the hat to commercial viability. The album is a tribute to what you can do when you don't have one of those little guys in your head telling you "you can't do that." And there, between the strangely brit-country "Eight Line Poem" and the charming "Kooks" you have the hauntingly wonderful "Life on Mars?" I wonder, now, how to shush my little nay-sayer so that I can find my own "Life on Mars?"

Music has a way of pulling you back into earlier times of your life. I have now completed my transformation to suburban housewife. Yet, when I hear a song, I find that all of those previous mes- the 16-year-old with the new driver's license and the black Tercel (with an orange stripe), the 20-year-old on a Spanish train with my huge bag of cassettes, the twenty-something workaholic urban dweller who lived in chunky heels - I find that these earlier versions are still there within me. I always thought when you got older these earlier versions of yourself were replaced - but now I find that they are still very much alive, just kind of sleepy at times.

A few words

2006-05-25T09:15:00.000-07:00

G is now reliably saying a few words. Sometimes they are difficult to detect, though, even to the trained ear. He's got mama, dada, and nana down. "Grandpa" is a little more difficult. G's version, which, though far from the original word, is really darned cute, is "baa-mmm."

I just figured out this morning that "nigh, nigh," along with the sleep sigh of hand on the cheek, tilted head, refers not only to bedtime, but also to the beloved blanket.

Other words:
"na!" = snack
"meah" = milk
"shoe"
"tzeeze" = cheese

Our house, but not

2006-04-30T11:29:00.000-07:00

Here is what our San Mateo house looks like staged .

It looks so nice without all of the crap in it!

Our new house - first look

2006-03-15T09:12:00.000-08:00

We move in a couple of weeks.

More photos here.

Hong Kong, Day One

2006-02-05T14:39:00.000-08:00

It is 6:30 on day 2, and I still have an hour and a half before they put out the coffee. It is a long wait. Tom has a sales conference in Hong Kong, and I am along for the ride. Munch is home with the grandparents.

After arriving at 7:00 on Saturday night, we got checked in to our VERY stylish hotel and hit the street. Pretty overwhelming. We did our best to keep ourselves awake until a reasonable hour by exploring the local megamall. Our hotel is not exactly in a touristy area. Not at all. We managed to find an ATM and spend our first HK dollars in a Hagen Daas cafe, with waiters and ice cream menus to boot. A western (read: white) family sat down across from us. We struck up a conversation - they had been in town for a month, having just moved from New Jersey along with their 5 children. Egads. The youngest girl at the table did not look altogether happy about the choices that had been made for her. They had agreed to move to Hong Kong for 3-5 years for the father's company. They had done the same in Argentina a number of years before. While I think this cultural exposure is wonderful for the kids, I have to wonder how it effects them and their ability to have relationships with others to uproot like that every couple of years.

First night was short - we woke at 5 and waited around the hotel room until 8. Good thing it is a nice room. Getting through jetlag in a crappy room is really rotten. This hotel has only 57 rooms, making it absolutely tiny by HK standards, where most hotels are dwarf the MGM Grand in Vegas. It is like a W, says Tom, without the attitude. We have been really charmed by how darned NICE everyone here is. Usually city life breeds indifference to the hoards around you. Out of necessity, I imagine. But here, everyone we talk to is just delightful. They sure make it seem like they are actually enjoying talking to you.

After some excellent strong coffee and a bite, we hit the pavement. I find that the best way to get my bearings in a city is simply to walk. So we walk. After two rather long bathroom breaks for Tom, we buy an Octopus card and head for the ferry terminal. The card is a payment system for all public transport, including buses, ferries, and trams, as well as commercial outlets like 7-11 (they are everywhere - seriously, every couple of blocks) and Starbucks (almost everywhere). We hop aboard a ferry to Lamma. A half hour later we are in another world - an island of small houses, a handful of restaurants, an no cars whatsoever. The scenery is alternately beautiful, lush, and dirty and corroded. We take the paved trail from the port town on one side of the island to the port town on the other - about an hour and a half journey. When we get to the other side of the island, we hungrily review the restaurant options and get ourselves seated. We have just an incredible meal - garlic prawns, salt and pepper calamari, two perfect clams topped with glass noodles and black bean sauce, sauteed lettuce, and fried rice. We down a couple of beers and several glasses of hot tea, which fend off the chill we get as our sweat evaporates. The bill comes to about $25.

We hop on another ferry back to Hong Kong Island. From shacks to massive, glittering highrises, which seem to defy gravity as they tower over the edge of the water. I'm heading downhill fast at this point. We make a run for the nearest massive mall, which we know will have a couple of coffee shops. We plop into red upholstered chairs and suck down our espresso drinks. An asian couple across from us has their eyes closed, and their hands clasped under the table. The woman is talking. They are praying. I think she is speaking in English. After several minutes, she stops, and her companion takes his turn. It strikes me that I never see people from non-Christian religions do this. Aside from a short prayer before eating, or blessing someone else, most religions keep their prayers for their homes and their places of worship. It seems strange to have this very personal experience in such a public venue.

I gotta walk until the caffeine kicks in. We head for the long escalator that goes from the Central area up through Soho. We get off in Soho and check out the stylish restaurants and interior design stores. On our way back down the hill, someone waves us over. "They are filming a movie. Jackie Chan!" How very cliche. Our first day in HK, and we are watching Jackie Chan filming a stunt. We watch for a good while. My camera ran out of batteries back on Lamma island, of course, so I can't take a picture. After the stunt is executed successfully, we continue on our way. Tom stops at an Apple retail store, and spends a LONG time talking to the employee about his job, and what his challenges are in HK.

We hop on the tram to get back to the hotel. We have an excellent vantage point on the second story of the tram to watch all of the thousands of Filipina maids as they congregate in parks and street overpasses. In the park, an skinny asian girl covers Gloria Gayner with her band as the women pack around the stage. Nobody dances. Men are jammed around the basketball court, watching a tournament. The players are extremely tall, and dressed in pink uniforms.

Eventually, we make it back to the hotel. We change, get our bearings, and head out for dinner. Dinner takes us back across town again, via metro, which takes far longer than we anticipated. We end up in a Thai/Vietnamese restaurant. The food is good, but not great. The bill is more than twice what we spent on lunch.

Finally, a tram ride back to the hotel, and bed. I manage to sleep soundly until 2:00. Today, we change hotels and Tom checks in for his conference. I tend on taking full advantage of our fancy digs at the Four Seasons while Tom is off doing "business."

Little boy

2006-01-17T16:06:00.000-08:00

As predicted, my baby has left me, and replaced himself with a full-blown toddler. A walking, babbling, screaming child who has a will of his own and desire to express himself physically. Now is the time when one starts thinking, now fondly, about the possibility of Number Two. I look back at the baby pictures and the early video - that is another child. Certainly a different creature altogether from the active, expressive little puppy we have running around the house now.

Here's what happened - he found that he could walk upright, and figured that if he could do that, like big people do, he could do everything else they do as well. Within days he was trying on words and (his favorite) animal sounds like new hats. He figured out how to sign "more" and quickly tuned in to how he might use his hands to tell us all about his demands. He now signs the words more, milk, eat, baby, banana, and ball. Sometimes I see him wiggling his fingers as if he is trying to find a way to tell me something he has not yet learned. And now, when he makes a demand that we cannot or will not fulfill, he goes into an absolute rage. No, we will not give you more pieces of banana for you to throw on the ground. No, I will not pick you up while I am on the potty. Sorry, but pants are required for a trip to the park. Yesterday, sounds from Munch's room indicated that Tom was removing Munch's arms from his torso. Not so! Simply administering a new diaper. It took us all several minutes to recover.

The good news is that Munch now goes to sleep like a dream. No more screaming, bemoaning, lamenting his fate and cursing his parents. No, now we slow dance in the dark for a minute or two. He clings to my neck and buries his head in my hair. Then, when he is ready, he reaches out for his crib. He snuggles with his blanket and that is it. It is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Thursday I start my next community college class. I am looking forward to learning something. I am not looking forward to how long it will take me to learn something. I'm such a snob.

Every day, a bad review

2005-12-19T17:23:00.000-08:00

I love to cook. I get tremendous joy and pleasure out of creating in the kitchen. This pleasure is generally compounded by compliments from my audience. Tom would not touch a vegetable when I met him, and now he clamors for tomatoes, stewed greens, and mushrooms in any form. I give myself some of the credit. The rest goes to Alice Waters and the California sunshine. I tend to shun recipes, or use them for general guidance only. I can go into almost any kitchen and create a meal from whatever I find in the pantry.

My current job involves a lot of time in the kitchen. I get to cook all the time. 14-month-olds, after all, are supposed to take six meals a day. After shopping for organic produce and foods without hydrogenated oils, high fructose corn syrup, or nitrates, I return home to steam vegetables, simmer soups, and dice foods into toddler-appropriate sizes. I arrange brightly colored offerings on Munch's food tray, and place them before him deferentially. Time and time again, after only a cursory glance, a mere sniff in the direction of my carefully crafted, nutritionally balanced meals, he closes his eyes, pokes his little nose in the air, and turns his head as far away from the food as possible, remnicent, perhaps, of Martha Stewart's reactions to her first prison meals. If the head turning tactic does not have the desired effect, he looks me dead in the eye, and, with his right arm fully extended, grabs the juiciest morsel on his tray, flinging it backwards so that it ricochets off the white wall before coming to rest in the food graveyard under his chair. If he could articulate his sentiments, I believe it would go something like this:

"Once again you insult me your foul "food;" The ketchup does not hide your true intentions. You will not use your culinary tactics to keep me in my place - indeed, I use this opportunity to keep you in yours."

I am not sure what he is holding out for - a nice plate full of extension cords perhaps? Or maybe just my wallet filled with dollar bills and paper receipts, served with a side of staples.

At any rate, his constant rejection has turned the haven of my kitchen into a purgatory of sorts, where I try and try again to please my master so that I may move on to the next level. By early evening, when it is time to start thinking about dinner, I am so dejected that I cannot possibly muster the inspiration or even the interest in cooking for adults. I cannot wash another dish, I cannot wipe up another spill. Dinner for us will consist of whatever I can pull from the freezer and heat on a paper towel in the microwave. Maybe tomorrow he'll eat something other than bananas. Maybe tomorrow I will cook dinner.

Today

2005-12-12T19:13:00.000-08:00

Today he walks, and, once again, our lives are forever changed.

New word

2005-12-11T07:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, when the Winnie the Pooh chipper music toy with no off button had pushed me to my limits as I was trying to re-wire the stereo to the TV, I misspoke and demanded that Griffin hand over the "annoising" toy. I'm calling Merriam or Webster, who ever is in charge these days.

What evil manufactures make these Disney-inspired instruments of torture, with no volume control and no off switch? I can just picture the evil geniuses they employ who create pre-recorded "music" and sound effects perfectly designed to draw children in (the first animal sound is free!) and push parents slowly over the edge. I think it is all part of some plan created by pediatrician from the 50s who thinks that parents should yell at their children and send them to bed without supper, as it builds character.

Well, there will be no character-building in my household. Removing the batteries is a wonderful alternative.

As far as food goes these days, Griffin and I have worked out an arrangement. I put food down in front of him, and walk out of the room or start doing the dishes. He can choose to eat the food or play with the food. Some days he lives on fruit and waffles. And that is okay with me. He'll eat vegetables and coq au vin when he is good and ready.

Bites, blue water, books

2005-11-26T14:31:00.000-08:00

A salt water foot tickle

Wow! Wow, wow, wow.

Last night we returned from a 6 night vacation in Belize. I true vacation, with reading, sleeping, exploring, and lots of rum punch. On the eve of the trip, my parents, jokingly, perhaps, suggested that we leave the Munch with them. Before I knew what had happened, we were discussing logistics, and racing home from dinner to repack the bags. An hour later, Tom and I were in the airport alone! Already diving into our books. I can't even explain what it was like to be on our own again. Hungrily scarfed down books until our eyes bled. We thirstily poured adult beverages down our gullets, giving responsibility a well-earned rest. We rode in fast boats, peed in dirty pit toilets, and careened down one lane, two direction dirt roads. We also swam in (nurse) shark infested waters.

Of course we missed him. Of course we could hardly wait to see him, even as we raced through our last hours of pleasure reading on the plane. I had crazy Munch dreams every night. It was like my mind didn't know what to do with that part that has been so completely consumed with the care and feeding of the Munch, and it had to go through all of that pent up activity while I slept.

I got eaten by black flies. We swam in the clearest, bluest water I have ever seen. I read The Kite Runner and most of The Time Traveler's Wife, which are wonderful, and another less-wonderful book that is not worth mentioning. It was heaven, and I am so glad to be home.

Some days, it just gets old

2005-11-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

So now Munch is eating better. I changed my focus from getting him to swallow food, to getting him to "experience" food. Sometimes he just squeezes it in his fist as hard as he can. Sometimes he wants to know how peanut butter will feel in his hair. This new approach seems to work - he is eating more and more varied foods. I am less freaked out. But there is one drawback.

It is very, very messy. It is messy each of the six times per day that I feed him.

I get rather tired of washing him, the dishes, the floor under his clip-on chair. I look forward to those occasions that we eat out, so that someone else can clean up his mess (I used to feel guilty about this, but no longer). Dishes are boring. Many dishes are more boring. Mopping up spilled, dropped, tossed bits of food while he leans over to kick my head or pull my hair just about finishes off my patience.

The speed at which he can empty an unsuspecting drawer or clear a bookshelf is increasing. He can now demolish the whole house in about 10 minutes. A bathroom break for mom provides a good window of opportunity to tackle at least one room.

We need to get out more.

Scariest gnome on the block

2005-11-01T21:48:00.000-08:00

Cognitive Dissonance

2005-10-31T10:31:00.000-08:00

I am happy. Happier than I have been in years. I wake up happy, looking forward to each day. I do not regret quitting my job for one minute.

This weekend I went back to college. I returned with some friends to support dear Petrea, who was inducted into the Pomona College Athletic Hall of Fame. Going back to campus always stirs up conflicted feelings. I find it so hard to comprehend how much time has passed, and how different I am now. I see the ghost of my former self in cutoffs and long hair everywhere I go. I can see her thoughts, dreams, and expectations. Then, inevitably, I must compare those dreams to my current reality.

I am not one of those lucky people who always knew what they wanted to be. In that sense, I have always been lost. Or, perhaps, I have always been exploring. I cannot escape, however, the idea that I had that I would do something Important and Meaningful, and that my intelligence, hard work, and passion would continue to be rewarded. Now I must reconcile those expectations with my current choices - to stay at home with my child. I never planned on being a stay-at-home-mom (SAHM, in message board lingo). I left that to Christians and Republican women. I left that option to women who did not have the strong ambitions that I have. Then the time came for me to make my own decision for myself, and I decided to quit my job. I can explain and justify my decision, of course. I was not challenged in my job. I didn't see a future for myself there. I was burnt out after 8 years of Web stuff. All true. None the less, I am now a SAHM, and when someone asks me what I do, I break eye contact and lower my voice.

When I quit my job, I was hurt and insulted by the response I got from many coworkers. Instead of asking me about my decision, people generally felt that it was appropriate to offer their opinion on the matter. "You are doing the right thing. You should stay home with your baby." Just like that, I had relegated myself to a box. I was easily categorized (something I have never been), and easily dismissed. No one questioned my decision and asked if I might consider staying if conditions changed. I felt worthless and useless. I had been there for 3 1/2 years, and, apparently, contributed nothing that would be missed, work wise (I had plenty of personal attachments that were not so easily terminated).

Since then, I try to reconcile my current situation with my own image of myself. It is not easy. I found myself sitting on the floor of Pottery Barn Kids at a sing-a-long event, looked around at the other moms in designer sweats and diaper bags, and thought, "oh my God, I have become one of them." One of those I-never-thought-it-would-happen-to-me moments.

I am happy. I am enjoying this time tremendously. But what do I do with my ambitions and expectations? Can I just store those away in Rubbermaid containers in the garage, along with the snowshoes and painting supplies, and pull them out again when I am ready to restart my career?

A mom asked me if I didn't see my current situation as a career change - that being a mom was my new career. No. It is not a career. Being a mom is not a job, either. I don't want the conciliatory cookie offered by many, "you just work out of the home." Don't euphemise me. A job requires a contract with an employer - they get your time and energy in exchange for a paycheck and health insurance. Munch is not a job. He is life - his life, my life. Managing his needs and our relationship requires a lot of work, but the rewards are rich indeed. I'll find a place for those college-years expectations next to my photo boxes in the garage for now.

War of the Cheetos

2005-10-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

I thought we had come around the proverbial corner after this past weekend in Indy, when Munch definitely lived up to his nickname. He ingested everything that came his way, including, but not limited too: Fruit Loops, salami, Cheese Nips, an ice cream sandwich, and a spicy beef burrito. And Cheetos. I almost forgot. Health and nutrition be damned! I bite my tongue for every time I judged another mother for feeding her kid crap. I am throwing the food door wide open until this kid of mine can at least accept a variety of tastes and textures in his food. For some reason, he ate it all voraciously, giving the repellent-food-face a much-needed rest. We cheered him on. Way to go, Munch! If that stuff doesn't put some meat on your bones, nothing will!

And then we got home. I rushed to the store to stock up on California versions of the above foods - graham crackers, Trader Joe's Cheese Crackers, Tofutti Cuties, etc., only to find that the you're-suggestion-that-I-so-much-as-smell-that-makes-me-gag face had returned. And the struggle continues. Perhaps it was the entertainment of having twenty adults and children all talking at once that helped him eat. Hard to mimic that at home.

Where did we spend the weekend? Why, at Caribbean Cove indoor water park/Holiday Inn Select, of course. A cultural experience for Californians like me, who, before meeting Tom and visiting the Midwest, had absolutely no idea what an indoor water park was.

This child cannot be ours

2005-10-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

The birthday boy

We went to Griffin's 1 year pediatrician's appointment on Tuesday, and came back in the dumps. He's small. I mean, we knew that, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. Our pediatrician suggested that we feed him fattier foods and back off on the fruits and vegetables. This is all well and good, but he's hitting the point where he pretty much spits out anything that is not apple sauce or yoghurt. I almost invited him over to our house so that HE could take a stab at feeding the Munch breakfast sausage and cheese. At the end of the visit, he told us not to worry, that he didn't look underweight for his height. I kinda laughed at this point and said, "Well, we shouldn't be surprised, since Tom's dad and my mom are both 5'2"." His response? "He's not even tracking to 5'2"." We drove home both thinking to ourselves that we had a midget on our hands. We didn't dare share our fears out loud.

Of course, I immediately went to Whole Foods and bought up every fattening food I thought he possibly might eat. I shoved peanut butter cookie samples in his mouth as we shopped. I guess I felt (feel) that the height/weight issue is something I can fix, small stature is my fault for not feeding him enough of the right foods. When we got home, he would have none of the greasy new treats, the creamy milk and cheese. Tom was on duty for dinner. He had much the same experience. Lots of food-as-art, very little food-as-sustenance. It just makes you want to cry. Munch finally accepted the offered greek yoghurt, and Tom proceeded to feed him a good eight ounces of the stuff. Which he then puked all over me and the bathroom floor when I returned from dinner. Did I mention that he had three vaccinations at the doctor as well?

We are now emerging a bit from the panic. We have agreed to throttle back on the new foods at least until he recovers from his flu and chicken pox vaccines. We aren't going to stop trying, but we aren't going to try to change his genetic code through food, either.

A First Birthday

2005-10-15T06:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Griffin,

Today you celebrate your first birthday. We have come so far, and accomplished so much in just one year.

A year ago, we were in bad shape. Your arrival was a bit of a surprise, as we were not expecting you for another month. As it turns out, I was getting pretty sick, and the doctor told me that I'd better get used to the idea that you were going to be here a little early. They had me on all sorts of medication that made me pretty dopey for a couple of days. Since you didn't want to come out yet, even with some medical prompting, they decided they were going to have to take you out. I don't remember much about the operation. I was still feeling very woozy, due to the drugs. I remember the bright operating room, and how hard it was to lean back into the needle they put into my spine.
I remember it was so fast. Your dad was there, talking to me and holding my hand. Before I even had time to think about it, there you were.
They held you up over the curtain so that I could see you. You were covered with all kinds of gook, but I still remember being surprised at your dark hair. You didn't look anything like I expected you to. It was so hard for me to remember much. I struggled to force pictures and sounds into my memory. I heard you cry three times, I remember that.

After they sewed me back up, we both went to the recovery room, where the nurse put your perfect little self on my chest and I tried to nurse you for the first time. After that, we both went our separate ways, where we were both hooked up to numerous monitors and tubes.

The hardest part for me was not being able to see you. I wanted desperately to hold you and look at your little face, but the doctors wanted me to stay in bed for a while. When I was finally able to go visit you in the NICU, I was just amazed at you. Your perfectness. Your tininess. Your hair was the finest, softest fur. Your wrinkled ears were little origami rose petals, folded tightly to fit as efficiently as possible in my womb. And your nose, your mouth! I had never seen anything so beautiful in my whole life. I just could not believe that this was the creature I had been building in my tummy all these months. I couldn't get enough of you. At the end of each visit, they had to tear me away from you. We both spent some days recovering. Each day, a either you or I would get one more tube or one more monitor removed, until, at last, we were free of all contraptions. After about a week in the hospital, we both went home, and started our new life as a family.

This past year has been amazing beyond my wildest dreams. Of course, it helps that you are an absolute doll of a child. Aside from your little sleeping issue (you need it, but you seem to think that giving in to it is a sign of weakness), you are pure light and joy. You throw smiles around like candy. We scramble to collect them, and return for more. Strangers and friends alike fall under the spell of your charms pretty much immediately. You love nothing so much as to laugh and bounce and entertain. And you hate to be left out of a joke. The other day, the people on the radio had a laugh and you joined in from your rear-facing car seat.

I am the luckiest mom in the world. After returning to work for a mere six weeks, your dad and I decided that I could quit to spend my time with you, watching you grow and cleaning your butt every so often. I wake up each morning, and I can't wait to see you. Granted, I also can't wait for you to go to bed at night. I love watching you crawl - you can really haul. You remind me of a running lizard, as I can barely see your limbs touch the ground as fly over the floor. I especially love the smell of your head when it begins to sweat. It is the sweetest perfume. If I could put that scent in a bottle, I would make a fortune.

You are the luckiest kid in the world. Your parents adore the crap out of you. You get to see at least two of your grandparents every couple of days. You love the sound of the front door opening, because, without a doubt, it announces the arrival of a beloved parent or grandparent who will lavish you with kisses immediately.

So now you are one. I had a hard time ordering your birthday cake, because I think on some level I am not ready for you to be a year old yet. I am not ready for my baby to become a toddler. I have been so surprised by how quickly time has gone by, and it is hard for me to accept that we will only celebrate your first birthday once.

Thank you, my little Griffin, for all of the joy you have already brought too our lives. While I say a sad farewell to the first year, I look eagerly toward the adventures we will have together in the second year of your live.

Happy birthday, my little love.
-Mom

Some thoughts and observations

2005-10-05T10:57:00.001-07:00

If you are wearing fleece pants, a fleece jacket, and a full layer of foundation at the gym, guess what? You aren't working hard enough. Push those pedals, woman!

A wo-man took the crosstrainer next to mine yesterday. I like to consider myself pretty progressive, but I still find it really hard not to stare and the 50+ year old wo-man with the delicate hands, wedding ring, blond ponytail, and matching full mustache and flavor saver. All sorts of questions come to mind. Hormone therapy? If this person is transitioning, it just makes me sad to think that s/he is making the change so late in life. Many years of confusion. Or perhaps she just embraces the extra facial hair and does not feel obliged to abide by social norms. Wow! That's pretty cool. But does that mean it is more or less okay for me to stare? Does the fact that I am curious make me a bad, voyeuristic person? What is the difference between curiosity and judgment? Can the object of curiosity tell if s/he is being judged?

Such is my eventful life in suburbia.

Part 1 - Rioja and Vitoria

2005-10-03T15:30:00.000-07:00

Even if you have travelled extensively in Spain, chances are you have not been to Vitoria. And what a shame.

We arrived into Bilbao airport after a trying but not impossible journey. Not exactly fun, but, like getting a filling, you just try to relax as much as possible and wait for it to be over. Kudos to Air France for taking good care of us, and providing much-needed support. Air France is SO worth the extra $100 in air fare.

Vitoria is about an hour drive from Bilbao. Our driver/navigator team decided that our cultural experience needed to start immediately, and opted for the scenic route, which only took an extra hour and a half. It did allow us to drive through several small towns, with picture-perfect scenes of grannies riding on carts, etc. The signs entering and exiting towns had the Spanish name spray painted out, corrected with the Basque name, leaving no doubt that we were in the heart of Basque ("Euskadi", in Basque) country. We arrived in Vitoria just in time to have a quick meal of pinchos (Basque version of Tapas) at a bar and hit the sack. The next morning we were up bright and early to hop on the bus for a tour of the Rioja region, as organized by our dear hosts. We went to Laguardia, a completely medival village, where we saw the most amazing cathedral portal I have ever seen in my life, followed by a tour of a winery with ancient caves. We lunched on jamon, cheese, and tortilla espanola as we tasted the various wines.

Our tour guide gave his tour in "English", which defied comprehension by the Spanish speaking, English speaking, and bilingual guests. We learned when he was telling a joke by watching his guestures and picking up on occasional words like "wife" and "stomach", and laughed accordingly. Maria Angeles pointed out the house her grandfather used to live in as we headed back to the bus.

After the ancient winery which prided itself on maintaining traditial practices, we went to a winery that prided itself on modern architechture and high-tech wine production. Munch preferred this one, as the vast polished cement floors provided ample space for rapid crawling. The wine here was good, but the building left a greater impression.

We spent the following day exploring Vitoria itself. Its modern shell houses an incredibly beautiful interior, filled with a large pedestrian zone and many parks. Aside from the wedding guests and the rockers that had decended on the town for a music festival, we saw no tourists during our stay. What struck us the most was that the people who live in this town seem incredibly prosperous, and appear to have an amazing quality of life. They fill the pedestrian areas and the plaza every evening to meet with family and friends over a glass of wine and window shop. The bars and restaurants wind down after 10:00 on weeknights when everyone heads home. We went out the night of the wedding, and left the bars packed full at 2:30 AM. That put a big smile on my face - THIS is what I remember.

They have upholstered chairs in the exam rooms

2005-10-03T15:11:00.000-07:00

So I went to the dermo today and had three moles shaved off. Two were "fleshy" and just in irritating locations (under the bra line, etc.), and one was "irregular", which means it gets sent to the hospital lab. I am happy that the mole gets sent to the hospital and I get to go home. If only it always worked that way.

Before the doctor came in with the razor, the nurse numbed up the moles. She stood behind me with her hand behind the chair and told me that I was going to feel a little prick. I asked if she was trying to hide the needle from me. To her credit, she said yes and laughed. I said, "They spent an hour trying to get an IV in me at the hospital without novacaine. Needles don't impress me."

What will they do with the mole when they are done with it? Will they send it home with instructions to "take it easy for a while?"

I am so overdue

2005-09-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

(Griffin in front of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostella)

I promised to post while we were away, and yet I did not. I promised myself I would post as soon as I got home, and I did not. I guess I just don't know where to start. Our trip was amazing, mind blowing, rich, memorable, exhausting.

My son just pooped so now I must run and change his diaper. But I will say this first - traveling with and infant is exhausting, challenging, and sooooo worth it. You will make friends with strangers (sometimes out of absolute necessity). You force your child to be flexible, whether he wants to or not. You will force yourself to be flexible and focus on priorities. You will discover that sometimes, sitting in the park is as much of a cultural experience as any museum.

More later.

Today's the day!

2005-08-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

We have amassed an amazing amount of luggage. I am still not quite sure how it all adds up, but there you have it - two suitcases packed to the brim, one daypack/child carrier, one diaper bag/purse, one stroller, one travel guitar, one computer case/backpack.

We still have to see where we can squeeze in the clip on high chair and the baby tent/portacrib. When researching tips for airplane travel with an infant, almost everything said that bringing a carseat was imperative. That not bringing a child seat was downright irresponsible. Just THINK how you would feel if there was some turbulence and your child lost a limb because bringing a carseat was too expensive/inconvenient for you? Well, we only have so many limbs with which to carry luggage and child. In this life you have to make choices, and I choose not to transport a carseat among planes, trains, taxis, and metros.

Don't you wish YOU had the seat next to us?

A cheerful topic

2005-08-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

Death has been on my mind a lot lately. My parents have had two friends die in the past month. Another is caring for a terminally ill friend. My dear friend learned last thursday that her father is dying of liver cancer. Strangely, having the Munch makes me think about death as well. I see how time is so endless for him, so finite for me. In many ways, he is my replacement. I think about the passage of time - how the first 5, 10, 15 years of his life will always be an eternity for him, as the first 5, 10, 15 years of my life were an eternity for me. And yet for me, the next years will rush by, just as this year is rushing by. It becomes more and more difficult to ignore that this acceleration leads to only one definite, unavoidable destination. Tom turns 40 next year. That is just so hard to understand.

And then I watch the season finale of Six Feet Under. It was wonderful - touching, moving, happy, and melancholy. It was morbid, as always. There was something both disconcerting and comforting in watching each of the characters meet their end. I think David's death was the loveliest. He's at a wedding (I lost track of who's). He looks out into the sunny, late afternoon sunshine bathed field and sees his partner Keith, who has been dead for years, tossing the football around with their adopted sons. Keith smiles and him and David dies, falling over in his chair. Wouldn't that be a beautiful way to go. This is going to sound corny, but the message that I got out of all of these final scenes was that at the end of they day, the only thing you have is the love you give and the love you receive. The rest just falls away.

Again I think that contemplating death would be much more tolerable if I had some sort of religion for support. But I don't. I wish in a way that I could make this topic more tolerable for my son, when he becomes aware of his own mortality. I wonder if I could bring him greater peace by raising him with some sort of religion. But to do so when I myself can't believe is hypocritical, if not impossible. There is always a chance he will find a spiritual path on his own, in his own way. Until then, I will just have to fill our lives with as much love as possible, so that at the end of the day, we can look back and measure our lives by the love we have given and the love we have received.

Me, party girl!

2005-08-21T13:29:00.000-07:00

Amazing, I have been to TWO WHOLE PARTIES in the last four days. Two whole nights to forget that I spend my days wiping up poop and spit up. It was a glorius, if temporary, return to my former self. I replaced yoga pants and sneakers with fish nets and high heels. I drank beer and vodka and listened to loud music.

The two parties, incidentally, were both 40th birthday parties. They were nothing what I remember from my dad's 40th, which definiately did not include a disco bus or an art gallery.

A special congratulations to dear Brian and Guille, who are now gonna go and get hitched!

We leave for Spain in 11 days!

2005-08-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

I'm getting very excited. I think I have a handle on what to pack for the Munch. I'm a little aprehensive about travelling with a babe, but I think it will work out just fine.

3 1/2 weeks in northern Spain, 2 days in Madrid, one week in Paris.

Here's what I am looking forward to:
* Attending my first Spanish wedding & seeing some people I have not seen in a very long time
* Visiting a corner of Spain I have never been to before
* Staying at one of the oldest hotels in the world
* Going to a country that welcomes babies in bars
* Delicious food, wine, and cider
* People-watching
* Walking my ass off in Paris, Munch in tow

Nervous about:
* Easing back into my Spanish - I'm going to be a stumbling idiot for the first couple of days.
* Fitting 4 adults, one child seat, 4 suitcases, 2 backpacks, 1 stroller and 1 travel guitar into our european station wagon.
* Munch tolerating some long driving days
* Munch screaming himself to sleep and disturbing other hotel guests
* Comprenez-vous l'anglais?

I have some questions

2005-08-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

1. Exactly why did the previously delighful spa experience known as the diaper change become the most inhumane torture? And how long does this phase last? I should videotape this and show it to you whenever I want to make you feel guilty for the rest of your life.

2. When, oh when, does the spit up stop? Frankly, dearest babe, I am tired of it. Tired of running for a wipe, tired of changing my clothes and yours three times a day. If I never had to smell sour milk again it would be too soon, know what I mean?

3. At what point do you become aware that rasberrying your food makes it rather difficult to ease your hunger? It is not okay for your diet to consist solely of Cheerios.

My baby's leaving me

2005-07-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

I blinked and he crawled. I turned my back for a second, and he pulled himself up to stand. I took a nap and he got a tooth. While each advancement is a new reason to celebrate, I also find myself mourning the loss of my baby. In just a matter of months he will be replaced with a toddler. My little bun, my armful of baby yumminess won't come back. I can hardly stand the thought of it. I guess I didn't expect to feel sad about this, so I am taken quite by surprise. I know that I will love little toddler Munch as much as baby Munch, but I am just not ready yet. I need another year, maybe. It all just needs to slow down! The though of his gummy smile turning into a toothy grin makes me want to cry.

I had a hard time when my fragile newborn became a chunky baby. I tried to memorize every feature, gesture, and cry. But as with dreams, just as I tried to grasp the memories and file them away as permanent records, they escaped my grasp and evaporated. Our memory is poor archival tool indeed.

His head just smells so lovely when it is damp with sweat.

Love Shack

2005-07-20T13:25:00.000-07:00

Question:
Can a vacation feel like a vacation when you are on permanent vacation?
- or -
Can a vacation feel like a vacatin when you take your 24/7 job and your homework with you?

Answer:
Yes!

We had a brief respite with eight of our dearest friends at the Russian River. We rented a "cabin", complete with gourmet kitchen, hot tub, kayaks, and wonderful views. We spent the weekend finding various ways to relax, explore the river, eat, and drink. We saw seals and salmon in the river. We played games and drank girly drinks (even the boys). Griffin stayed up too late and napped too little, fearing that he would miss something.

And I fell in love. Actually, I met an old love and rekindled the relationship. When we were last together, I was a child and subject to amaturish whims. I stashed this love away and pushed it from my mind. Now, I simply can't imagine now how I managed these many years without peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Oh, what a passionate reunion! How could I forget the soft whole wheat bread, the salty sticky peanutness, the oozing strawberries! A tummy filled with peanut butter and strawberry jam is happy indeed. It fill without overloading. The sensation lingers long after the event itself, bestowing an afterglow of satisfaction. PBJs are a whole different experience at 33 than they were at 8 or 10. Only once you have sampled cuisines of the world, the curries of Bangkok, the moles of Oaxaca, the kebaps of Istanbul can you really appreciate the simple perfection of this all-American dish, the perfect balance of salty and sweet, crunchy (of course!) and gooey. Fruit, nut, and grain in perfect balance.

Go make yourself one right now. You will be glad you did.

Baby, baby, baby

2005-07-06T13:25:00.000-07:00

I haven't said much about the Munch lately. I guess I am afraid of being one of THOSE parents. You know, nothing to talk about but the baby, what the baby ate, baby poop, baby's new cute bah-bah sounds, baby likes Cheerios, baby, baby, baby.

I spent a full afternoon on Sunday with my friend Judy. We talked about loads of stuff, very little of which had to do with my progeny. I swear there were times I almost forgot about him entirely. It was like a little mini vacation. I realized how much I enjoyed being my own self for a little bit, and how I really need to try to do that more often. Of course, I was thrilled to see him when I got home, and he was pretty happy to see me too.

We've decided that it is time to have a regular babysitter on the docket, so that we can have a regular date night once a week or so. Where does one find one of these? The nature of babysitting seems to have changed drastically since I was 13. Now all I hear about are semi-professional babysitters who are nursing or child development students, who drive their own cars, are fully certified, and charge a small fortune to what still amounts to putting the kid to bed and watching some TV. Some how I thought that I had a bunch of good babysitting karma saved up from my teenage years, when I charged $1.50/hr, organized games and activities, cooked meals, and helped with homework. No such luck. I can't seem to find my 13 year old self here in the neighborhood. I would probably be arrested for leaving my child in the care of a child - reckless endangerment, or some such.

He's been a doll lately. Constantly chattering nonsense, laughing like a maniac, and having his own little "rock out" sessions where he throws his arms in the air and goes into ecstatic convusions. Usually while I am trying to feed him. He still fights going to sleep as if he were fighting off death itself. I think he is convinced that there is a party somewhere and I am making him miss it.

Oh, and he scoots. He scoots fast. I leave him in one room while I answer the phone and find him in another when I return seconds later. He's a little human Swiffer. He drools all over his shirt, then scoots - Swiffs - all through the house, collecting all sorts of filth and debre as he goes. And I would have sworn that the floor was clean. We have this little game. He scoots to the electrical cables/entertainment center/outlet/plastic bag when he thinks I am not looking. I swoop down and tell him quite sternly, "no! no, Griffin!" and he laughs. It's a wonderful game. I am sure there will be dicipline problems for years to come as a result.

Another scantron quiz awaits me in class tonight. Can I borrow a no. 2 pencil?

Excuse me...

2005-07-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

...but what the FUCK is Tom Cruise's deal? He is beginning to very much resemble his role in Magnolia. He's really whacked out. I am waiting to wake up to the headline that he has blown his fortune on steriods, speed, and a massive tiara for Katie (excuse me, Kate).

He's an okay actor - I have even enjoyed him in some of his roles. But he is certainly off my okay person list. He's getting downright creepy in his professed adoration of young little Kate. And his statements on the Today Show about psychiatry and psychology are just off the deep end.

Comments:
1. Psychiatry is a medical profession. Psychology is a science. They are not faiths or ghosts, and therefore it is not a matter of "believing in" them or not. They are not people, so "agreeing with" them is also not an option.
2. Psychiatry is not a pseudoscience. Scientology is. (Daily Show, June 27[?])
3. I can't say for sure (I'll have to check my notes), but I seem to remember from one of my classes that neither Paxil nor Ritalin are anti-psychotic drugs.

Read the interview. Take a drink every time Tom says "Matt." And tell me if the world wouldn't be a better place if this guy were on Ritalin.

Additional fun at:
Dr. Tom Cruise, MD

1 or 2

2005-06-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

Tom and I have frequent conversations about whether we should have another kid. We generally have these conversations after a Zoe visit, when we are completely pooped out from managing both a baby and a 6-year-old. Funny enough, the baby seems easier to manage than the 6 year old. This isn't fair, of course. When we get to borrow Zoe, we expend a lot of energy establishing rules and operating procedures. As soon as we get the hang of things, she goes home again. We also, I think, find it frustrating that we can't have more continuous influence in her life. While she is here, there is no McDonalds, Disney videos don't exist, and she must at least try everything on her plate. We only shop at Trader Joe's, so that she is not tempted by Oreos and Doritos (the last time we took her to a supermarket, she left in tears because we wouldn't get chocolate mini donuts, and "you didn't get anything I like!"). She is pretty convinced at this point that food brands are just different in California: "In Lebanon [Indiana] we have Coco Crisp, in California there's Koala Crisp!" Maybe she also thinks we have books instead of cartoons, as she didn't watch any TV while she was here, and we did lots of family reading time.

So after these visits, we talk about whether we should add to our family. Surprisingly, I am more interested in having another child than Tom. Before the Munch, it was the other way around. As an only child, I really saw all of the advantages of having one child in the house. Tom, as one of five, thought having a couple of kids in rapid succession was the best plan. Now our positions have reversed a bit. Surprisingly (to me), I love being a mom and really want a companion for Munch. I am so afraid I will just smother the little guy if I can't spread my affection and attention around a little more. While Tom is very open to the idea of another kid, he is also very protective of what we have right now, and I think he may be afraid to change the dynamic once again.

Well, it's nothing that is going to happen soon, so we probably don't need to think about it as much as we do. For now, I am just enjoying my time with my precious little family. To quote a Chic classic, "good times, these are the good times."

Going green

2005-06-27T13:23:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, we got a letter from PG&E promoting an energy saving plan for the summer. Reduce usage by 20% and get a 20% rebate off the total of the summer months come September. Well, Tom thought this was a great idea. He signed up in about 30 seconds, and ran outside to check the meter.

I pointed out to him that reducing our usage 20% over last year might be a bit more of a challenge than we could meet. This year we have an extra little person in our family. I am home during the week, so our usage during the day will most likely increase. Plus, we have Tom's daughter, Zoe, visiting for two weeks this summer. Nevertheless, the man was determined. His plan included the standard energy-saving habits of turning out lights when you leave the room. His plan also included unplugging every electrical appliance in the house. Of course I protested. But he was determined, and countered my protestations with "Oh, come on. Its not that inconvenient."

For him. However, I am the one spending the majority of time in the house. As I went about my
"business" I must say I found it rather disconcerting to find all the clocks in the house (on the microwave, coffee maker, alarm clock, etc.) staring at me blankly. But I soon got used to that. I did not, however, get used to having to plug everything in every time I wanted to use it. Most electric appliances and devices are not designed to be unplugged between uses. Most houses are not designed to have outlets used as frequently as electrical switches. Every time I plugged the microwave in (3x/day as I defrost Munch's food cubes), it wants me to program the clock before I can set a cook time. You have to hit a couple of extra buttons each time to bypass this step. Which I routinely forgot. The clock radio on the breakfast table makes the long process of feeding the baby tolerable by keeping me entertained with more adult conversations on NPR. The outlet for this radio is conveniently tucked out of the way under the breakfast table. This clock radio, when programmed correctly, does a very nice job. However, both Tom and myself have found it challenging to set the programming on this radio. Whenever the power goes out, or, say, the clock is unplugged, it starts this annoying little electronic chirp at the top of the hour (the clock's hour, which, of course, does not correspond to any real time zone on this planet). Having to dive under the table to plug the darned thing in at every meal, and then listen to it chirp the hours away (until it was unplugged again) was, well, just a tad annoying. Elsewhere in the house: lamps, printer, coffee maker, breast pump. If you want to use them, just find the cord, plug them in, wait for restart, reprogram the clock, and off you go! Just think of the energy you are saving!

Every day or so Tom would run outside to check the meter and then compare it with our bills from last year. It became apparent after a couple of weeks that all of these efforts were basically having no effect.

We are now, once again, a fully wired and plugged in household.

Postscript: Tom had to fly Zoe back to Indiana on Saturday. The flight was at 6:20 AM, which meant that Tom had to get up at 4:30. He went to set the alarm clock and found that it had not yet joined the ranks of the reilluminated. The joy of this particular clock is that the time (-) button no longer works. In order to set the clock or the alarm you have to use the time (+) button. Oh, come on. It's not that inconvenient.

Going back to skool

2005-06-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

So, after all of these high fah-lootin' classes through Stanford Continuing Studies, I am currently enrolled in community college to plug up some psychology prerequisites. Just in case I want to go back to school for reals.

Ways in which class at the College of San Mateo differ from Stanford Continuing Studies, Letterman-style:

10. The back rows of seats fill first.
9. I am (almost?) the oldest one in class, and definitely the only one with a BA.
8. There is a gaping hole on the wall where a clock used to be
7. Slides instead of PowerPoint
6. "Mr." Clare takes attendance.
5. While they issue parking tickets until 10:00, you can only purchase a permit between 8:00 and 5:00.
4. Weekly quizzes
3. Teacher has no email address
2. There are two faded signs in the class which read NO SMOKING NO FOOD OR DRINK IN CLASSROOMS, with those little circle cross-out visuals for those who can't read. I wonder when was the last time somebody actually tried to light up in class?
...and
1. One word: Scantron.

My answer to my favorite question

2005-06-16T13:21:00.000-07:00

At least once a week, someone will look at me with stars in their eyes, and ask "but isn't it the best job you have ever had?" Don't get me wrong, I am glad I decided to quit work to spend time with the Munch. But seriously - these people are missing a screw. In response, I generally smile and offer some vagary along the lines, of "well, he is a pretty special guy." Here is my real answer:

I dunno. When was the last time you had a job that paid nothing and required you to work all of your waking hours, and be on call for all of your sleeping hours? Would you love a job in which you had no conversations all day? How would you feel about a boss who yelled and screamed at you on a daily basis when he didn't get his way? Well, my boss won't clean up his own feces and demands on-demand access to formerly private parts of my body. He expects me to know exactly what to do without specific instruction. Failure in this department is met with temper tantrums, and sometimes physical violence in the form of hair-pulling, pushing, grabbing and twisting of the skin. I am personal assistant, entertainer, personal trainer, cook, housekeeper. Are those jobs that you just DREAM of having someday?

Regarding those who ask this question after having stayed home with their own children, I see two possibilities: 1. They have forgotten what is was like, and their memory has selectively edited the experience down to swing sets and story time, or 2. This is some sort of hazing/initiation into the ranks of motherhood.

I DO love my job. I am so happy to have the option of not working at this time, so that I can embrace this experience. I love my little guy with all my heart and his slobbery kisses and his "happy to see mommy" dances are all the reward I could ever ask for. I don't even mind the diapers. But eternal days of tender moments these are not.

Thursday, Jun 16, 2005 - 05:45pm (PDT) Edit | Delete

Ongoing: Things that now smell like baby poop to me

2005-06-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

Popcorn
Sweet potatoes
Gym towels (clean)
Multi-vitamins
Toast

Check back for more!

If someone wanted me to take a nap I think my answer would be "okay."

2005-06-13T13:20:00.000-07:00

Munch is a wonderful child. As far as irrational, temperamental infants go, he's a dream. A happy, playful, baby, who enjoys playing by himself for extended periods of time. A parent's dream. Except when it comes to nap time.

The Munch will be eight months old on Wednesday. That means we have had almost eight months to perfect the art of getting him to sleep. Other parents tell us of their babies, who rub their eyes, coo a little, and knock out as soon as they hit the crib mattress. Please tell me they are lying. Please tell me that they, too, must listen to their child scream as if they have been abandoned to wild boars every time they put them in the crib. My understanding was that this crying was a temporary thing - that they learn to quiet themselves peacefully, and relax into a peaceful slumber after a day or two of this crying business.

Eight months, and he cries every time. Yes, we have a routine. Yes, we try relaxing baths. But if he decides that he is not ready to go down (always), there will be screaming. Frankly, I am tired of this particular challenge. I'm reading for something new - genital groping in public, food smearing in the hair, Operation Draino - Open, I'll take it. Just stop the sleep battles already! Going through the screaming routine four times a day is getting old.

Babies are brilliantly designed. They emerge from the womb knowing to look for the nipple and suckle. They can grasp things with their little hands right off the bat. Babies stare at faces, bonding themselves to the adults around them and thus ensuring their survival. And yet, AND YET they don't know how to let themselves fall asleep. Seems like a pretty obvious omission.

My son the turtle

2005-06-10T13:19:00.000-07:00

I know I need to add a picture to this post. Much spends much of his time these days manouvering about on his belly. He suspends all of his limbs in the air and totters on his belly and nose. He looks for all the world like a swimming turtle, enhanced today by his khaki green outfit. He's generally quite content in his solitary struggles. He pulls his knees up, sticks his butt in the air, and rolls over. Or he uses his hands to push himself backwards, away from his intended target. At this point he gets frustrated and starts whining for his mommy. What a baby.

I thought I would let him do his antics this afternoon and take a few moments to check email. At the point that his frustration overwhelmed him, I went to pick him up and found that he was covered in spit-up - on the BACK of his shirt. Explain that one to me. Did his head actually spin 180 degrees? There were no pools of spit-up on the floor, so it is not like he rolled through the stuff. It will have to remain a mystery. Along with his ability to move from one side of the room to the other while I am not looking. While I am watching him, he can only manage to move two feet in any one direction.

He's down for a late and long overdue nap. Time for mommy to sneak in a shower.

It's a matter of too many pages

2005-06-09T13:19:00.000-07:00

I have a book problem.

I buy books. I accept books. I subtly encourage people to give me books as gifts. My hunger for books far exceeds my ability to consume them. They flow out and over the bookcases, they pile in corners, reprimanding me for my lack of attention, "but you promised that I was different, that you would actually read me." I could not keep up with my book supply before, when I commuted on the train and had more than 15 minutes to dedicate to a single activity. Now, I find I can read 3-5 pages before getting interrupted or falling asleep. It is really hard to get through a book of any legnth in 3-5 page increments. So now the book problem is really getting out of control. I have books stuffed around the edges of the bed. I have books crammed into the pockets of the Munch's sleeper. There is one on the microwave and another in the diaper bag. Some are instructional (Super Baby Food) while others are supposed to be pleasure reads (Raising Fences). We simply don't have enough space in our small home to absorb the piles, yet I find that I can't stop. I am addicted to the promise and potential of each volume - this one will teach me, that one holds a story that will touch me deeply, and that one over there will make me see the world just a little differently. But devoting the time that it takes to unearth that potential seems nearly impossible these days - a silly luxury that just doesn't fit my life right now. And yet I continue to collect and horde them. Pile them. Cram them horizontally into the bookcases. Pray that we are not in for a large earthquake in the near future, which would bring the whole mess tumbling down.

My "problem" has already hit the next generation. Munch's collection has grown organically since his birth. I collected his books in a green basket in his room. They no longer fit - they slip and slide out of the basket and hide themselves under the sofabed or nestle behind the diaper pail. He hasn't read through his collection, either.

If you come to our house, please help me. Please find a book you like and take it home with you. Give it a good home, and, perhaps, a good read. Perhaps you can tell me about it when you are done.

I'm off to read my 3-5 pages. Goodnight.

I'd rather be writing in my blog

2005-05-31T13:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I split the difference. I really enjoyed writing the paper for my Developmental Psychology class. I enjoyed the paper because I enjoyed the class. Strangely, I felt that analyzing a person in a video interview was much like analyzing a book or, perhaps more precisely, a short story. Each gesture and phrase only hints at the motives beneath the surface. I found a number of themes to explore - loss, growing up too fast, powerlessness - just as I would with a decent work of fiction.

I started the paper for my second class and found myself dragging my feet. It was going to be a pedantic rehashing of the course reading material. I could only anticipate a perfunctory, uninspired result, written too fast with little exploration. Much like the course itself. The topic has been quite interesting, conflict resolution and negotiation, but the class, a series of five two hour sessions, has given short shrift to the material. I'd like to explore this area further, but with more actual class time devoted to each discussion, so that I could really sink my teeth into it.

So I changed my grade option to No Grade. I mean, if I am not going to get anything out of it, why do it? There will be plenty of time to plod through painful-but-necessary course material when I actually need to take courses for credit.

Perhaps all I am doing is justifying my own laziness. Oh well. It is summer, after all.

Sob story

2005-05-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

I've never been one to break out the tissue for saccharine movies or Hallmark cards. Steel Magnolias bored me. Okay, so there was that one time when I broke down while watching Out of Africa on a plane. And the English Patient destroyed me. But generally, I'm pretty resiliant.

Enter pregnancy.

All of a sudden I tear up at just about anything, especially if it has to do with babies. Commmercials? Yep, those too. Actually, ads in magazines will do it. Articles about mothers/children triumphing over the odds just puree my internal organs and establish an apple-sized lump in my throat.

I thought all this would go away after the baby was born. I thought I would go back to my old cynical self. Well, it hasn't happened yet. I cried when the Colby, the gay hairdresser on Survivor. annouced in the finale that he had adoped his cousin's baby girl. I cried when I met my friend's new baby boy. So, will this go away when I stop breastfeeding, perhaps? Or is it here to stay?

I do discriminate, though. I was touched by the 25 orphans in Finding Neverland, but didn't give a hoot when Kate Winslet died. Movie was seriously "eh."

Find something that won’t scar

2005-05-19T13:16:00.000-07:00

So, by about 4:00 every day I start getting, let’s face it, a little bored. I really start looking forward to Tom coming home. We’re off to the park, home to nurse, play, dinner…

Tonight Tom has a business meeting so I have extra alone time with the Munch. Somehow, it’s just not as much fun as it was at 8:30 this morning. My ability to improvise playtime is, well, less inspired. Time drags. In an attempt to relieve my own boredom, I take the rubber net ball and throw it at the Munch’s head. Not really thinking – just vaguely wondering if he will be startled or upset. I’m definitely not being a good mom – nothing like that smiling, well-groomed woman on the Pampers box. I mean, if he did start making the cry face, I would pick him up immediately. I’m not that bad – I don’t actually get pleasure in seeing my son cry. I’m just a bit curious about what will set him off. Like today at the park. A two year old was running around making growling monster noises. I was watching, wondering if this was the kind of behavior I had to look forward to. I look back to Munch, and he is making the cry face – lip coming out and eyes welling up with tears. Apparently growling two year olds scare the bejesus out of him.

So anyway. The ball. I toss it lightly at his forehead out of boredom. It bounces right back off and he just thinks this is the funniest thing that has happened to him all day. He laughs harder and harder, drool spinning its trail onto the carpet, as I bounce the ball off of various body parts. We are both in hysterics. We have our most memorable moment of the day.

P.S. It is so exhausting listening to your child cry himself to sleep. Hardest time of the day for me.

Performance anxiety

2005-05-17T13:15:00.000-07:00

So, I am taking a couple of classes right now to keep my brain alive. I really enjoy both of them, and am actually taking them for a grade. This means that I have to write papers. I haven't written a paper since college - back in the days when you had to print them out and turn them in by hand. These days I guess you just email them in.

I'm a little daunted. My first paper shouldn't be too hard. But still - it's been so long! Will it be like riding a bicycle? Or do I have to learn all over again how to construct persuasive arguments? Back in the day, I did pretty well for myself in school. But I have changed - I'm older - has my ability to absorb and retain new information or my attention span diminished? Of course, I will have to pull this thing together in small chunks while Munch is napping. That's a big extra challenge right there.

I've always looked back to my academic record to bolster my self-esteem. As I consider going back to school, I worry that I won't do as well, and will dilute that record. I am completely freaked out at the idea of taking the GRE or any other standard exam. I almost reject any plan that requires me to do so. I mean, for godssake, that thing has MATH on it. I always did well in math, but that was a lifetime ago. Getting tested on that stuff would mean that I would have to relearn it. Even my ability to do basic computation in my head has diminished, since I don't have to use it that often.

What happens if I get started on all of this stuff and find that I'm just not as smart as I thought I was? What do I do then?

Finish this sentence

2005-05-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

Mealtimes are difficult when...

This is what much of my day looked like

2005-05-11T13:14:00.000-07:00

The boy would not sleep.

Events in my life that are exciting only to me

2005-05-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

1. Mother's Day - I didn't change a single diaper all day. Best. Gift. Ever.
2. My wallet disappeared somewhere between Chevy's and home. If you are asking why we were at Chevy's on a Friday night, you don't have kids. This means no online purchases for me until my new credit card arrives. It also means that I will have the opportunity to spend some quality time at our local DMV.
3. I am now having a hard time remembering what day of the week or month it is.
4. The Munch has learned to YELL. He does this frequently and passionately.

In other news, Tom and I had our last date for a while on Saturday night. My parents are going off to Vietnam and China, so our babysitting service will be out of commission for a while. We spent our free hours watching Orlando Bloom being True and Good, and causing a lot of people to be killed in the process. An entertaining movie, which somehow managed to be offensive despite its overt "can't we all just get along?" message. The Christians all looked scared but brave in the face of most certain death. The Arabs looked angry and bloodthirsty (I was particularly put off by the close up of a twitching sneer on the face of an Arab soldier who was about to be dumped over a wall into a pool of enemies who would most certainly kill him).

Communing with nature

2005-05-04T13:12:00.000-07:00

A quick note while Griffin is in his “office.”

Yesterday Munch and I took a long walk out at Sawyer Camp trail. The Munch, amazingly, slept for most of it – almost two hours. The air buzzed with bright blue dragonflies, and, surprisingly, we shared the trail with very few others.

As I was charging along, I found our path interrupted by a snake and came to an abrupt halt. It had a rattle attached to its tail, so I thought I would give it the right of way. I indicated to a man coming the other way that he might want to do the same, but he charged right up to the thing.

“How beautiful. You don’t see them too often around here. And this guy’s a biggie – he’s been around for a while.”

Okay, we got a tough guy naturalist here.

“Don’t worry, they eat rodents. They’re not interested in humans.”

Sure, but I think I will keep my distance just the same. “As long as you don’t startle it, I suppose,” I offered cautiously. I figured this guy had been around plenty of rattlers and was using the opportunity to show the nervous mom that she should relax.

Then the kicker:
“Hey, what’s that on its tail?”

Me: “Uh, a rattle.”

Him: “OH!” (steps back) “Not so nice then,” He hurries his step and continues his walk.

Goodbye, Mr. Tough Guy.

Is it the rattlesnake’s fault that it is a rattlesnake? Does that make it “not so nice?” I would venture that all critters are equally nice – we just need to treat them with appropriate respect. Except mosquitoes. Those little bastards deserve death and destruction. And snails.

Of boyfriends and best friends

2005-04-25T13:10:00.000-07:00

The Munch is the new love in my life. I look forward to waking up in the morning so that I can see his face. Each smile makes my heart flip-flop. And we are really into PDA – we just can’t keep our hands off each other. He obsessively wants to spend all of his free time with me. I leave him for a few hours and can’t wait to rush back home to him. I am delighted when I discover new accomplishments and personality traits. I find his shortcomings quirky and charming. I parade him around and show him off to all my friends. My parents think he is quite the charmer.

So if the Munch is my new boyfriend, where does this leave my husband? My husband is my best friend. We talk for hours about my new boyfriend. I relay all of the sordid details of each interaction. I show him all of my photos, and ask my boyfriend to repeat his tricks so that Tom can see them.

But here’s the best part – the Munch is Tom’s boyfriend too! Now when was the last time you got to share your boyfriend with your best friend without any jealousy issues whatsoever? Well, okay, only minimal jealousy issues, like who gets to hold him while the other person does the laundry.

Some thoughts on the Pope's death (a little late)

2005-04-17T13:10:00.000-07:00

I'm about as unreligious as you can get. I am profoundly disturbed by many religious expressions I see - Jesus bumper stickers on gas-guzzling SUVs, our president's head bent in prayer for a single brain-dead woman, while his hands drip with the blood of Iraqi children. My most fundamental belief is that it is far more important to act according to religious principles, than to attend church and read the bible regularly. If attending church does not improve your attitude toward others in your life and others in the world, don't bother. How is it even possible that so many religious groups practice active exclusion, when the fundamental value of all religions is the giving of love to others?

That said, deep expressions of faith move me to tears. Tom and I went to Assisi on our honeymoon. We visited St. Francis's crypt. The air was thick with faith. The other visitors touched the stone, head bent and eyes closed, and their awe and desire seeped into my bones, hung deep in my lungs. This experience they were having is completely foreign to me. I am filled with both fascination and jealousy - I want to know what it feels like to to believe like that. I can get near it, smell it, breath it in, yet I cannot understand what this kind of faith really feels like.

I watched some of the Pope's funeral. Watching these millions of people celebrate mass (doesn't that sound wonderful, by the way? I would far rather "celebrate mass" than "attend services"), shed passionate tears for a man they had known only remotely, and who certainly had never known them, moved me in a similar way. I learned more about the Pope from the media coverage. I certainly don't agree with many of his conservative policies. But what a thing to have your death make such an impact globally. What an amazing thing to have touched, in some way, so many lives through only one life.

And then I think about the Pope himself, at the time of his death. How beautiful it seems to me to hold such absolute faith at the time of your death that you are passing through a doorway, making a transition to a better place and a new life in the afterlife. Again, this idea is so foreign to me. I cannot believe, as much as I would like, that we get another chance. As a result, death scares the bejesus out of me. I hope I am wrong and the Pope is right.

Peace to the Pope, Terry Scheivo, and all of the citizens of Iraq.

Reactions

2005-04-16T13:09:00.000-07:00

I've gotten so many varied responses when I tell people I've quit my job. Many respond that it is the right thing to do, that I should stay home with my progeny. Others look at me incredulously. What many people don't understand is that I decided to quit for many reasons. I'm not making a value statement that I believe that mothers should stay home with their children. I am not even sure that this is better for the Munch, for the reasons mentioned below.

No matter, when I tell someone that I quit my job they will have an opinion. Very strange. If I didn't have a baby, I venture that nobody would have an opinion. People might ask more questions about why, what my plans were, etc. But as it is, the answer is assumed, along with all of the implied family values attributions. I want to state for the record that I would still be working today if I felt more passionately about my job, or if I felt that it was leading somewhere I wanted to go. The way I see it, I have the opportunity to quit my job, spend more time with my son (which I love, by the way), and reevaluate my career goals. I still have a lot of guilt issues and feel that my decision was primarily a selfish one. Being with the Munch feels very self-indulgent. I am very lucky to be in a position to make this choice.

As I mentioned, I am not convinced that my choice is in the Munch's best interest. Sometime I can be a pretty rotten mother - I will let him cry while I shower, for example. I'm not proficient in nursery rhymes and songs. I take him out and get him over tired. Sometimes I can be a decent mother. I shower him with affection, read him books, and make him smile and laugh as much as possible.

The first day I spent at home, he rewarded me with a new style babble talk - "Bahng! Mmm Bahng! Bahng!" - and rolled from his stomach to his back (leading with his huge head, which is kind of frightening).

Oh! What a weekend!

2005-04-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

An entire weekend of planes, Embassy Suites, and shuttling two children around. We are exhausted. For some reason, it was especially hard this time. For starters, Griffin is increasingly aware of his surroundings, and increasingly sure that he DOES NOT LIKE PLANES. As in:

Nope, no thank you. Please get me off of this flying toothpaste tube RIGHT NOW. Your alternative is to suffer. You will look around apologetically at the other passengers, you will dangle brightly colored distractions in front of me for hours on end, but I will not relent. You think that I will eventually exhaust myself, but I can and will outlast you. I will slobber everything in sight. Oh, and remember how I didn't poop all day yesterday? Well, guess what, I was saving up for just this occasion.

Apparently they have removed the changing tables in airplane bathrooms because passengers were having sex on them. So the right answer is to remove them. Yeah.

On top of that, dearest stepdaughter was on the warpath. Hopped up on the goofballs. Top volume, a whirling pink dervish, spinning her way through the hotel, leaving shoes and stuffed animals in her wake. Sleep is a luxury she simply cannot afford. At lunch on Saturday, she kind of shrieked with her mouth closed, cheeks puffed up like a hamster, "mmmmm.....mmmmmm!!!" What is it? What do you have in your mouth? Wide-eyed stare. " Spit it out. In here." Wide-eyed stare. "Okay, here is an empty bowl. Spit it out." She spits out mostly saliva with some pink chunks, and locks her lips together. "Do you want to go to the bathroom? Do you have to vomit?" Nod, nod. In the lady's room, she spits some more and rinses her mouth out. Nothing like a little acid reflux for dessert, now, is there?

She doesn't like walks. She doesn't want to take a walk. Zoo, yes. Walk, no. No. She doesn't WAAAANT to take a walk. Okay, just down this street. Just over the river. WHY can't we go back to the hotel? She WAAANTS to swim. Okay. We give up. Let's get back in the car and go back to the hotel - save all of our sanity. But look at the ducks! Look at the turtle! Look at the broken glass shard on the sidewalk! Life is full of such wonders, and the trip back to the car must not be hurried.

On the way home Tom reiterated his desire to curtail any reproduction thoughts we might have had. "I'm thinking one."

After tomorrow, I am officially a stay at home mom.

4 days to go

2005-04-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

Four more work days before I start my new life. Oh shit. Please don't let me get sucked into all of that obsessive mommy stuff.

I'm freaking out at the prospect of having the precious beautiful baby boy/little fucker attached to me at all times. My friend is 7 months pregnant and was asking how long it takes to fit back into your clothes. We got to talking about shopping for clothing, and I mentioned that I do almost all of my shopping online these days. "Oh, I like to touch and feel things before I buy them," she says. Oh, I am sorry, you don't understand. When you have one of these little buggers, your leisurely shopping days are, well, limited. Even if they aren't physically attached to you, they insist on keeping their eyes locked on. Sure, daddy can hold the kid on weekends, but then you have to make a mad dash to grab and try on anything that looks remotely of interest before child transforms into tired, hungry, impatient monster. Trust me. It is so worth giving up that touch and feel to be able to try clothing on in the relative peace of your own house. Then you can run to the store for a quick return of the stuff you don't want.

I have enjoyed my weeks of relative freedom - lunch with coworkers, walking without a stroller, managing my wallet with two hands while buying a cup of coffee. Now I return, voluntarily, to a rather extreme set of limitations.

I'm sorry, what was your (son's) name?

2005-04-03T21:45:00.000-07:00

A strange thing happens when you have a baby attached to you all of the time. You lose your name. In the world of mommies and babies, I am the Munch's Mom. You meet someone, and it is all "how old is he?", "what is his name?", "what is his sign?" Everyone is so focused on the baby - or babies, if the someone happens to be a mom as well - that they forget to introduce themselves or ask your name. And you forget too. You enter into this network of moms, where you only know people by the names of their children. "Is Jessica's mom joining us?" "Does anyone have Sam's mom's email address?"

Maybe we'll get over it. Maybe when the novelty wears off, we will start focusing on ourselves again. I want a pedicure and a reason to wear something other than yoga pants. How's that for a start?

Someone get the WD-40

2005-04-03T21:22:00.000-07:00

He used to gurgle and coo, twisting his tongue around to create new sounds. He spoke to me earnestly, punctuated with exclamatory squeals. We would have a full conversation every evening when we got home after day care (him) and work (me). Then he fell quiet. Or relatively quiet. The crying, of course, continues loudly enough. But the conversations stopped a couple of weeks ago.

The Munch spent most of the day squeaking. He's bored with the tongue movements, and is now exploring the upper ranges allowed by his tiny vocal cords. He's had a hoarse voice since he cried himself to sleep on Monday and Tuesday nights. His voice was just beginning to repair when he started on this high pitch obsession. We will see how long it lasts. I wonder if tomorrow he will swing the other way, and we'll find ourselves with a little Edward James Olmos on our hands.

In other news, I quit my job last week. It was a surprisingly hard decision to make, and I still somehow doubt that I am actually doing this - giving up a perfectly good paycheck and a perfectly civil job in favor of diapers and full-time squeaking. Or grunting. I was home with him full time only five weeks ago, and yet I can no longer imagine what it was like. How did we manage to pass the time? How did I keep myself entertained? Why the heck am I doing this? I don't exacly know the answer. I just fear that I will regret not taking this time to grow with the M. I am signing up for a new life of mommyhood, with all of its accompanying obsessions and complications.

This is particularly hard because I have never seen myself as a stay-at-home-mom. Nope, not for me. I mean, I have ambitions. I am a professional. I am an achiever. I can't give up my independence... Oh shit, I am signing up for a full-time identity crisis.

This will be good for me. But I am going to need a lot of reassurance along the way.

Play acting

2005-03-25T08:59:00.000-08:00

When I graduated from college and got my first job, I felt like I was play acting every day. There I was, hopping on the train with all of the other commuters, stopping for my morning bagel, arriving at the office in hose 'n' heels. I was sure that any moment someone would pop out of the bushes and call my bluff. "Who do you think you are, pretending to be an adult? You can't survive on your own. This is all a big lesson, at the end of which you will get a grade and the bill will be sent to your parents."
While being a mom comes more naturally, I still get struck by this feeling every once in a while. I suspect I will wake up tomorrow morning and find my life has reverted back to what it was before. I will chug away at my job, come home to a cozy evening of preparing a home cooked meal and watching a little TV, and plan weekend activities and excursions. Nope. No dream. I wake up now to an elaborate dance of feeding, dressing, showering (optional), pumping, and rushing off to work. After work it is a drive by pick up from day care, and a mad 5 minute rush to collect the mail, refrigerate the milk, unload the used bottles, and plug in my phone before Munch starts to cry (never been successful, by the way).
Grocery shopping? Hah! Save that for the weekend. It is amazing what kind of "meals" you can invent out of your freezer and pantry if you really put your mind to it. Let's just say the standards have changed.

Munch won't go to sleep without a fight these days. He gets sleepy and grumpy, but just you try to put him down for the night. Agitation, tears, resentment, anger. In that order. My guess is that he is beginning to figure out what he is missing when he is asleep. I suspect he is also teething, as he fell asleep with his chompers locked on my finger last night. Just as he develops this new aggravating tendency, he starts anther practice to compensate. He absolutely squeals with delight when I go to retrieve him from Ana's house. I am the sunshine in his world for those five minutes, and he is the sunshine in mine. Almost worth being apart from him for 10 hours. Almost.

Land of Denial

2005-03-16T18:40:00.000-08:00

The day after the presidential election someone called me and asked me, with deep concern in their voice, "how are you doing?" My answer? "Fine! How are you?" I had entered the land of denial the moment I turned off the TV the night before. By the time I woke up in the morning, it was as if the election had never happened.

I find that I continue to tune out and turn away from political discussions. I tune out the radio when I hear that voice. When T tries to initiate a conversation about this policy or that statement, about environmental or international impact, I politely, but firmly, shut it down. Look, I can't even bring myself to type his name. Months of fervent ranting exhausted me. I wished, prayed, truly believed that things would turn out differently. Rather than collapse in a disconsolate heap, I planted my head firmly in the sand. It will remain there until it is time to hope, pray, and believe again. Until then, please talk to me of movies, books, puppies, and other happy things. It is the only way I can cope.

The joy of pumping at work

2005-03-15T19:38:00.000-08:00

Don't be fooled. Pumping at work just blows. It is not one of those things that gets better with time. Its embarrassing to have to openly address physical needs in the office. It's a heads-down kind of activity. You hope to become invisible as you sneak off to a private spot for a few minutes.

While we have a plethora of wonderful euphemistic phrases for going to the bathroom (like, for example "going to the bathroom"), we have no clear euphemisms for pumping. No powdering of the nose, no visiting the ladies room, no quick dash to the restroom. When you must explain why you are about to disappear for 20 minutes, you must explicitly reference your actual activity, "I need to go pump now." I have tried to playfully substitute "do my thing" and "take care of business," but this tends to confuse people.

Once excuses are made, I collect my apparatus and its various parts, neatly stored in an innocuous backpack, and slink off to an unused office. Thankfully, this office is pretty much at my disposal whenever I need it. I have closed the blinds and taped paper over the window. Of course, this is the fun part- sitting in the office of a departed employee (his calendars still pinned to the walls, his folders still stacked on the desk) with my boobs hanging out, my nipples trapped in plastic cones. I got used to this at home, but I just don't think I can get used to being so exposed at the workplace. Just for fun, try it sometime! Find an empty office, close the door and take out some private part of your body. See how comfortable and relaxed you feel. Now, breast pumps are just not quiet. They are rhythmic and plenty loud to pass through the fiberboard walls separating this office from the next. I can hear their conversation, so they can certainly hear me.

Done! Now, carefully, very carefully, close the bottles (I can just imagine calling facilities to clean up a spilt bottle of breast milk), disassemble the pump, and slink off to wash up. The kitchen is nasty. I wash out the pump parts, trying to thoroughly clear out any milk droplets while keeping the parts away from the Top Ramen remnants in the drain. I hope that no one else comes in to use the kitchen - if they do, they get that embarrassed apologetic smile, "sorry, just handling an bodily function over here. I will get out of your way so that you can add water to your Cup o' Noodles in a sec."

Once the parts are clean and packed up, I take the little bottle of pumped milk - no more than 3, maybe 3 1/2 ounces - to the IT refrigerator. I store it in a paper bag from Bath and Body Works or BabyStyle, afraid that the sight of my breast milk might be icky to my coworkers, on par with a turd specimen or urine sample.

Whew! All done, at least until the next time - in about 2 1/2 hours.

Family Dining

2005-03-14T10:35:00.000-08:00

It's no secret that I am passionate about food. I will go to three different markets to get the right ingredients. Margaritas, for example, must be made with key limes - not their thick-skinned counterparts found in most supermarkets.

I have always rushed to distain "family dining" establishments and their coarse, doggy-bag approach to eating out. In doing so, I overlooked a critical factor. Family dining means more than just kiddie menus and crayons. Most family restaurants also have a full bar! In attending the younger generations, they did not neglect the needs of harried parents. Since we can no longer pop into a bar for a pre-dinner cocktail or happy hour gathering, we have a new found appreciation for loud restaurants that will both absorb our offspring without question and pour generous drinks for mommy and daddy.

That said, one must continue to discriminate, and find options that meet our standards - even if those standards have shifted a bit.

Heart of the matter

2005-03-14T10:32:00.000-08:00

I have managed to pay my own way since my first job out of college. Sure, I have accepted some gifts along the way, but only after proving that I was self-sufficient. The idea of relying on someone else's salary is just terrifying.

Stewing

2005-03-13T21:33:00.000-08:00

I am an indecision expert. Really, it's a skill I have honed into a fine art. I can debate the merits of, say, buying a pair of $20 shoes all afternoon. I can spend weeks deliberating which stroller to buy. So when it comes to a major life change, I can give myself ulcers on demand.

I have no idea where this comes from. I wasn't trained in indecision by my family or peers. I have not lost fortunes as a result of bad planning. So what I am I so scared of? Why do I feel a need to carry every choice out to all of its possible future implications?

Getting married was easy. Having a child was scary but easy. Why all this agonizing over a job? A job - what you do so that you can pay the bills. M-F, Outlook Inbox, conference room scheduling, commute to and fro kind of job. Not a career, not a calling, not a passion, and not a fortune-making kind of job. So just LET GO.

But - and I swear these are some, just some, of the irrational thoughts that run through my head - I will have to tell our day care provider that I won't need her anymore; I will miss the fish tacos I can get by work; I won't enjoy fridays off if I get all days off; I will feel so guilty spending $3 on a latte if I didn't earn that $3 my self. Not to mention those $20 shoes! And what kind of a lazy woman doesn't work? I mean, I will just have to earn my keep by keeping the garden free of weeds and spit polishing the bookcases, right? Right. Knowing me, I won't even manage the mess on my desk. So I will be a half-assed lazy housewife who spends her husband's paychecks on expensive coffee drinks.

But, on the other hand, if I don't make a break now....what kind of example will I be setting for my son? Staying too long in a dead-end job. Yes, son, this is what you have to look forward to! Study hard like I did! I fear that if I don't move on now, I never will. I will condemn myself to settling. And where the hell does that come from? Do I really value my own time so little? Shouldn't I be enjoying every precious moment with baby? What if this is it - we decide not to have any more children? So this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Right! Definitely need to quit. Now. Okay, tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Or maybe afternoon would be better...

typing with one hand

2005-03-12T10:51:00.000-08:00

- makes using the shift key difficult
- decreases use of adjectives
- slows down im conversations
- increases typos

sleepy baby refuses nap

Single mom for a week

2005-03-10T19:03:00.000-08:00

I have almost completed my 5 day stint as a single mom.

My schedule:
6:00 Feed Munch
6:15 - 6:30 Nap
6:30 Dress self
6:45 Pump
7:00 Bathroom break
7:15 Wake Munch, change diaper, dress
7:25 Feed Munch again
7:35 Prepare empty bottles for work, full bottles for day care
7:40 Feed cat
7:45 Off to day care
8:30 - 5:00 Work (pump at 10:00, 1:00, 4:00)
5:45 Pick up the Munch
6:00 Feed Munch
6:30 Shove something in mouth (bowl of cereal, tortilla chips and hummus, or similar)
6:45 - 9:30 Sing, talk, tickle, entertain. Not allowed: Sitting down, putting baby down, looking away from baby's face. Doing so will result in smile turning to angry red face.
9:30 Baby goes down. Shower while baby cries. By the time shower is complete, maybe Munch will be asleep!
10:00 Eat something else. Drink water. Drink glass of wine. Sort mail. Fold laundry. Turn on TV for company. Peruse yesterday's paper. Retrieve empty cat food bowl - too late! Raccoons have already finished off the premium Holistic Cat Food.
11:00 Pump
11:30 Bedtime

So see, it can be done. What's the big deal? Except I cheated. Parents provided dinner and baby holding services on Monday night and Wednesday night. The house is a wreck. I have successfully avoided grocery shopping. I didn't have to deal with recycling. I let the bills pile up. All in all, not a supermom performance. But sometimes getting by is enough.

To all the single moms out there in the world, you have my utmost respect. You are superheroes.