Being the bub's mom was a tough job yesterday. As loyal readers are aware, he is now "sleeping" in a toddler bed. The transition has not been easy, but it has also been better than we expected . . . until yesterday. Yesterday when it was time for the bub to nap, he wasn't interested. I offered a few more books, tried to feign sleep on the floor beside him, and was even allowed to rock him for a few minutes (a rare treat, NTB, as usually only daddy and his grandmas are allowed rocking privileges). When nothing worked, I was reduced to leaving him to his own devices to whine, run around, and cry until he fell asleep. Last week, he threw me for a loop by busting through the gate that pens him in his room during these whining sessions. I figured out how to get the gate in there more securely. True, he could not push the gate down. What he could do and did do yesterday was scale the gate and hoist one chubby leg on top of it. If I had not been monitoring the situation from my office, adjacent to his room, he would surely have found a way to get the other leg over and then fallen and injured himself. I stopped him just in time. Again, NTB. He eventually fell asleep yesterday, but his nap was short. It wasn't (entirely) the bub's fault, but I was tired and cranky the remainder of the afternoon and early evening.
And so, it was a special surprise that when in the home stretch--that last forty minutes before daddy gets home--just when I was about to get my bub out of the bathtub . . . just five minutes before he would have been my clean, moisturized, hair-brushed angel in Elmo pajamas . . . just then, I noticed we were in a code brown situation. What's a code brown? It's just like Caddy Day at Bushwood, except with actual doody in the bathwater, not just a Baby Ruth in the swimming pool. Thesse days, we have maybe 2 code browns a month, but there was a time last spring when we averaged 4-5 code browns each week and thus developed a procedure:
1. Supervising parent calls out from bathroom: "We've got a code brown."
2. Bub is removed from the tub, wiped, toweled off, and diapered.
3. Large, obvious hunks are removed and placed into toilet. (Note use of passive tense here to detract attention from the fact that some agent, usually me, has to handle those hunks.)
4. I sanitize the bath toys and rubber bathmat by throwing them into the washing machine or, minus the bath mat, the dishwasher.
5. I scrub and sanitize the bottom of the tub.
The fact that we have the procedure down does not make it any less annoying. An added bonus is that I typically forget about the previous evening's code brown until it is bathtime the next night. Only once the bub is undressed and I go to run the water do I remember that the bath mat and all the toys are in the basement laundry room.
My mom made the excellent suggestion that we purchase a potty seat so that code brown moments might become opportunities to get a head start on potty training. And true, there have been rare occasions when we have caught a code brown in the making and transferred the bub to the potty seat, which is nice. The problem is the presence of the potty seat has also been the impetus for an elaborate pre-bath routine in which the bub sits on the potty, pulls off pieces of toilet paper, and flushes. This can take up to five minutes, which may not sound like a long time but is a long time, especially when you are squatting in front of a toddler who cannot quite balance himself on the potty seat. Then, the bub likes to wash his hands. I appreciate his interest in hygiene, I really do, but the hand-washing also gets old as he needs to be held up in front of the sink for its entirety. He would wash his hands (or at least, turn the water on and off) all night if someone let him.
Point being, the code brown was the chocolate icing on the stale cake that was yesterday's long day. Nap time today was no better than yesterday and I still have bath duty to do tonight. At least I've already retrieved the sanitized toys and bath mat. We're ready to go. NTB.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
. . . and I feel fine.
Once in a while on Thursdays past, my US Weekly would fail to show up. If it did not arrive by Saturday, I would secretly suspect someone in the mail distribution center of "borrowing" it. The fact that I did not receive the TomKat wedding issue until the following Tuesday: not a coincidence.
For the past two Thursdays, US Weekly has not appeared in my mailbox. I guess that's what happens when you ignore all six of the renewal notices/bills that they send. That's my new m.o. for managing my magazine subscription addiction. I ignore all renewal notices and bills and then wait and see what happens. In the case of Real Simple, I realized that, though I enjoyed features on the perfect white blouse and the best drugstore mascaras, I could live without the magazine. When Entertainment Weekly stopped coming and I subsequently missed the fall television preview issue, I was not fine. I renewed promptly and, because the gods were smiling upon me, my first issue after the hiatus was the collector's edition issue of The Office (to give you an idea of my passion for The Office, I am planning to frame and mat the four covers of the special edition . . . for the basement, not the living room).
I always imagined I would miss US Weekly almost immediately, despite having my already-documented reservations about being a subscriber. However, the lapse of my subscription could not have come at a better time. What have I missed so far? The Heidi Montag "Plastic Surgery Revenge" issue. And then: the style issue, featuring a cover of Lauren Conrad and the other two girls from The Hills. And I subscribed long enough to know what else I missed inside: so and so from a band I've never heard of was at Hyde (?) and so was Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie is eating now that she is pregnant, three D-list celebrities wore the same dress, Eva Longoria went to Whole Foods, Brangelina and brood stayed at a hotel somewhere, Britney is still struggling, Jessica Simpson bought three t-shirts for $400 at Kitson and Ken Paves was with her, Jennifer Aniston does pilates and likes the zone diet, and on and on and on.
I'm certainly not judging anyone who remains an US Weekly subscriber. It's given me a lot of pleasure over the years. I'm sure one of these weeks, I'll see it in the checkout line and be unable to not throw it my cart. And, if it's sitting in a waiting room and so am I, you better believe I'll be reading it. But, for now, it will not longer show up in my mailbox on Thursdays. When conversations about pop culture take place, I will be less prepared than usual. I likely won't know who Justin is dating at all times. Though I'm rooting for Nick and Vanessa, I'll have to trust they can make it without me. I may just forget about Eva Longeria altogether.
Ditto Hayley Duff. Surprisingly, I feel fine. NTB.
And, if you mostly don't know who the hell I am talking about, you should feel damn fine.
For the past two Thursdays, US Weekly has not appeared in my mailbox. I guess that's what happens when you ignore all six of the renewal notices/bills that they send. That's my new m.o. for managing my magazine subscription addiction. I ignore all renewal notices and bills and then wait and see what happens. In the case of Real Simple, I realized that, though I enjoyed features on the perfect white blouse and the best drugstore mascaras, I could live without the magazine. When Entertainment Weekly stopped coming and I subsequently missed the fall television preview issue, I was not fine. I renewed promptly and, because the gods were smiling upon me, my first issue after the hiatus was the collector's edition issue of The Office (to give you an idea of my passion for The Office, I am planning to frame and mat the four covers of the special edition . . . for the basement, not the living room).
I always imagined I would miss US Weekly almost immediately, despite having my already-documented reservations about being a subscriber. However, the lapse of my subscription could not have come at a better time. What have I missed so far? The Heidi Montag "Plastic Surgery Revenge" issue. And then: the style issue, featuring a cover of Lauren Conrad and the other two girls from The Hills. And I subscribed long enough to know what else I missed inside: so and so from a band I've never heard of was at Hyde (?) and so was Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie is eating now that she is pregnant, three D-list celebrities wore the same dress, Eva Longoria went to Whole Foods, Brangelina and brood stayed at a hotel somewhere, Britney is still struggling, Jessica Simpson bought three t-shirts for $400 at Kitson and Ken Paves was with her, Jennifer Aniston does pilates and likes the zone diet, and on and on and on.
I'm certainly not judging anyone who remains an US Weekly subscriber. It's given me a lot of pleasure over the years. I'm sure one of these weeks, I'll see it in the checkout line and be unable to not throw it my cart. And, if it's sitting in a waiting room and so am I, you better believe I'll be reading it. But, for now, it will not longer show up in my mailbox on Thursdays. When conversations about pop culture take place, I will be less prepared than usual. I likely won't know who Justin is dating at all times. Though I'm rooting for Nick and Vanessa, I'll have to trust they can make it without me. I may just forget about Eva Longeria altogether.
Ditto Hayley Duff. Surprisingly, I feel fine. NTB.
And, if you mostly don't know who the hell I am talking about, you should feel damn fine.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Not sure what I learned about Toronto
I was out of the country this week, NTB. Passport required and everything. OK, well, I just went to Canada. My husband had a convention to go to in Toronto so I tagged along. I’ve never been there so this seemed a good opportunity to see the largest city in Canada and squeeze in a side trip to Niagara Falls. We went with my husband’s coworker and the coworker’s wife (aka my husband’s uncle and aunt). They are extremely organized people which meant that they took care of every little detail for the trip. My preparations involved organizing everything on the homefront since we’d be leaving the girls with their grandparents for a few days, but I researched nothing about the hotels, restaurants, shopping, or the city itself. So, once in Toronto, I wasn’t really sure what sort of culture I should be soaking up. In need of some entertainment while the boys were at the convention, my husband’s aunt and I decided to be hard core tourists and take a double-decker trolley ride to get an initial feel for the city and then decide where to go from there.
Other than a woman visiting from Memphis, it seemed we were the only ones interested in learning about the city through this means. It was an intimate tour of three so the guide just sat by us, rattling off “facts” as we drove around town. I’m the sort of person who doesn’t enjoy lengthy explanations, but I do enjoy hearing little tidbits that I can commit to memory. The problem I had with this tour is that I found myself questioning most of the information coming out of the guide’s mouth. The University of Toronto has about 60 thousand students. Ok, sounds about right. That snooty bar down there is owned by Corey Mandell, Howie’s brother. OK, the type of factoid an US Weekly subscriber enjoys…no reason to question it. The CN Tower is one of the seven modern wonders of the world. Yep, heard that on my tour of the CN Tower yesterday. No problem with any of those items. However, here is a sampling of the tidbits I had a harder time swallowing:
1. The library on the University of Toronto campus is sinking because the architects did not consider the weight of the books when building the library. Hmmm, I always thought of architects as pretty sharp people. I know books are heavy (those who have moved my sister and her own personal library of books will vouch for this), but so heavy that they are really causing this peacock-shaped library to sink? Then, the guide adds that an alternative plan being considered is to simply eliminate all books from the library and make it a digital library. That sounds more like a database than a library. Seems extreme and not like something that would sit well with reading purists. Anyway, a quick trip to snopes.com quickly confirmed that this is incorrect information he was spewing. Great to know that the tour guides are keeping urban legends alive.
2. Canadians make great beer, but it doesn’t always taste as good as it should because Canadians aren’t good at keeping the pipes the beer flows through clean, nor do they properly wash out the glasses so that all the soap residue is off of them. There is one bar in the Distillery District that knows how to do those things so I go there once or twice a year, even though it’s a cheesy bar, just to get a great tasting beer. Just one bar in the city knows how to rinse the soap out of the glasses, huh? Amazing that your taste buds were able to track it down.
3. The Royal Bank Plaza to your left has 24 carat gold in the windows. The only problem is, gold reflects light and therefore the neighboring buildings have complained that it’s driving up their A/C bills in the summer. There’s a lawsuit in the works. OK, so I was skeptical about the 24 carat gold part, but apparently that is true. Couldn’t find out anything about a lawsuit for the reflection though . . .
4. This street over here is where all the prostitutes hung out until about 10 years ago when it became a Yellow Pages business. There would be limos lined up on the street whenever diplomats were in town. Not even sure where to go with this one.
5. The Toronto Maple Leafs are a legendary hockey team. Quite possibly the best ever. Blah blah blah. We love hockey. We’re better than the Montreal Canadians. We haven’t been great lately, but we’re like the Red Sox of hockey, only before the Sox won a couple years ago. I get it. You love hockey. However, it sounds like you had a good run in the 1960’s, but I wasn’t even born when you won your last Stanley Cup in 1967, so please don’t make me listen to anymore.
So, I have now been to Toronto. Thanks to my questionable tour leader, I’m not sure what to make of the place. Actually, he didn’t even say “eh” so maybe he wasn’t even Canadian.
Other than a woman visiting from Memphis, it seemed we were the only ones interested in learning about the city through this means. It was an intimate tour of three so the guide just sat by us, rattling off “facts” as we drove around town. I’m the sort of person who doesn’t enjoy lengthy explanations, but I do enjoy hearing little tidbits that I can commit to memory. The problem I had with this tour is that I found myself questioning most of the information coming out of the guide’s mouth. The University of Toronto has about 60 thousand students. Ok, sounds about right. That snooty bar down there is owned by Corey Mandell, Howie’s brother. OK, the type of factoid an US Weekly subscriber enjoys…no reason to question it. The CN Tower is one of the seven modern wonders of the world. Yep, heard that on my tour of the CN Tower yesterday. No problem with any of those items. However, here is a sampling of the tidbits I had a harder time swallowing:
1. The library on the University of Toronto campus is sinking because the architects did not consider the weight of the books when building the library. Hmmm, I always thought of architects as pretty sharp people. I know books are heavy (those who have moved my sister and her own personal library of books will vouch for this), but so heavy that they are really causing this peacock-shaped library to sink? Then, the guide adds that an alternative plan being considered is to simply eliminate all books from the library and make it a digital library. That sounds more like a database than a library. Seems extreme and not like something that would sit well with reading purists. Anyway, a quick trip to snopes.com quickly confirmed that this is incorrect information he was spewing. Great to know that the tour guides are keeping urban legends alive.
2. Canadians make great beer, but it doesn’t always taste as good as it should because Canadians aren’t good at keeping the pipes the beer flows through clean, nor do they properly wash out the glasses so that all the soap residue is off of them. There is one bar in the Distillery District that knows how to do those things so I go there once or twice a year, even though it’s a cheesy bar, just to get a great tasting beer. Just one bar in the city knows how to rinse the soap out of the glasses, huh? Amazing that your taste buds were able to track it down.
3. The Royal Bank Plaza to your left has 24 carat gold in the windows. The only problem is, gold reflects light and therefore the neighboring buildings have complained that it’s driving up their A/C bills in the summer. There’s a lawsuit in the works. OK, so I was skeptical about the 24 carat gold part, but apparently that is true. Couldn’t find out anything about a lawsuit for the reflection though . . .
4. This street over here is where all the prostitutes hung out until about 10 years ago when it became a Yellow Pages business. There would be limos lined up on the street whenever diplomats were in town. Not even sure where to go with this one.
5. The Toronto Maple Leafs are a legendary hockey team. Quite possibly the best ever. Blah blah blah. We love hockey. We’re better than the Montreal Canadians. We haven’t been great lately, but we’re like the Red Sox of hockey, only before the Sox won a couple years ago. I get it. You love hockey. However, it sounds like you had a good run in the 1960’s, but I wasn’t even born when you won your last Stanley Cup in 1967, so please don’t make me listen to anymore.
So, I have now been to Toronto. Thanks to my questionable tour leader, I’m not sure what to make of the place. Actually, he didn’t even say “eh” so maybe he wasn’t even Canadian.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Rachael and I made chili, and it was "pretty darn good."
One of my initial thoughts in starting this blog and entitling it "Not to Brag" was to use it as an impetus to accomplish things that I could then not brag about. You'll note if you check my profile that one of my hobbies/interests is thinking about projects I want to accomplish. That's no lie. I don't have enough time right now to devote time to all the projects I would like to--buying new curtains for upstairs, learning how to thread my sewing machine and subsequently sewing something, making my own greeting cards, cleaning out my pantry, finishing my dissertation, and etc. (Actually, I am making steady progress on the dissertation, thanks for asking). And though there isn't time for all of my projects--just a few are named above--I do truly enjoy thinking about when I might have the chance to work on them and how it will feel to complete them.
Anyway, one of the major "projects" on my list is becoming a better cook. You'll note in my profile that eating, thinking, and talking about food are also hobbies of mine. I have many, many cookbooks and love paging through them and considering new recipes. I also have a ridiculous recipe binder that I won't go into now because it is so unwieldy and my dedication to maintaining it so obsessive that the binder deserves its own post.
I narrowed my culinary goal for this fall to something more manageable: becoming a better cook of soup. (I almost wrote "cooker of soup," but I am not a Dutch oven, nor am I a crock pot). So, I thought a new feature of NTB could be accounts of my attempts to make soup.
Rachael Ray and I made Indian Summer Turkey Chili** this evening, the "perfect" dish for a nice October Day when it is above 90 degrees outside. It came from my copy of Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Get Real Meals. This cookbook might predate Rachael's "stoup" stage; indeed, the title of the chapter is "That's Souper!"
Now, before continuing with my account of the souper soup, I want to pause and clarify something: I do not count myself among the Rachael Ray haters. Sure, the constant mention of EVOO can grate, as can her habit of saying "real" when she means "really." There's something about the way she says "cumin," usually in conjunction with the adjectives "nice" and "smoky" that also gets to me. And sure, her recipes may take longer than thirty minutes if you don't remember to wash and prep all your produce right when you get home from the store or if you don't happen to have ziploc bags full of fresh herbs in your fridge. However, I find her honest, engaging, and very creative. I'm not a gourmet chef or hard-core foodie so I don't object to the fact that Rachael uses canned tomatoes in her recipes or whatever other culinary sins she might commit. She does not pretend to be a classically trained chef. I watched her Chefography on the Food Network and was impressed. This woman has worked her ass off and still seems fairly down-to-earth, even though she is friends with Oprah and everything.
Okay, that being said, here's the verdict on her Indian Summer Turkey Chili. It was very easy to make and probably took about forty minutes. I think an at-home cook who did not have a helper like the bub might be able to finish in 30 minutes. In terms of exotic ingredients, there really weren't any. I did not have Montreal Steak seasoning, but I don't begrudge the $2.23 I spent obtaining it. I'm also not sure that the barbecue sauce I used was "smoky," but it didn't seem to matter. The hubby pronounced the chili "pretty good" and then later upgraded it to "pretty darn good." NTB. He said he would eat it again and even suggested it was the best red chili I have ever made (he is more a fan of my white chicken chili). I enjoyed the flavors of the chili, but the heat was a little much for me. The two tablespoons of hot sauce went farther than I anticipated. If I made it again, I would use half the hot sauce and let my husband add more to his bowl. And, I think I would make it again, if only I didn't have so many other soups to stir. NTB.
** The Indian Summer Turkey chili recipe I linked to above is slightly different than the one in the cookbook. All the ingredients are the same, but the recipe I used called for half the amount of ground turkey, half the amount of corn, and double the amount of tomato sauce. I tested the recipe using half a Coor's Light (my husband didn't want to "waste" a Budweiser for cooking) and Sweet Baby Ray's sauce. I used one green and one yellow pepper.
Anyway, one of the major "projects" on my list is becoming a better cook. You'll note in my profile that eating, thinking, and talking about food are also hobbies of mine. I have many, many cookbooks and love paging through them and considering new recipes. I also have a ridiculous recipe binder that I won't go into now because it is so unwieldy and my dedication to maintaining it so obsessive that the binder deserves its own post.
I narrowed my culinary goal for this fall to something more manageable: becoming a better cook of soup. (I almost wrote "cooker of soup," but I am not a Dutch oven, nor am I a crock pot). So, I thought a new feature of NTB could be accounts of my attempts to make soup.
Rachael Ray and I made Indian Summer Turkey Chili** this evening, the "perfect" dish for a nice October Day when it is above 90 degrees outside. It came from my copy of Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Get Real Meals. This cookbook might predate Rachael's "stoup" stage; indeed, the title of the chapter is "That's Souper!"
Now, before continuing with my account of the souper soup, I want to pause and clarify something: I do not count myself among the Rachael Ray haters. Sure, the constant mention of EVOO can grate, as can her habit of saying "real" when she means "really." There's something about the way she says "cumin," usually in conjunction with the adjectives "nice" and "smoky" that also gets to me. And sure, her recipes may take longer than thirty minutes if you don't remember to wash and prep all your produce right when you get home from the store or if you don't happen to have ziploc bags full of fresh herbs in your fridge. However, I find her honest, engaging, and very creative. I'm not a gourmet chef or hard-core foodie so I don't object to the fact that Rachael uses canned tomatoes in her recipes or whatever other culinary sins she might commit. She does not pretend to be a classically trained chef. I watched her Chefography on the Food Network and was impressed. This woman has worked her ass off and still seems fairly down-to-earth, even though she is friends with Oprah and everything.
Okay, that being said, here's the verdict on her Indian Summer Turkey Chili. It was very easy to make and probably took about forty minutes. I think an at-home cook who did not have a helper like the bub might be able to finish in 30 minutes. In terms of exotic ingredients, there really weren't any. I did not have Montreal Steak seasoning, but I don't begrudge the $2.23 I spent obtaining it. I'm also not sure that the barbecue sauce I used was "smoky," but it didn't seem to matter. The hubby pronounced the chili "pretty good" and then later upgraded it to "pretty darn good." NTB. He said he would eat it again and even suggested it was the best red chili I have ever made (he is more a fan of my white chicken chili). I enjoyed the flavors of the chili, but the heat was a little much for me. The two tablespoons of hot sauce went farther than I anticipated. If I made it again, I would use half the hot sauce and let my husband add more to his bowl. And, I think I would make it again, if only I didn't have so many other soups to stir. NTB.
** The Indian Summer Turkey chili recipe I linked to above is slightly different than the one in the cookbook. All the ingredients are the same, but the recipe I used called for half the amount of ground turkey, half the amount of corn, and double the amount of tomato sauce. I tested the recipe using half a Coor's Light (my husband didn't want to "waste" a Budweiser for cooking) and Sweet Baby Ray's sauce. I used one green and one yellow pepper.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Oh no, another post about books . . .
After yesterday's blog about Judith Viorst, I asked my husband what he thought. He thought it was "fine," and then followed up with, "To be honest, sometimes, when the post is not about the bub, I just skim it. I don't like the literary ones that much." Obviously, I was overwhelmed by the support and encouragement. I like to know that my daily thoughts and experiences are worth attending to only insofar as they relate to my efforts to take care of his son.
Okay, I just paused right now to ask if he minded being cited in the blog, and he gave me another quote, "Are you writing a new one apologizing for yesterday's lame post that no one wanted to comment on?" Hands off, ladies, he's mine! NTB.
Okay, I just paused once more to ask him if wanted a preview of what I have written so far before I posted it, and he went on the record as saying he wanted to be "surprised."
Now to the real point of this post. I have a literary favor to ask. Many of you know that I have done some tutoring over the past few years. My favorite and longtime student is preparing to go to college next Fall. She is doing high school via distance learning, and I have been, for most intents and purposes, her English teacher for (almost) her entire high school career. The distance learning curriculum she has is good, but now that we have reached senior year, we want to kick things up a notch and fill in the gaps, anything she might have missed out on reading by not attending "regular" school. In terms of typical high school reading lists, we've missed out on Lord of the Flies, Of Mice and Men, Huckleberry Finn, The Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby, and To Kill a Mockingbird.
And now, the favor . . . If you could take a minute to leave a comment below or to email me, here's what I want to know: Any comments on the titles listed above (no spoilers please)? Did you have a favorite book you were assigned to read during high school? Is there anything you did not read in high school and then got to college and wished you had? (For me, it was The Odyssey.) Or, putting notions of the canon aside, are there any other books you would recommend for my student? Thanks in advance for your insights.
Okay, I just paused right now to ask if he minded being cited in the blog, and he gave me another quote, "Are you writing a new one apologizing for yesterday's lame post that no one wanted to comment on?" Hands off, ladies, he's mine! NTB.
Okay, I just paused once more to ask him if wanted a preview of what I have written so far before I posted it, and he went on the record as saying he wanted to be "surprised."
Now to the real point of this post. I have a literary favor to ask. Many of you know that I have done some tutoring over the past few years. My favorite and longtime student is preparing to go to college next Fall. She is doing high school via distance learning, and I have been, for most intents and purposes, her English teacher for (almost) her entire high school career. The distance learning curriculum she has is good, but now that we have reached senior year, we want to kick things up a notch and fill in the gaps, anything she might have missed out on reading by not attending "regular" school. In terms of typical high school reading lists, we've missed out on Lord of the Flies, Of Mice and Men, Huckleberry Finn, The Scarlet Letter, The Great Gatsby, and To Kill a Mockingbird.
And now, the favor . . . If you could take a minute to leave a comment below or to email me, here's what I want to know: Any comments on the titles listed above (no spoilers please)? Did you have a favorite book you were assigned to read during high school? Is there anything you did not read in high school and then got to college and wished you had? (For me, it was The Odyssey.) Or, putting notions of the canon aside, are there any other books you would recommend for my student? Thanks in advance for your insights.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
All kinds of days . . .
I was flipping through one of 15 or so magazines I subscribe to (or somehow receive in the mail--honestly, I don't know from whence some of them come), and I happened upon an essay entitled, "To Grandmother's House We Go." It was billed as a piece about a woman whose son, daughter-in-law, and three grandchildren would be moving in for 90 days while their home was renovated. I was pondering whether or not to read on when I saw the author's name: Judith Viorst. Of course, I would read on! Judith Viorst wrote a book I truly loved as a little girl. Do you remember it? Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible No Good, Very Bad Day. As its lengthy and straightforward title--which I prided myself on memorizing--promises, the book tells the story of Alexander's terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. His day is full of the type of crap that can tick you off when you're young, the little indignities that put a damper on your day. Your mom packs you the wrong lunch. You don't get the seat you want in the car. You face a surprise trip to the dentist after school. It always struck me as pretty honest, a narrative depiction of the same maxim you hear often enough growing up: "Life's not always fair." Plus, it's the kind of book that eight year-olds and their parents can both find funny. I look forward to sharing it with the bub one day.
So anyway, I start reading Viorst's piece in the magazine, and what do you know, she's writing about her adult son Alexander and his family. And honestly, I felt tickled that this boy who once had that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day is all grown up with a wife and kids. It was like a surprise sequel or extra episode, the "rest of the story" I was so glad to happen upon. It's not that I'd been worried about Alexander all these years, but again, I was tickled to find out that he got over that terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. I read on about the joys of grandparenting, the challenges of having family "guests" for 90 days, and Viorst's eloquent description of how proud she is of the parents Alexander and his wife are. It was a nice piece, funny and honest and at the end, there was a final bonus: "Excerpted from Alexander and the Wonderful, Marvelous, Excellent, Terrific Ninety Days, by Judith Viorst, to be published by Free Press, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Copyright 2007 by Judith Viorst."
I hope that thirty years from now, I will still have stories to tell about my bub. I hope that in the interim, we will continue to appreciate the good days and the challenging ones and the humorous ones and the exhausting ones and the fun ones. Something tells me that I will and that we will. NTB.
So anyway, I start reading Viorst's piece in the magazine, and what do you know, she's writing about her adult son Alexander and his family. And honestly, I felt tickled that this boy who once had that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day is all grown up with a wife and kids. It was like a surprise sequel or extra episode, the "rest of the story" I was so glad to happen upon. It's not that I'd been worried about Alexander all these years, but again, I was tickled to find out that he got over that terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. I read on about the joys of grandparenting, the challenges of having family "guests" for 90 days, and Viorst's eloquent description of how proud she is of the parents Alexander and his wife are. It was a nice piece, funny and honest and at the end, there was a final bonus: "Excerpted from Alexander and the Wonderful, Marvelous, Excellent, Terrific Ninety Days, by Judith Viorst, to be published by Free Press, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Copyright 2007 by Judith Viorst."
I hope that thirty years from now, I will still have stories to tell about my bub. I hope that in the interim, we will continue to appreciate the good days and the challenging ones and the humorous ones and the exhausting ones and the fun ones. Something tells me that I will and that we will. NTB.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Just a bowl of soup . . . that's all I ask.
The bub reached a milestone while we were at Grammy and Papa's house. As I was out doing some errands, my mom was cooking and my dad was working. The bub was upstairs napping. All of sudden, my mom hears some commotion, and surprise! it's the bub heading down the stairs. The sound of his feet on the stairs confirmed that the event my husband and I had feared for months--ever since he climbed out of his crib in June (and no, it can't be lowered any more, thanks for asking)-- had finally come to pass: the bub climbed out of his pack 'n play. And while we were proud of his flexibility and fearlessness, we were afraid of what would be next. We were fine for the rest of our visit at Grammy and Papa's. He slept one night in their crib (which he can't yet escape) and an additional night in the pack 'n play during which he chose to stay put. When he awoke the next morning, I rushed in to try to keep him from climbing out again, only to practically trip on him as he rushed downstairs to start playing.
When we arrived home on Sunday, I put the hubby in charge of bubby's bedtime. The bub settled in for a long night's rest in the pack 'n play, no problem. But last night, it was my turn. Here's a brief timeline of the evening:
7:00 -- Mommy and bubby head upstairs to get an early start on the bedtime routine. We spend twenty minutes reading books, saying prayers, and giving kisses. I leave him in the pack 'n play with a "night night."
7:20 -- Bubs climbs out of the pack 'n play the first time. I put him back in and lie down on the floor next to it. I stay for about fifteen minutes, and try to remain positive. I say to myself, "I'm getting a mini nap now, so I can stay up past my 10:30 bedtime. This is nice." I count silently from 1-100 multiple times to keep myself from really falling asleep. He seems to be asleep, so I begin creeping out of the room (I think of myself as a cheetah when I do this, but I don't actually know if cheetahs are quiet and stealthy or not).
7:22 -- The bub climbs out of the pack 'n play again. I follow him downstairs where he does the unheard of and voluntarily lies on the couch in diaper-changing position. I think to myself, "Oh, he must have a poopy diaper. Good thing I'm finding that out now. No wonder he doesn't want to sleep. Though, hmm, I didn't think I smelled anything." I had not smelled anything because there was nothing there. I changed his bone dry diaper because I am wasteful like that.
7:30 or so -- We head back upstairs. I spend another 15 minutes lying on the floor next to the the pack 'n play. I am pretty sure that he is asleep and I am REALLY HUNGRY so I try to make like a cheetah and sneak away. The bub seems settled in the p 'n p this time. I head downstairs and heat up some vegetable soup. I turn on the TV and start my DVR recording of DWTS. Tom Bergeron has not even said "LIIVVEE!" yet, and I hear the bub running above me. Before my soup is even cool enough to sample, the bub is heading downstairs toward me.
7:50 -- New plan put into place. I will use tactic I've seen on Supernanny. Each time bub climbs out of p'n p, I will put him back in. The first time I give him a kiss and a "night night." After that, I am supposed to just say nothing and put him back in bed. After five or so rounds, I determine the bub is enjoying this game. I realize I should stick with this tactic longer, but remember, I am HUNGRY.
8:00 -- New plan: tough love. I clear the glider out of the room, cover the outlets (everything else semi-dangerous is already out of there), and place a baby gate in front of the open door. I place a blanket on the floor. If the bub climbs out of the p 'n p again, he will just have to figure something out. He can sleep on the floor or on his toddler bed (purchased about a month ago because we knew its day was near).
8:00 - 8:20 -- I sit on my bed and eat my vegetable soup while listening to the bub whine and cry. He has exited the p 'n p once more and is standing at the gate, trying to determine how to scale it. I try not to feel sorry for myself that I am eating soup on my bed while my bub cries. I try not to feel pissed at my husband, who is eating steak at a work dinner.
8:22 -- I start to worry that the bub will try to climb pack into the p 'n p and will hurt himself in the process. I enter his room, and he grabs my hand and leads me to the p 'n p. I say, "Okay, honey, you want to sleep in your baby bed? Okay? But you have to stay in it, okay?" I kid myself that now he will appreciate the p 'n p, stay in it, and allow me to have a second bowl of soup and watch DWTS.
8:30 -- Bub climbs pack out of the p 'n p. I explain to him that mommy is really HUNGRY. I don't mention DWTS because he's not familiar with the program.
8:35 -- It's time. I take the p 'n p apart. I show the bub his choices: the toddler bed and the floor. I kiss him night night for the eightieth time that evening. I leave.
Long story short. He cries. He whines. I go into his room a few more times and pat his back while he lies on the toddler bed. He spends many minutes at the gate, pleading for an exit. "Mom. Mom. Mom." Eventually, he falls asleep at around 9:00. I eat more soup. I am nice to my husband when he arrives home from his dinner. He has promised to take bedtime tonight. This afternoon, I reassembled the pack 'n play for his nap, experienced a shortened (five minute) version of last night's events, and then disassembled the p 'n p for good. He was asleep in his toddler bed within ten minutes. NTB. We'll see if the worst is behind us or not. Here's hoping.
When we arrived home on Sunday, I put the hubby in charge of bubby's bedtime. The bub settled in for a long night's rest in the pack 'n play, no problem. But last night, it was my turn. Here's a brief timeline of the evening:
7:00 -- Mommy and bubby head upstairs to get an early start on the bedtime routine. We spend twenty minutes reading books, saying prayers, and giving kisses. I leave him in the pack 'n play with a "night night."
7:20 -- Bubs climbs out of the pack 'n play the first time. I put him back in and lie down on the floor next to it. I stay for about fifteen minutes, and try to remain positive. I say to myself, "I'm getting a mini nap now, so I can stay up past my 10:30 bedtime. This is nice." I count silently from 1-100 multiple times to keep myself from really falling asleep. He seems to be asleep, so I begin creeping out of the room (I think of myself as a cheetah when I do this, but I don't actually know if cheetahs are quiet and stealthy or not).
7:22 -- The bub climbs out of the pack 'n play again. I follow him downstairs where he does the unheard of and voluntarily lies on the couch in diaper-changing position. I think to myself, "Oh, he must have a poopy diaper. Good thing I'm finding that out now. No wonder he doesn't want to sleep. Though, hmm, I didn't think I smelled anything." I had not smelled anything because there was nothing there. I changed his bone dry diaper because I am wasteful like that.
7:30 or so -- We head back upstairs. I spend another 15 minutes lying on the floor next to the the pack 'n play. I am pretty sure that he is asleep and I am REALLY HUNGRY so I try to make like a cheetah and sneak away. The bub seems settled in the p 'n p this time. I head downstairs and heat up some vegetable soup. I turn on the TV and start my DVR recording of DWTS. Tom Bergeron has not even said "LIIVVEE!" yet, and I hear the bub running above me. Before my soup is even cool enough to sample, the bub is heading downstairs toward me.
7:50 -- New plan put into place. I will use tactic I've seen on Supernanny. Each time bub climbs out of p'n p, I will put him back in. The first time I give him a kiss and a "night night." After that, I am supposed to just say nothing and put him back in bed. After five or so rounds, I determine the bub is enjoying this game. I realize I should stick with this tactic longer, but remember, I am HUNGRY.
8:00 -- New plan: tough love. I clear the glider out of the room, cover the outlets (everything else semi-dangerous is already out of there), and place a baby gate in front of the open door. I place a blanket on the floor. If the bub climbs out of the p 'n p again, he will just have to figure something out. He can sleep on the floor or on his toddler bed (purchased about a month ago because we knew its day was near).
8:00 - 8:20 -- I sit on my bed and eat my vegetable soup while listening to the bub whine and cry. He has exited the p 'n p once more and is standing at the gate, trying to determine how to scale it. I try not to feel sorry for myself that I am eating soup on my bed while my bub cries. I try not to feel pissed at my husband, who is eating steak at a work dinner.
8:22 -- I start to worry that the bub will try to climb pack into the p 'n p and will hurt himself in the process. I enter his room, and he grabs my hand and leads me to the p 'n p. I say, "Okay, honey, you want to sleep in your baby bed? Okay? But you have to stay in it, okay?" I kid myself that now he will appreciate the p 'n p, stay in it, and allow me to have a second bowl of soup and watch DWTS.
8:30 -- Bub climbs pack out of the p 'n p. I explain to him that mommy is really HUNGRY. I don't mention DWTS because he's not familiar with the program.
8:35 -- It's time. I take the p 'n p apart. I show the bub his choices: the toddler bed and the floor. I kiss him night night for the eightieth time that evening. I leave.
Long story short. He cries. He whines. I go into his room a few more times and pat his back while he lies on the toddler bed. He spends many minutes at the gate, pleading for an exit. "Mom. Mom. Mom." Eventually, he falls asleep at around 9:00. I eat more soup. I am nice to my husband when he arrives home from his dinner. He has promised to take bedtime tonight. This afternoon, I reassembled the pack 'n play for his nap, experienced a shortened (five minute) version of last night's events, and then disassembled the p 'n p for good. He was asleep in his toddler bed within ten minutes. NTB. We'll see if the worst is behind us or not. Here's hoping.
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