Monday, December 28, 2009
Coming soon. . . Christmas '09
I don't normally like to blow-by-blow blog. "Today, we blahblahblahed. Then Daniel said blahblahblah. Tomorrow, we're going to blahblahblah." However (pause for effect), my Christmas post will be just that. Maybe it won't make you laugh, but I want to be sure to get a verbal snapshot so that Doug and I can laugh hysterically about this Christmas for years to come. Wonderfully, I got an email this morning for some contract work (receiveing files - unknown; files due - Thursday). It's likely that this blog will have to wait until I have a New Year's blog to write, but that's ok. I don't think these memories are going any where in the next 4 days.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Waste not, want. . . a lot
Throwing things away is cathartic for me. I don't mean just going through life, grabbing half-empty bottles of the shelf, and chunking. I really enjoy squeezing the last teensy-weensy bit of toothpaste out of the tube and pitching it in the trash. Most of the time, Doug decides the tube is empty (long before it's really empty) and he "gets" to throw it away. Unfair. Recently (sometime in October), I went on a cleaning/organizing spree of our cabinets and discovered 7 bottles of lotion, 4 bottles of body wash, and 2 bars of fancy soap I bought at an outdoor market in New Mexico in 2006. I decided that we would not be purchasing any more lotions or soaps until we depleted our supply. That's fantastic for my budget - we won't have to buy lotion again until the next presidential inauguration. It seems to be working out ok for my skin (I was moderately worried about bouncing back and forth between Irish Spring shower gel and Bath & Body Works Fresh Pineapple), but I'm about SICK of shower gel!
This is how I wound up in this spot to begin with. Enter endless cycle. BBW has a sale. I raid sale and buy many bottles of fun-smelling lotions, potions, and Lord knows what else. I use said shower gel for 2-3 days. I decide I'm not a shower-gel-and-loofah kind of girl. I put the mostly full bottle back in the cabinet and forget about it for years (see above regarding the NM outdoor market). Friends give me bubble bath, shower gel, and body lotions for shower gifts, thus adding to the stash of bottles in my cabinet.
I would LOVE nothing more than to take a shower with a good old gold bar of Dial. At this point of the process, however, it has nothing to do with money. If someone bought, wrapped, and placed a 12-pack of gold Dial bars under my Christmas tree, I wouldn't use them until all of the gel was gone. I'm not sure where this obsessiveness is coming from, but I fully understand that Doug will not be using the Exotic Coconut shower gel. I fully intend to buy him a 12-pack of gold Dial bars that I will not touch until all of this gel is gone. I fully do not understand this obsession! What is wrong with me and why must I rid the Carey home of all bottles of (worthless) gel?? Who knows? All I know is that I'm about sick of smelling like fruit. If anyone happens to notice my tropical scent, please forgive my obsessive-compulsive nature and know that I, too, am suffering.
This is how I wound up in this spot to begin with. Enter endless cycle. BBW has a sale. I raid sale and buy many bottles of fun-smelling lotions, potions, and Lord knows what else. I use said shower gel for 2-3 days. I decide I'm not a shower-gel-and-loofah kind of girl. I put the mostly full bottle back in the cabinet and forget about it for years (see above regarding the NM outdoor market). Friends give me bubble bath, shower gel, and body lotions for shower gifts, thus adding to the stash of bottles in my cabinet.
I would LOVE nothing more than to take a shower with a good old gold bar of Dial. At this point of the process, however, it has nothing to do with money. If someone bought, wrapped, and placed a 12-pack of gold Dial bars under my Christmas tree, I wouldn't use them until all of the gel was gone. I'm not sure where this obsessiveness is coming from, but I fully understand that Doug will not be using the Exotic Coconut shower gel. I fully intend to buy him a 12-pack of gold Dial bars that I will not touch until all of this gel is gone. I fully do not understand this obsession! What is wrong with me and why must I rid the Carey home of all bottles of (worthless) gel??
Thursday, December 10, 2009
30 somethings
I've had a few experiences lately that have reminded me that 30 pounds overweight is a place I never care to (re)visit. Lugging Daniel around the airport - through the ticketing line, through security, through the terminal, down the jet way, up and down the aisle of the plane, through the terminal, through baggage claim, wash, rinse, repeat - is one of those experiences. Seeing a gaggle of 60+ women emerge from their water aerobics class and converge upon the showers at the YMCA was another one of these experiences. I won't heebie-jeebie you to death with the details, but sheesh. I don't care to arrive at 60 in that condition. Arriving home from Phoenix four pounds heavier was a wake-up call (and a slap in the face). It reminded me just how quickly those 30 pounds sneak up on you.
People who have known me for 20+ years know this, but many people don't - I was the fat kid. I wore elastic-waist jeans. I shopped plus size little girls clothes. I went home crying many times because I'd heard someone call me fat. I did everything I could to wriggle my way out of running the mile in elementary school. It was embarrassing to have to walk most of it because I was too fat to run a full mile. God only knows how I wound up that way. Well, maybe that's a stretch. HoneyBuns and Coke for breakfast will do that to a nine-year-old, even when she plays softball and dances on the drill team. When I was 12, I fought my first fight and won. I stepped on the scale in the sixth grade and cried all the way home from the doctor's office when I weighed 153 pounds. Thank God I had more guts than to just cry about it. I went on a rampage, cutting most fats and sugars out of my diet, running several days a week, and doing 100 crunches 3 times a day. On the first day of seventh grade, I wore Gap jeans and an Esprit shirt to school. I'd lost 30 pounds over the summer and was damned proud of it.
I managed to keep most of it off through high school. I had some ups and downs, but I still got to shop at Old Navy, American Eagle, and the Gap. When my dad had triple bypass surgery in 1995, our whole family changed its way of life (by life, I mean eating). Red meat was rarely served (no pun intended). Fried foods became a distant memory. Low fat margarine became a part of our every day life. My dad started walking and I continued eating healthy. It wasn't until the fall of '99 that I started packing on the pounds (again).
It was my sophomore year of college. I'd managed to avoid the freshman 15 through 3-a-day workouts on the softball team. The summer after my freshman year, I regularly ran 5 miles at a time, lifted weights 3-4 days a week, and ate like a horse. I didn't have to avoid fried foods with my dad safe back at home with his grilled chicken and steamed veggies. I drank like a fish and partied like only a 19-year-old college student can. Then I had knee surgery. Those softball workouts were over. I couldn't run for several months. I continued eating like a horse, drinking like a fish, and partying like an idiot. In less than 3 months, I was 30 pounds up, several GPA points down, and well on my way to losing control. I'm not sure what happened (exactly), but I started running again. I scaled back my calories. I still drank and partied like there was no tomorrow, but somehow, I managed to fight my way back through those 30 pounds and into my Abercrombie jeans.
I can't put my finger on the beginning of this last 30 pounds, but I weighed 167 when I went to my first OB appointment with Daniel. I'm 5'8", so that isn't obese, but it's certainly not thin. The day Daniel was born, I clocked in at 199. By the skin of my teeth, I missed that 200 mark. Today, 17 months and 52 pounds later, I feel good. I *think* I look good, which I've learned is much more important than actually looking good. I've never had what I would call a "positive body image." Until now. Now, I'm proud of myself and of my body. I made a baby, people. Many of you have, too, but I made a baby. I carried him for 39.857 weeks. I gave birth to him and brought him into my life, my family, and my world. I nursed him for 13 months. I have rocked, held, cuddled, carried, and otherwise lugged around that kiddo (all 28 pounds of him) for almost a year and a half. This body? It's amazing. It did all of that, shed 52 pounds, and is mine. For the first time in 30 years, I am truly happy with my body. Oh sure. I've been happy with myself for a good 29.5 of those years. But being happy with my body is another thing altogether.
So when it's 35 degrees out and going to the Y sounds like pure torture, it might be. But I'll do it. I'll be happy to do it to avoid fighting that fight again. They say the third time is a charm. I sure hope so, because right now, I'm charmed silly.
People who have known me for 20+ years know this, but many people don't - I was the fat kid. I wore elastic-waist jeans. I shopped plus size little girls clothes. I went home crying many times because I'd heard someone call me fat. I did everything I could to wriggle my way out of running the mile in elementary school. It was embarrassing to have to walk most of it because I was too fat to run a full mile. God only knows how I wound up that way. Well, maybe that's a stretch. HoneyBuns and Coke for breakfast will do that to a nine-year-old, even when she plays softball and dances on the drill team. When I was 12, I fought my first fight and won. I stepped on the scale in the sixth grade and cried all the way home from the doctor's office when I weighed 153 pounds. Thank God I had more guts than to just cry about it. I went on a rampage, cutting most fats and sugars out of my diet, running several days a week, and doing 100 crunches 3 times a day. On the first day of seventh grade, I wore Gap jeans and an Esprit shirt to school. I'd lost 30 pounds over the summer and was damned proud of it.
I managed to keep most of it off through high school. I had some ups and downs, but I still got to shop at Old Navy, American Eagle, and the Gap. When my dad had triple bypass surgery in 1995, our whole family changed its way of life (by life, I mean eating). Red meat was rarely served (no pun intended). Fried foods became a distant memory. Low fat margarine became a part of our every day life. My dad started walking and I continued eating healthy. It wasn't until the fall of '99 that I started packing on the pounds (again).
It was my sophomore year of college. I'd managed to avoid the freshman 15 through 3-a-day workouts on the softball team. The summer after my freshman year, I regularly ran 5 miles at a time, lifted weights 3-4 days a week, and ate like a horse. I didn't have to avoid fried foods with my dad safe back at home with his grilled chicken and steamed veggies. I drank like a fish and partied like only a 19-year-old college student can. Then I had knee surgery. Those softball workouts were over. I couldn't run for several months. I continued eating like a horse, drinking like a fish, and partying like an idiot. In less than 3 months, I was 30 pounds up, several GPA points down, and well on my way to losing control. I'm not sure what happened (exactly), but I started running again. I scaled back my calories. I still drank and partied like there was no tomorrow, but somehow, I managed to fight my way back through those 30 pounds and into my Abercrombie jeans.
I can't put my finger on the beginning of this last 30 pounds, but I weighed 167 when I went to my first OB appointment with Daniel. I'm 5'8", so that isn't obese, but it's certainly not thin. The day Daniel was born, I clocked in at 199. By the skin of my teeth, I missed that 200 mark. Today, 17 months and 52 pounds later, I feel good. I *think* I look good, which I've learned is much more important than actually looking good. I've never had what I would call a "positive body image." Until now. Now, I'm proud of myself and of my body. I made a baby, people. Many of you have, too, but I made a baby. I carried him for 39.857 weeks. I gave birth to him and brought him into my life, my family, and my world. I nursed him for 13 months. I have rocked, held, cuddled, carried, and otherwise lugged around that kiddo (all 28 pounds of him) for almost a year and a half. This body? It's amazing. It did all of that, shed 52 pounds, and is mine. For the first time in 30 years, I am truly happy with my body. Oh sure. I've been happy with myself for a good 29.5 of those years. But being happy with my body is another thing altogether.
So when it's 35 degrees out and going to the Y sounds like pure torture, it might be. But I'll do it. I'll be happy to do it to avoid fighting that fight again. They say the third time is a charm. I sure hope so, because right now, I'm charmed silly.
Monday, December 7, 2009
May, 2004
I used to work for a really amazing group of people. Crazy. But amazing. In May of 2004, I went to the SPBT conference, lovingly known as SPBT. For those of you who care, it's the Society of Pharmaceutical and Biotech Trainers. It was hosted in Orlando at the Dolphin/Swan hotel. At Disney. On the Boardwalk. I stayed ON the Boardwalk. Maybe that doesn't mean much (especially if you've never been there), but I think our room was $300+ a night. Youch.
I was 24, engaged to be married in 6 months, and pretty clueless as far as fancy-schmancy-ness went. This was my induction to the world of fancy-schmancy. Before SPBT started, we had massages in our hotel. Sweet. We ate at Don Schula's restaurant. It's one of those places that doesn't have prices on the menu and the menu happens to be scrawled on a football. Not that it really matters; they have to bring you a flashlight to read the "menu" anyway. One of those places where the saying goes something like, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." Well thank God those amazing people were paying, because I'd have stuck with a glass of water and a straw if I had been paying.
After we dined with Mr. Schula, the big show started. We. Worked. Our. Asses. Off. That year, we gave away pedometers as chachkis. I wore one pretty much the whole time we were there. I recall taking over 10,000 steps one day. IN our booth. IN heals. That's about 5 miles inside of a 20 foot square booth. Again, youch.
After the show was over, we had massages. This time, we went to Saratoga Springs for a day at the spa. This was my first (and last, incidentally) "day at the spa." I've been back for pedis, massages, etc., but this was different. Not that I think I ever care to relive it quite like that, but W-O-W. An hour and a half massage followed by unlimited time in the whirlpool, sauna, shower. I don't think I've ever been that relaxed at any other time in my life. Maybe I would care to relive it, come to think of it.
That night, we ate dinner at the Contemporary. It's on the top floor of a hotel, overlooking the lake where they do the nightly Disney fireworks. I don't remember the main course, but this is where I was introduced to Green Goddess salad dressing. Don't ask me how I remember all of this - I just do. I also remember the boss's daughter ooing and ahhing over the fireworks and making the statement, "There's nothing like Disney!" She was all breathy and mesmerized and maybe she was right.
I guess my point - if I have one - is that memories are just weird. Of all the days for me to commit to memory, a day at Disney with a bunch of co-workers has just somehow "stuck." Of course there are other days like this, but this one is just weird. It's nothing to do with my family, a milestone, or any other breathtaking experience. It's just one of those random experiences that's "stuck" with me for 5+ years now. If you can recall what you ate, where you ate, and exact lines of dialogue from a single day of your life, why?? Why is my gray matter wasted on this random, seemingly meaningless day? Maybe it's not all that meaningless. Maybe it has greater meaning that I'll never discover. Maybe it's just with me to remind me how frivolous life can be or to remind me that before May, 2004, I'd never heard of Green Goddess dressing, never eaten in a 5-star restaurant, and never set foot in a spa (I guess just to remind me that somewhere along the way, in May of 2004, I kind of grew up). Who knows? Maybe it's just stuck in my head and won't come out because there's a glitch in the matrix. Whatever, I think it's weird.
I was 24, engaged to be married in 6 months, and pretty clueless as far as fancy-schmancy-ness went. This was my induction to the world of fancy-schmancy. Before SPBT started, we had massages in our hotel. Sweet. We ate at Don Schula's restaurant. It's one of those places that doesn't have prices on the menu and the menu happens to be scrawled on a football. Not that it really matters; they have to bring you a flashlight to read the "menu" anyway. One of those places where the saying goes something like, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." Well thank God those amazing people were paying, because I'd have stuck with a glass of water and a straw if I had been paying.
After we dined with Mr. Schula, the big show started. We. Worked. Our. Asses. Off. That year, we gave away pedometers as chachkis. I wore one pretty much the whole time we were there. I recall taking over 10,000 steps one day. IN our booth. IN heals. That's about 5 miles inside of a 20 foot square booth. Again, youch.
After the show was over, we had massages. This time, we went to Saratoga Springs for a day at the spa. This was my first (and last, incidentally) "day at the spa." I've been back for pedis, massages, etc., but this was different. Not that I think I ever care to relive it quite like that, but W-O-W. An hour and a half massage followed by unlimited time in the whirlpool, sauna, shower. I don't think I've ever been that relaxed at any other time in my life. Maybe I would care to relive it, come to think of it.
That night, we ate dinner at the Contemporary. It's on the top floor of a hotel, overlooking the lake where they do the nightly Disney fireworks. I don't remember the main course, but this is where I was introduced to Green Goddess salad dressing. Don't ask me how I remember all of this - I just do. I also remember the boss's daughter ooing and ahhing over the fireworks and making the statement, "There's nothing like Disney!" She was all breathy and mesmerized and maybe she was right.
I guess my point - if I have one - is that memories are just weird. Of all the days for me to commit to memory, a day at Disney with a bunch of co-workers has just somehow "stuck." Of course there are other days like this, but this one is just weird. It's nothing to do with my family, a milestone, or any other breathtaking experience. It's just one of those random experiences that's "stuck" with me for 5+ years now. If you can recall what you ate, where you ate, and exact lines of dialogue from a single day of your life, why?? Why is my gray matter wasted on this random, seemingly meaningless day? Maybe it's not all that meaningless. Maybe it has greater meaning that I'll never discover. Maybe it's just with me to remind me how frivolous life can be or to remind me that before May, 2004, I'd never heard of Green Goddess dressing, never eaten in a 5-star restaurant, and never set foot in a spa (I guess just to remind me that somewhere along the way, in May of 2004, I kind of grew up). Who knows? Maybe it's just stuck in my head and won't come out because there's a glitch in the matrix. Whatever, I think it's weird.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thank you note
Dear God,
Thanks! For a lot of things, but most recently, for December 4, 2009. The earliest snow EVER in Houston? What'd we do to deserve that? I know that You tend to bless Doug and I with snow when we make HUGE, scary decisions. Our first married Christmas Eve we had snow. The first year with Daniel we had snow. And now, our first year in our new house - SNOW! I guess maybe that's what we did to deserve snow so early. We trusted You, clung to our faith, and made big decisions about our home and our life together. Maybe that was it; maybe not. I'd like to believe that's the case.
December 4, 2009, was an AWESOME day, one I'll likely not soon (if ever) forget. Daniel and I had a great time hanging out in the window sill, playing with trucks, and watching the snow. Despite the painfully short nap of that day, Daniel was in the best mood, especially when Doug got to come home from work early. THANKS!
THANKS for homemade chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate. Or more appropriately, thanks for the opportunity to live in a place where we can run to the grocery on a whim to pick up necessary ingredients for a warm, cozy night in during a winter storm. Thanks for making our toughest decision of the day "Nestle or Kroger brand?" Thanks for giving us the gift of freedom, or more appropriately, the gift of choice that allows us to maintain our freedom.
I know I spend a lot of time asking for things - for sleep, for forgiveness, for an empty seat on a plane. I spend a lot of time begging for things - healing for others, strength to get through a rough day, Your blessing on a decision I was stupid enough to make without consulting You first. I don't spend nearly enough time saying thank You. I don't spend nearly enough time reflecting on the hundreds of thousands of blessings that You pour out each and every day. I don't spend nearly enough time in prayer period. So while it's on my mind, while I'm moved to humility, and while I have a minute to stop and focus on the things I ought to be thankful for, thanks.
I love you and I can't wait to see what's next,
sheri
Thanks! For a lot of things, but most recently, for December 4, 2009. The earliest snow EVER in Houston? What'd we do to deserve that? I know that You tend to bless Doug and I with snow when we make HUGE, scary decisions. Our first married Christmas Eve we had snow. The first year with Daniel we had snow. And now, our first year in our new house - SNOW! I guess maybe that's what we did to deserve snow so early. We trusted You, clung to our faith, and made big decisions about our home and our life together. Maybe that was it; maybe not. I'd like to believe that's the case.
December 4, 2009, was an AWESOME day, one I'll likely not soon (if ever) forget. Daniel and I had a great time hanging out in the window sill, playing with trucks, and watching the snow. Despite the painfully short nap of that day, Daniel was in the best mood, especially when Doug got to come home from work early. THANKS!
THANKS for homemade chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate. Or more appropriately, thanks for the opportunity to live in a place where we can run to the grocery on a whim to pick up necessary ingredients for a warm, cozy night in during a winter storm. Thanks for making our toughest decision of the day "Nestle or Kroger brand?" Thanks for giving us the gift of freedom, or more appropriately, the gift of choice that allows us to maintain our freedom.
I know I spend a lot of time asking for things - for sleep, for forgiveness, for an empty seat on a plane. I spend a lot of time begging for things - healing for others, strength to get through a rough day, Your blessing on a decision I was stupid enough to make without consulting You first. I don't spend nearly enough time saying thank You. I don't spend nearly enough time reflecting on the hundreds of thousands of blessings that You pour out each and every day. I don't spend nearly enough time in prayer period. So while it's on my mind, while I'm moved to humility, and while I have a minute to stop and focus on the things I ought to be thankful for, thanks.
I love you and I can't wait to see what's next,
sheri
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Pollyanna
Do you ever have days where you feel like you just can't do anything right? You get out of bed, expecting a normal day and WHAM! You get smacked in the face, full on, with a day full of bleck. Today was one of those days. I won't dwell on the details, just the way the day made me feel.
All day long, I tried to have a positive attitude. Despite the hour of hysterical screaming that Daniel put up while resisting his nap, I never cried. I prayed, I thought I might cry, and I held my head in my hands a lot. But I just keeping thinking to myself - this isn't THAT bad. I could be at work and Daniel could be in the hands of a much less caring person while in this frenzied state. He could be screaming for a ton of other reasons, none of which I really care to think about. I decided to thank God for the opportunity to be at home with Daniel. I thanked Him for Daniel's health (and for the fact that this has never happened before). I asked Him to wash over me with serenity, to ease Daniel's discomfort (or hysteria, as the case may be). He answered some prayers, ignored others, and said "You're welcome" for a few in between. I'll take what I can get.
At 3:00, I realized that a nap wasn't happening and I should just make the best of it. I did. We went to the park. We played with a truck. I even let Daniel read the notice we got from FEMA. I'm not sure what it said - and now I'll probably never know - because Daniel crumpled it beyond recognition. At 3:00, I also decided that wine was in order; as soon as little man was down for bed, of course. But alas. Daniel is in bed, my stomach is in knots (from fighting the urge to join in the hysteria and do a little screaming myself, I'm afraid), and wine doesn't even sound like a solution anymore.
Perhaps after a long, scalding shower, things will seem a little less hazy. I'm already feeling better as I purge the day through my fingertips and listen to the whir-whir-whir of the dishwasher. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps it won't. At least I know that whatever tomorrow brings, I can be thankful for many, many things, even if I could do without the hysteria.
All day long, I tried to have a positive attitude. Despite the hour of hysterical screaming that Daniel put up while resisting his nap, I never cried. I prayed, I thought I might cry, and I held my head in my hands a lot. But I just keeping thinking to myself - this isn't THAT bad. I could be at work and Daniel could be in the hands of a much less caring person while in this frenzied state. He could be screaming for a ton of other reasons, none of which I really care to think about. I decided to thank God for the opportunity to be at home with Daniel. I thanked Him for Daniel's health (and for the fact that this has never happened before). I asked Him to wash over me with serenity, to ease Daniel's discomfort (or hysteria, as the case may be). He answered some prayers, ignored others, and said "You're welcome" for a few in between. I'll take what I can get.
At 3:00, I realized that a nap wasn't happening and I should just make the best of it. I did. We went to the park. We played with a truck. I even let Daniel read the notice we got from FEMA. I'm not sure what it said - and now I'll probably never know - because Daniel crumpled it beyond recognition. At 3:00, I also decided that wine was in order; as soon as little man was down for bed, of course. But alas. Daniel is in bed, my stomach is in knots (from fighting the urge to join in the hysteria and do a little screaming myself, I'm afraid), and wine doesn't even sound like a solution anymore.
Perhaps after a long, scalding shower, things will seem a little less hazy. I'm already feeling better as I purge the day through my fingertips and listen to the whir-whir-whir of the dishwasher. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps it won't. At least I know that whatever tomorrow brings, I can be thankful for many, many things, even if I could do without the hysteria.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Words, words, words
Watching Daniel learn new things is a truly rewarding and hilarious experience. It's hard to remember the look of recognition from his very early days. I remember distinctly a few major milestones. The first time he said Mama, the first time he said Dada, the first time he rolled over, and of course, his first step. There are other intermediate things that just sort of morphed into being. Like crawling. He scooted and scrambled and slid all around until it all just sort of happened for him.
But now. . . wow. Now it's like "Eureka!! I GET IT!" Last night at dinner, we were having fettuccine alfredo. Daniel was sitting in his chair, eating and being quiet, and suddenly he shouted, "I got noodles!" Doug and I laughed. A lot. What a goofy kid. He got noodles, alright. Last weekend, my parents brought Dasha and Maddie home after their stay at Gram and Gramps' house. Dasha was SO excited to be home. She was jumping and twirling and acting like a maniac. Doug and I both shouted, "Dasha Leigh!!!" to get her attention. Daniel, up until this point, had only referred to her as Dash. Now he runs around behind her shouting, "Lasha Dee! Lasha Dee!" So incredibly cute.
Other things aren't as concrete as noodles and Dasha Leigh. Concepts, for example. Like sharing. He knows that when two people want the same thing, they have to share. How they go about doing it is still pretty lost on him. A few weeks back, Daniel had a fire truck that Will wanted. Will was trying to take the fire truck. Daniel didn't want him to. "Share! Share! SHARE!" he shouted at Will until Will gave up and decided to play with an ambulance. Last weekend, we had the whole Rem family over for dinner. Will had Daniel's mower. Daniel wanted his mower. This time, Daniel was much more forceful about it. He ran up to Will, tackled him, took the mower, and said very resolutely, "Share." Holy cow. He gets it, but not really.
One that I'm waiting - waiting oh-so patiently - for, is I love you. I tell Daniel I love him at least four thousand times a day. I know he could say it if he wanted to. I just don't think he quite gets what it means. He hugs me, kisses me, pats my back, and snuggles with me. I know he loves me. But to hear him say it. . . oh what a day that will be. I have to wonder if his little mind needs to wrap around the whole concept of love before he'll say it. Whatever it takes, I'm ready. I'm ready for him to tackle me, knock me over, beat me over the head, and say, "I love you!" with as much enthusiasm as he does when he got noodles, or a fire truck for that matter.
But now. . . wow. Now it's like "Eureka!! I GET IT!" Last night at dinner, we were having fettuccine alfredo. Daniel was sitting in his chair, eating and being quiet, and suddenly he shouted, "I got noodles!" Doug and I laughed. A lot. What a goofy kid. He got noodles, alright. Last weekend, my parents brought Dasha and Maddie home after their stay at Gram and Gramps' house. Dasha was SO excited to be home. She was jumping and twirling and acting like a maniac. Doug and I both shouted, "Dasha Leigh!!!" to get her attention. Daniel, up until this point, had only referred to her as Dash. Now he runs around behind her shouting, "Lasha Dee! Lasha Dee!" So incredibly cute.
Other things aren't as concrete as noodles and Dasha Leigh. Concepts, for example. Like sharing. He knows that when two people want the same thing, they have to share. How they go about doing it is still pretty lost on him. A few weeks back, Daniel had a fire truck that Will wanted. Will was trying to take the fire truck. Daniel didn't want him to. "Share! Share! SHARE!" he shouted at Will until Will gave up and decided to play with an ambulance. Last weekend, we had the whole Rem family over for dinner. Will had Daniel's mower. Daniel wanted his mower. This time, Daniel was much more forceful about it. He ran up to Will, tackled him, took the mower, and said very resolutely, "Share." Holy cow. He gets it, but not really.
One that I'm waiting - waiting oh-so patiently - for, is I love you. I tell Daniel I love him at least four thousand times a day. I know he could say it if he wanted to. I just don't think he quite gets what it means. He hugs me, kisses me, pats my back, and snuggles with me. I know he loves me. But to hear him say it. . . oh what a day that will be. I have to wonder if his little mind needs to wrap around the whole concept of love before he'll say it. Whatever it takes, I'm ready. I'm ready for him to tackle me, knock me over, beat me over the head, and say, "I love you!" with as much enthusiasm as he does when he got noodles, or a fire truck for that matter.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Future post
I really want to post about language development and my toddler, but time isn't on my side. One day soon - likely next Wednesday - I'm going to tell all kinds of great stories about Daniel, word recognition, and understanding concepts. It sounds all clinical and boring, but I promise it'll garner at least a chuckle or two. Happy Thanksgiving!!!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
not much to say
I'm really in the mood to write. It's cathartic for me. It's really a shame I don't have much to say. What to do? Do I just ignore the urge and go read a book? Ramble on about what's happening in my life until something seems noteworthy? Ctrl + a and delete? I don't know. I haven't decided.
I used to think James Joyce was really, really weird. Stream of consciousness just seemed like a pitiful excuse for a writing style. Then I read Araby and I fell in love. I even thought that Araby would be a great name, for a while. Araby Rain, as a matter of fact. Now that I'm an adult (and a mother), I've changed my mind about that. James Joyce is now one of my favorite authors and oddly enough, stream of consciousness sits quite well with me. I guess nights like tonight are exactly why.
I can completely understand the need - or at least the yearning - to write. It's creative, and not just in the "I'd like to pretend I'm eclectic so I claim I can write" sort of way. Creative in the "I'm just stringing together letters, words, and eventually sentences and wow - look at that - they make a story" sort of way. Hence, I created something. I guess if I never come into my muse, if I never come across a story worth telling a thousand times over, I could follow Mr. Joyce's lead and ramble for a while.
I hope that one day my muse does find me. I can picture it. . . sort of. In my head, it's not grandiose. It's not a dream. It's not even a real experience that I can tell a story about. In my head, I'm sitting idle, in between tasks if you will. Let's say at a stop light or perhaps in an airport terminal. As easily as I can lose myself in a novel, I'm lost in my own thoughts. BAM! There it is. The whole story. Characters. Plot. Outline. Irony. Undetermined literary devices. I can really see it happening- snap - just like that. The outline will unfold on the back of a Continental Airlines "what to do if this plane crashes" pamphlet that I will shamelessly steal at the end of the flight. The characters names will be recorded as a note in my cell phone, later to be Googled to make sure they aren't porn stars. The plot? Well. Maybe it will write itself. Maybe it will be in my head, begging to come out. Maybe it will be half written in shorthand on my itinerary, barely legible. But for now, I'll just meander through my own thoughts and be satisfied that I got to write, even if just for a minute or two.
I used to think James Joyce was really, really weird. Stream of consciousness just seemed like a pitiful excuse for a writing style. Then I read Araby and I fell in love. I even thought that Araby would be a great name, for a while. Araby Rain, as a matter of fact. Now that I'm an adult (and a mother), I've changed my mind about that. James Joyce is now one of my favorite authors and oddly enough, stream of consciousness sits quite well with me. I guess nights like tonight are exactly why.
I can completely understand the need - or at least the yearning - to write. It's creative, and not just in the "I'd like to pretend I'm eclectic so I claim I can write" sort of way. Creative in the "I'm just stringing together letters, words, and eventually sentences and wow - look at that - they make a story" sort of way. Hence, I created something. I guess if I never come into my muse, if I never come across a story worth telling a thousand times over, I could follow Mr. Joyce's lead and ramble for a while.
I hope that one day my muse does find me. I can picture it. . . sort of. In my head, it's not grandiose. It's not a dream. It's not even a real experience that I can tell a story about. In my head, I'm sitting idle, in between tasks if you will. Let's say at a stop light or perhaps in an airport terminal. As easily as I can lose myself in a novel, I'm lost in my own thoughts. BAM! There it is. The whole story. Characters. Plot. Outline. Irony. Undetermined literary devices. I can really see it happening- snap - just like that. The outline will unfold on the back of a Continental Airlines "what to do if this plane crashes" pamphlet that I will shamelessly steal at the end of the flight. The characters names will be recorded as a note in my cell phone, later to be Googled to make sure they aren't porn stars. The plot? Well. Maybe it will write itself. Maybe it will be in my head, begging to come out. Maybe it will be half written in shorthand on my itinerary, barely legible. But for now, I'll just meander through my own thoughts and be satisfied that I got to write, even if just for a minute or two.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The luck stops here
Doug has what we like to call good-bad luck. The kind of luck where you're unlucky enough to be rear-ended by a drunk driver and have your car shorn in two but lucky enough to walk away with a smidge of whiplash. The kind of luck where bad things happen but no lasting damage occurs. Or at least, the bad thing could have been and probably should have been much, much worse.
Well, Doug brought that good-bad luck into our marriage and sadly, it will probably carry on to the rest of our family. The Careys have had a good run of good-bad luck lately, but I'm going out on a limb and saying that the luck stops here. If it doesn't, God help us! Well, God helps us anyway, but you know what I mean.
To kick off our run, I got a call from our windstorm insurance agent. For those of you who don't live in a wind zone in Texas, it's something you have to have when you live close enough to the coast to be heavily affected by a hurricane or "cyclonic weather event," as they like to call them now. The previous owners of our home had a new roof installed in January = good luck. The previous owners A.) chose a roofer who was not licensed in the state of Texas and B.) did not file the appropriate paperwork with the state to obtain a WPI-8, which you must have to carry your required windstorm insurance = bad luck. At any rate, we had to have an engineer inspect our roof to deem it windstorm worthy. That cost us $250 = bad luck. The repairs to bring us up to code cost us $500 = this one is iffy. Our roofer told us that the engineer could have "called" the whole roof, which would have cost several thousand to replace = good luck. Whew!!
I took my car in last August to have the tires rotated and haven't been back since. I know, I know. Terribly irresponsible of me. A few weeks ago, I loaded Daniel and the stroller into the car, headed to Discount Tire to have the tires rotated, and then walked to Chick-fil-a. I got a call from Sean. Sean said that my front tires were in such bad shape that he wouldn't rotate them = bad luck. Doug and I talked about it and decided that this was definitely a must-have. It just won't do to have mama and baby riding around on bald tires. Sean cut us a decent deal and thankfully, we only needed the two tires = good luck. That would cost us $300 = bad luck. But then we sold our old fridge and an old stroller/car seat combo on craigslist and made $240 = good luck.
Surely you get my point, but here's where the luck stops. The computer. Oh poor, abused computer. It was Doug's Christmas gift 3 years ago. Good machine. Paid a lot for it. Works like a beast. Last Wednesday, it went kaplooie = bad luck. We took it to EPO and had a diagnostic run. EPO man didn't see or hear anything that indicated that the hard drive was shot = good luck. We rebuilt the partition and lost everything = bad luck. It still didn't work = really bad luck. Doug had a flash of brilliance, cleaned the dog hair out of the tower casing, tried again, and it worked = GREAT luck! We almost spent $680 on a new laptop at Best Buy, but Doug didn't give up on the problem and voila! We had a near miss that could have set us back another several hundred dollars.
I'm not sure what lesson God's teaching us with all of this. Obedience? God is my provider? God helps those who help themselves? Luck really isn't luck at all - I know that. It really comes down to blessings and lessons. The blessings, I completely understand, recognize, and appreciate (most of the time, at least). The lessons? Still a little vague. And while I would love to know the subject matter before the lecture, God doesn't work that way and neither does life.
Well, Doug brought that good-bad luck into our marriage and sadly, it will probably carry on to the rest of our family. The Careys have had a good run of good-bad luck lately, but I'm going out on a limb and saying that the luck stops here. If it doesn't, God help us! Well, God helps us anyway, but you know what I mean.
To kick off our run, I got a call from our windstorm insurance agent. For those of you who don't live in a wind zone in Texas, it's something you have to have when you live close enough to the coast to be heavily affected by a hurricane or "cyclonic weather event," as they like to call them now. The previous owners of our home had a new roof installed in January = good luck. The previous owners A.) chose a roofer who was not licensed in the state of Texas and B.) did not file the appropriate paperwork with the state to obtain a WPI-8, which you must have to carry your required windstorm insurance = bad luck. At any rate, we had to have an engineer inspect our roof to deem it windstorm worthy. That cost us $250 = bad luck. The repairs to bring us up to code cost us $500 = this one is iffy. Our roofer told us that the engineer could have "called" the whole roof, which would have cost several thousand to replace = good luck. Whew!!
I took my car in last August to have the tires rotated and haven't been back since. I know, I know. Terribly irresponsible of me. A few weeks ago, I loaded Daniel and the stroller into the car, headed to Discount Tire to have the tires rotated, and then walked to Chick-fil-a. I got a call from Sean. Sean said that my front tires were in such bad shape that he wouldn't rotate them = bad luck. Doug and I talked about it and decided that this was definitely a must-have. It just won't do to have mama and baby riding around on bald tires. Sean cut us a decent deal and thankfully, we only needed the two tires = good luck. That would cost us $300 = bad luck. But then we sold our old fridge and an old stroller/car seat combo on craigslist and made $240 = good luck.
Surely you get my point, but here's where the luck stops. The computer. Oh poor, abused computer. It was Doug's Christmas gift 3 years ago. Good machine. Paid a lot for it. Works like a beast. Last Wednesday, it went kaplooie = bad luck. We took it to EPO and had a diagnostic run. EPO man didn't see or hear anything that indicated that the hard drive was shot = good luck. We rebuilt the partition and lost everything = bad luck. It still didn't work = really bad luck. Doug had a flash of brilliance, cleaned the dog hair out of the tower casing, tried again, and it worked = GREAT luck! We almost spent $680 on a new laptop at Best Buy, but Doug didn't give up on the problem and voila! We had a near miss that could have set us back another several hundred dollars.
I'm not sure what lesson God's teaching us with all of this. Obedience? God is my provider? God helps those who help themselves? Luck really isn't luck at all - I know that. It really comes down to blessings and lessons. The blessings, I completely understand, recognize, and appreciate (most of the time, at least). The lessons? Still a little vague. And while I would love to know the subject matter before the lecture, God doesn't work that way and neither does life.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Undeserving
I was having a bad day. Week. I was having a bad week. Daniel's just been. . . not himself. He's been cranky and demanding and moody. I haven't had much of a break. I've run the cleaner seven times this week. Not because my floors are dirty, but because Daniel insists that I run the cleaner every so often. He likes mowers, too, but I'm not about to mow the grass several times a day. No Mother's Day Out compounded with terrible weather and a cranky child has made for a rough week.
Today. . . ugh. Today. Up early. Short nap. Lots of whining. Lots of demands. Three dirty diapers during a two-hour playdate. I was frustrated. I was really looking forward to an early bedtime. I was really, really looking forward to making myself dinner, eating it alone, and enjoying the silence. Daniel had different ideas. Daniel wasn't ready for bed. He threw his puppy and his dragon out of the crib and stood crying at the rail. I was half-tempted to let him cry it out but decided that he'd never get to sleep without Oliver, the dragon, and I drug myself down the hall to go calm him down.
I guess he just wanted to be held. As soon as I picked him up, he was fine. I decided to rock him for a bit, just because I felt like he needed it. Little did I know, I was the one who needed it. Here I am - frustrated, tired, ready for some alone time - and I'm rocking my baby. I'm praying for patience. Praying for God to take away my frustrations. Praying for strength and for my own peace. About the time I stopped feeling sorry for myself, Daniel wrapped his hands around my wrist and pressed the palm of my hand against his chest. He squeezed me; hard enough to really hold me but gentle enough to still be sweet. I cried. My heart swelled up to three times its normal size, my eyes stung, my conscience reeled, and I cried. I rested my cheek against his head and tried not to get any tears on him. I stopped asking God for mercy and started thanking him for everything I could name.
I guess in the midst of a rough week, I lost sight of how blessed - truly blessed - I really am. Whatever I did to deserve my station in life, it wasn't enough. I can't recall having ever done anything to deserve such a wonderful, fulfilling existence. Whatever it was, I'm grateful for it. I certainly don't deserve it, but I sure do appreciate it.
Today. . . ugh. Today. Up early. Short nap. Lots of whining. Lots of demands. Three dirty diapers during a two-hour playdate. I was frustrated. I was really looking forward to an early bedtime. I was really, really looking forward to making myself dinner, eating it alone, and enjoying the silence. Daniel had different ideas. Daniel wasn't ready for bed. He threw his puppy and his dragon out of the crib and stood crying at the rail. I was half-tempted to let him cry it out but decided that he'd never get to sleep without Oliver, the dragon, and I drug myself down the hall to go calm him down.
I guess he just wanted to be held. As soon as I picked him up, he was fine. I decided to rock him for a bit, just because I felt like he needed it. Little did I know, I was the one who needed it. Here I am - frustrated, tired, ready for some alone time - and I'm rocking my baby. I'm praying for patience. Praying for God to take away my frustrations. Praying for strength and for my own peace. About the time I stopped feeling sorry for myself, Daniel wrapped his hands around my wrist and pressed the palm of my hand against his chest. He squeezed me; hard enough to really hold me but gentle enough to still be sweet. I cried. My heart swelled up to three times its normal size, my eyes stung, my conscience reeled, and I cried. I rested my cheek against his head and tried not to get any tears on him. I stopped asking God for mercy and started thanking him for everything I could name.
I guess in the midst of a rough week, I lost sight of how blessed - truly blessed - I really am. Whatever I did to deserve my station in life, it wasn't enough. I can't recall having ever done anything to deserve such a wonderful, fulfilling existence. Whatever it was, I'm grateful for it. I certainly don't deserve it, but I sure do appreciate it.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
What's in a name?
What is in a name? A lot, apparently. I was thinking about names today, because I was thinking about babies. Not because I'm pregnant - or even trying to get that way - but I'm always thinking about babies. I think I drive Doug nuts with that, but that's another blog for another day. Anywho, I was thinking about names that would sound good with Daniel. When you have a second child (or third, fourth, or fifth child), you can't just worry about how his or her name sounds by itself. You have to worry about how your family's names sound spoken together. When I was pregnant, I yelled Daniel's full name a few times, just to make sure it was one of those attention-getting names. When we have a second one, I'll have to yell their names together. "Daniel and ___! Get down here this minute!" It won't do for me to get tongue-tied while trying to chastise my children. And no, I'm not only concerned with how their names will sound when I'm yelling. Merry Christmas! Love, the Careys - Doug, Sheri, Daniel, and _____. This _____ is important.
Ironically enough, almost every name we had on our previous list of names has been "taken" by one of Daniel's little buddies. Caleb was the last name we struck from the list when we finally decided on Daniel. Just before that, it was Will. Caleb and Will just happen to be two of Daniel's really good friends. Not that we can't have a Caleb or Will of our very own, it would just be confusing. So how about Jacob? Ethan? David? Huh. Scratch David. We'd have way too many D Careys running around. See what I mean? But I digress.
When I was thinking about names, I was thinking about how glad I was to be Mrs. Sheri Carey. Oh of course most of that has to do with how much I love my husband, what a wonderful man and father he is, and how happy I am to be with him. But wow. I started thinking about all of the other Sheri _____s I could have been. Good thing I married Doug. Sheri Young? That sounds terrible. Sheri Lopez - I had already endured months and months of She-Lo jokes as it was. I may have shot myself before that one was over. Sheri Chappa? That's just wrong. Sheri Rodriguez? I can't even spell Rodriguez.
So what is in a name? Letters. Sounds. Syllables. And lots and lots of hard work, if your mother was crazy, as I happen to be. If your mother was diligent enough to Google your name to make sure you weren't destined to be a porn star or a semi-famous criminal, made sure your initials didn't spell anything weird and weren't taken by an oil and gas company, and worked really hard to make sure your name just rolled off the tongue, there's a lot of thought and effort in your name. My name? It's just hilarious. Laugh all ya want - I love it.
Ironically enough, almost every name we had on our previous list of names has been "taken" by one of Daniel's little buddies. Caleb was the last name we struck from the list when we finally decided on Daniel. Just before that, it was Will. Caleb and Will just happen to be two of Daniel's really good friends. Not that we can't have a Caleb or Will of our very own, it would just be confusing. So how about Jacob? Ethan? David? Huh. Scratch David. We'd have way too many D Careys running around. See what I mean? But I digress.
When I was thinking about names, I was thinking about how glad I was to be Mrs. Sheri Carey. Oh of course most of that has to do with how much I love my husband, what a wonderful man and father he is, and how happy I am to be with him. But wow. I started thinking about all of the other Sheri _____s I could have been. Good thing I married Doug. Sheri Young? That sounds terrible. Sheri Lopez - I had already endured months and months of She-Lo jokes as it was. I may have shot myself before that one was over. Sheri Chappa? That's just wrong. Sheri Rodriguez? I can't even spell Rodriguez.
So what is in a name? Letters. Sounds. Syllables. And lots and lots of hard work, if your mother was crazy, as I happen to be. If your mother was diligent enough to Google your name to make sure you weren't destined to be a porn star or a semi-famous criminal, made sure your initials didn't spell anything weird and weren't taken by an oil and gas company, and worked really hard to make sure your name just rolled off the tongue, there's a lot of thought and effort in your name. My name? It's just hilarious. Laugh all ya want - I love it.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Reminders
Isn't it strange how certain things can take you to a specific place and time? Certain songs or smells or tastes or maybe just a phrase uttered in just such a way? I opened a new bottle of bath gel today and was instantly transported to the Bath and Body Works at Baybrook Mall circa 1992. Back in those days, the mall was what you did on a Friday night. You piled into Cheri Bouldin's minivan, sang Meatloaf at the top of your lungs on the 5-minute ride to the mall, and then meandered around in circles until the van pulled up outside the door by Cinnabon to pick you up. See what I mean? One whiff of bath gel and BAM! I was 13 years old, all over again.
I remember one particular Friday, we decided to see how many store managers would ask us to leave. We didn't do anything destructive; we just acted like idiots, talked loudly, and said inappropriate things. I don't remember how many times we were "kicked out," but I do remember about 6 of us getting "stuck" in the tube in the children's section at a book store. By "stuck," I mean that 6 teenagers piled into the tube and then got the giggles and couldn't stop giggling long enough to pry ourselves out. All of this from bath gel. . .
Other reminders are a little more vague. Like dry pine needles, patchouli oil, and turkey legs. Three guesses and the first two don't count. Give up? Ren Fest. Nothing special about it, just Ren Fest. The first real cold front of the fall leaves me on the front porch of my apartment in college, hands shoved in my hoodie, cigarette hanging from my lips, mind wandering someplace likely dangerous. The feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you've run too hard for too long? That's a good one. I'm on a random country road in Seguin, sweat pouring in my eyes, ringing in my ears, thoughts of strangling a certain softball coach running through my mind. It was the first day of off-season my Freshman year. I will not soon forget.
Other reminders are so ambiguous they're hard to pinpoint. I think that's because they're more emotional than temporal. For instance, the smell of Daniel's hair after a bath.My heart swells with love and pride and a whole concoction of emotions that I haven't even named. My mind races through the last 15 months with a pace so swift that I can't even single out any of the stops along the way.
Memories are truly amazing. When I'm old, withered, and gray, I won't look back on life and remember how much I had in my bank account on any given day. I won't have a clue what I had for dinner two days before. I probably won't even be able to tell you that Doug only eats strawberry preserves on his PB&J sandwiches. But God willing, I'll take a deep breath, catch a whiff of a clean baby, and I'll be young. I'll be 30, sitting in my living room with my baby on my lap. I'll be reading him a book, probably about dragons. I'll kiss his hair, take a deep breath, and know that life never did get any better.
I remember one particular Friday, we decided to see how many store managers would ask us to leave. We didn't do anything destructive; we just acted like idiots, talked loudly, and said inappropriate things. I don't remember how many times we were "kicked out," but I do remember about 6 of us getting "stuck" in the tube in the children's section at a book store. By "stuck," I mean that 6 teenagers piled into the tube and then got the giggles and couldn't stop giggling long enough to pry ourselves out. All of this from bath gel. . .
Other reminders are a little more vague. Like dry pine needles, patchouli oil, and turkey legs. Three guesses and the first two don't count. Give up? Ren Fest. Nothing special about it, just Ren Fest. The first real cold front of the fall leaves me on the front porch of my apartment in college, hands shoved in my hoodie, cigarette hanging from my lips, mind wandering someplace likely dangerous. The feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you've run too hard for too long? That's a good one. I'm on a random country road in Seguin, sweat pouring in my eyes, ringing in my ears, thoughts of strangling a certain softball coach running through my mind. It was the first day of off-season my Freshman year. I will not soon forget.
Other reminders are so ambiguous they're hard to pinpoint. I think that's because they're more emotional than temporal. For instance, the smell of Daniel's hair after a bath.
Memories are truly amazing. When I'm old, withered, and gray, I won't look back on life and remember how much I had in my bank account on any given day. I won't have a clue what I had for dinner two days before. I probably won't even be able to tell you that Doug only eats strawberry preserves on his PB&J sandwiches. But God willing, I'll take a deep breath, catch a whiff of a clean baby, and I'll be young. I'll be 30, sitting in my living room with my baby on my lap. I'll be reading him a book, probably about dragons. I'll kiss his hair, take a deep breath, and know that life never did get any better.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Pedis, sushi, and martinis - oh my!
This weekend, Summer helped me celebrate my birthday. Again. What I really wanted from Doug was a pedicure. I've been trying to arrange a pedi/sushi playdate for weeks now. It just so happened that Summer and I were able to convince our better halves to take our little ones for a couple of hours so that we could have some mommy time and it just so happened to be one week after the big three-oh. Perfect timing.
One would think I would take care of mommy time during Mother's Day Out (MDO). Haha. Hoho. Heehee. . . MDO isn't about mommy AT ALL. MDO is about Daniel learning to be with other kids and about mommy cleaning houses to earn enough money to make sure Daniel is able to learn to be with other kids. Point being, mommy time? It's never been this glamorous. In fact, the last mommy time I had was in May. Doug "watched" Daniel so I could go for my Mother's Day pedi. By "watched," I mean he read a book at the beach house while Daniel napped. The entire time I was gone. What a crock. All of this to illustrate just how precious (and rare) mommy time really is.
Our men - God bless them - took our boys to the zoo. Not only did that account for 4 hours of mommy time, it also provided a 3-hour nap. And because they were on a man-date themselves (insert polite laughter here), Summer and I were actually able to relax, take our time, and not maniacally rush to get back home to our respective children.
My, she was my pedicurist, was niiiiice. Not because My did a better job than other pedicurists I've had, but because she had ADD. She got stuck watching some Lifetime movie during the massage part of my pedi. Talk about perfect timing. My brought me a glass of chilled red wine, didn't bother me at all, and didn't spend half of my pedicure jabbering to her fellow pedicurists in a language I don't understand. I think I'll ask for My next time, provided Lifetime is showing something worth watching.
After our oh-so-relaxing pedis, Summer and I sauntered down to Masa Sushi. I use saunter literally. We were pretty relaxed. Summer - God bless her - bought me a Blue Lilac martini for my birthday. Word. And yum. If I ever make it back to Masa Sushi, thank you sir - I'll have another. After an hour plus of sipping martinis, eating sushi, and talking about nothing important at all, our men called en route with sleeping babies.
If my day sounds delightful, it was. If it sounds like the rest of my life pales in comparison, it doesn't. Days like this, though they may be very few and very far between (if ever repeated), make me a better mother, wife, and daughter. They force me to slow down, relax (not one of my strong suits), and focus on enjoying the finer points of life. They remind me just how much I cherish every moment with Daniel, especially the moments when he winds up with cheesy scrambled eggs stuck to the bottom of his foot, dragging himself around the kitchen, trying desperately to find a position that will allow him to feed the dog the eggs and the cheese. Days like this are something to look forward to and something to look back on, but certainly nothing to live for. Cheesy eggs and bare feet? That's something worth remembering.
One would think I would take care of mommy time during Mother's Day Out (MDO). Haha. Hoho. Heehee. . .
Our men - God bless them - took our boys to the zoo. Not only did that account for 4 hours of mommy time, it also provided a 3-hour nap. And because they were on a man-date themselves (insert polite laughter here), Summer and I were actually able to relax, take our time, and not maniacally rush to get back home to our respective children.
My, she was my pedicurist, was niiiiice. Not because My did a better job than other pedicurists I've had, but because she had ADD. She got stuck watching some Lifetime movie during the massage part of my pedi. Talk about perfect timing. My brought me a glass of chilled red wine, didn't bother me at all, and didn't spend half of my pedicure jabbering to her fellow pedicurists in a language I don't understand. I think I'll ask for My next time, provided Lifetime is showing something worth watching.
After our oh-so-relaxing pedis, Summer and I sauntered down to Masa Sushi. I use saunter literally. We were pretty relaxed. Summer - God bless her - bought me a Blue Lilac martini for my birthday. Word. And yum. If I ever make it back to Masa Sushi, thank you sir - I'll have another. After an hour plus of sipping martinis, eating sushi, and talking about nothing important at all, our men called en route with sleeping babies.
If my day sounds delightful, it was. If it sounds like the rest of my life pales in comparison, it doesn't. Days like this, though they may be very few and very far between (if ever repeated), make me a better mother, wife, and daughter. They force me to slow down, relax (not one of my strong suits), and focus on enjoying the finer points of life. They remind me just how much I cherish every moment with Daniel, especially the moments when he winds up with cheesy scrambled eggs stuck to the bottom of his foot, dragging himself around the kitchen, trying desperately to find a position that will allow him to feed the dog the eggs and the cheese. Days like this are something to look forward to and something to look back on, but certainly nothing to live for. Cheesy eggs and bare feet? That's something worth remembering.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
What a week!
It's 7:07 on Wednesday night. Thus far, I have: 1.) taken my Mother's Day Out to 2.) clean my parents' old house; 3.) taken Daniel to Hermann Park to 4.) ride the train, 5.) pretend to eat a picnic lunch, and 6.) splash wildly in the fountain at Hermann Park; 7.) dealt with a bloody mouth (which turned out to be a bitten tongue); 8.) killed a flying cockroach (shudder); 9.) driven to Cypress and back; and 10.) had a nearly napless day. Holy smokes. What a week.
My father-in-law sent me an e-card for my (gasp) thirtieth birthday. The card was sweet, but his note was really, really sweet. He reminded me that I will look back some day, and realize there are no bad days! Only some that are outstanding... It occurred to me that (gasp again), he's almost 100% right. When I worked, I had what I called "red X" days. Anytime I had a day so tragic and terrible that I felt like I wanted to quit my job, I marked that day on the calendar with a giant red X. If the red Xes ever outnumbered the blank white boxes, I knew it was time to hang up my red pen and move on down the road. I worked for six-and-a-half years, almost to the day. I'm certain that I had at least one red x day every quarter. Strangely, I can only remember one of them.
Three days into my week, I can list 10 "significant" things that have happened. Next week, I may remember four (namely the train, the picnic, the water, and the blood). As I sit here blogging and enjoying my glass of wine, I'm trying desperately to convince myself that if it won't matter next week (or even in the next hour), I shouldn't get worked up about it. If I could capture this mindset, the absolute certainty that in the end, little things DO NOT MATTER, I would be a better wife, mother, and daughter. Heck, I would probably even be a better Christian. I would stress less, I would laugh more, and I would probably need fewer massages. I would smile more, frown less, and chances are, I wouldn't even have to ignore the things that make me crazy because they wouldn't make me crazy!
Somehow I doubt that this wisdom stems from the e-card or from the glass of wine. Some day, I will be wise enough to apply this to my entire life, not just to my weekly blog.
My father-in-law sent me an e-card for my (gasp) thirtieth birthday. The card was sweet, but his note was really, really sweet. He reminded me that I will look back some day, and realize there are no bad days! Only some that are outstanding... It occurred to me that (gasp again), he's almost 100% right. When I worked, I had what I called "red X" days. Anytime I had a day so tragic and terrible that I felt like I wanted to quit my job, I marked that day on the calendar with a giant red X. If the red Xes ever outnumbered the blank white boxes, I knew it was time to hang up my red pen and move on down the road. I worked for six-and-a-half years, almost to the day. I'm certain that I had at least one red x day every quarter. Strangely, I can only remember one of them.
Three days into my week, I can list 10 "significant" things that have happened. Next week, I may remember four (namely the train, the picnic, the water, and the blood). As I sit here blogging and enjoying my glass of wine, I'm trying desperately to convince myself that if it won't matter next week (or even in the next hour), I shouldn't get worked up about it. If I could capture this mindset, the absolute certainty that in the end, little things DO NOT MATTER, I would be a better wife, mother, and daughter. Heck, I would probably even be a better Christian. I would stress less, I would laugh more, and I would probably need fewer massages. I would smile more, frown less, and chances are, I wouldn't even have to ignore the things that make me crazy because they wouldn't make me crazy!
Somehow I doubt that this wisdom stems from the e-card or from the glass of wine. Some day, I will be wise enough to apply this to my entire life, not just to my weekly blog.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Health care - not an inflamatory post but political in nature
Daniel and I were cruising down the Beltway today, headed to Dr. K's. No, not the Kroger-brand Dr. Pepper, thank-you-very-much. I was thinking about how horrible it must have been to be a baby 200 years ago when Amoxil hadn't been invented yet. Wow. Poor kids. Cloth diapers, no Desitin, no antibiotics, no a/c, no footie pajamas. Ok yes, I'm getting carried away. But seriously. What did mamas do when their babies had ear infections? I was suddenly struck by a rogue thought - isn't that how millions upon millions of babies go through life today? I amended my question - What DO mamas do when their babies HAVE ear infections?
That thought opened the door for a whole other slew of thoughts. This one is the point of this blog - I honestly think that people who vehemently support the health care bill (henceforth referred to as "liberals") believe that people who oppose the health care bill (henceforth referred to as "conservatives") don't give a rip about what those mamas do. I happen to be pretty conservative, especially for my age, and I really, truly, honestly do care about those mamas. It actually stings a bit for me to think that my liberal friends probably believe that I don't care. What I don't understand is why those liberal friends a) would even come close to drawing that conclusion based on my opposition of universal health care and b) why Washington (and those who support the public option) believe that we have to "level the playing field" and demand that every man, woman, and child in America partake of a system designed to help "those mamas." While I believe that health care should be available and affordable (heck, in some cases, even free), especially for infants who have no means to provide for themselves, I do NOT believe that I should be subjected to substandard care as a means to provide for "those mamas." Why does that make me a right-wing, conservative nut job?
This, by the way, is an open forum. If you can respectfully answer a or b, please do! Or if you can offer up an opinion that might sway me on a or b, please do!
Anyway, I generally keep my mouth shut about most things (make that all things) political. But this thought just kept nagging at me today and I thought I'd throw it out there as food for thought. Thanks for listening.
That thought opened the door for a whole other slew of thoughts. This one is the point of this blog - I honestly think that people who vehemently support the health care bill (henceforth referred to as "liberals") believe that people who oppose the health care bill (henceforth referred to as "conservatives") don't give a rip about what those mamas do. I happen to be pretty conservative, especially for my age, and I really, truly, honestly do care about those mamas. It actually stings a bit for me to think that my liberal friends probably believe that I don't care. What I don't understand is why those liberal friends a) would even come close to drawing that conclusion based on my opposition of universal health care and b) why Washington (and those who support the public option) believe that we have to "level the playing field" and demand that every man, woman, and child in America partake of a system designed to help "those mamas." While I believe that health care should be available and affordable (heck, in some cases, even free), especially for infants who have no means to provide for themselves, I do NOT believe that I should be subjected to substandard care as a means to provide for "those mamas." Why does that make me a right-wing, conservative nut job?
This, by the way, is an open forum. If you can respectfully answer a or b, please do! Or if you can offer up an opinion that might sway me on a or b, please do!
Anyway, I generally keep my mouth shut about most things (make that all things) political. But this thought just kept nagging at me today and I thought I'd throw it out there as food for thought. Thanks for listening.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Yesterday
Anyway, the day continued. Book babies, nap, the usual. We went to Kroger and Daniel got his cookie. Woohoo! He starts chanting "cookie, cookie, cookie" any time we even get near Kroger. That's unfortunate, because we drive by Kroger often. Sometimes his chant is productive, but it usually just ends with me trying to distract him with, "Daniel! What sound does a lion make?" I guess he ate his cookie too fast or maybe just had his finger too far into his mouth. Whatever happened, he up-chucked all over himself, the car seat, and everything in between. Enter impromptu and emergency bath #2 of the day. I learned a LOT about our car seat yesterday. I had NO idea those straps could come off, much less go in the washing machine. Very handy tidbit of information!
Earlier in the day, my parents called and insisted on coming over to bring me several boxes of garage sale junk and some old trophies (what am I supposed to do with those??). I was really put off, until all of this happened. By the time they got here, I had the car seat situation under control but man. . . I needed a breather. Thank God they were really ready to be rid of my memorabilia. My dad kept Daniel busy with Nemo and some toys while I took care of sandy and otherwise yucky clothes, cleaned up the bathroom, finished taking care of my car, and generally gathered my wits. Thank God for parents who live nearby and who don't mind dropping by when Doug isn't around.
All in all, my timing sucked yesterday. I whined about all of the wrong things. I got chocolate chip cookie bits all over me, my baby, and our stuff. My husband didn't get home from class until nearly 10. And it was STILL a good day. I guess my point is this - it hasn't always been my strong suit, but by God. I believe I could enter the Glad Game World Series and quite possibly walk away with at least the bronze medal. Life is clearly all about perspective.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Nothing good
I've always wanted to write a book. About what? No idea. I've also always felt that I don't have anything worth writing about that would interest enough people to necessitate publishing a book.
I finished The Fountainhead night before last. I loved it. What was it about? Love, really. Not architecture or socialism or objectivism. But love. And some of that other stuff mixed in. It makes me wonder what happened to Ayn Rand that makes her have such sick, twisted views about relationships and sex. With her, I feel like I have now entered the twilight zone. Bizarre. Violent. Possessive. It made me think that if something that . . . creepy . . . has to happen to me to give me something worth writing a book about, forget it. I'll stick to my blog. Thank you very much.
When I finished reading about Dominique and Howard Roark, I picked up where I left off with the Furies books. That leads me to another interesting thought. Where do fantasy and sci-fi authors get this stuff? Dreams? Man. My dreams are just innane and strange. Saturday, I dreamt that I was on a mission to find alpaca underwear. Monday, I dreamt that I lost my clothes and when I found them, they were covered in ants. How did Middle Earth come about? Was JRR just sitting around in his alpaca underwear, covered in ants, and say to himself, "Mordor. That's just south of the Misty Mountains. I think a bodiless, demon man should live there and should seek to control the world through fear and hate. Yes. I'll write a book about that." Definitely. That's definitely how it happened.
Maybe I'm right. Maybe nothing has happened in my life (or my dreams) that's worth writing about. Maybe nothing ever will. Who knows? Doug is writing a book. Three actually. Maybe I should just be his editor and leave the creative stuff to somebody else. Because alpaca underwear? That's a flop just waiting to happen.
I finished The Fountainhead night before last. I loved it. What was it about? Love, really. Not architecture or socialism or objectivism. But love. And some of that other stuff mixed in. It makes me wonder what happened to Ayn Rand that makes her have such sick, twisted views about relationships and sex. With her, I feel like I have now entered the twilight zone. Bizarre. Violent. Possessive. It made me think that if something that . . . creepy . . . has to happen to me to give me something worth writing a book about, forget it. I'll stick to my blog. Thank you very much.
When I finished reading about Dominique and Howard Roark, I picked up where I left off with the Furies books. That leads me to another interesting thought. Where do fantasy and sci-fi authors get this stuff? Dreams? Man. My dreams are just innane and strange. Saturday, I dreamt that I was on a mission to find alpaca underwear. Monday, I dreamt that I lost my clothes and when I found them, they were covered in ants. How did Middle Earth come about? Was JRR just sitting around in his alpaca underwear, covered in ants, and say to himself, "Mordor. That's just south of the Misty Mountains. I think a bodiless, demon man should live there and should seek to control the world through fear and hate. Yes. I'll write a book about that." Definitely. That's definitely how it happened.
Maybe I'm right. Maybe nothing has happened in my life (or my dreams) that's worth writing about. Maybe nothing ever will. Who knows? Doug is writing a book. Three actually. Maybe I should just be his editor and leave the creative stuff to somebody else. Because alpaca underwear? That's a flop just waiting to happen.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
You say tomato
I’ve always said that if you only paid any attention to those with whom you agree completely, your list of associates would be extremely short. John Lennon cheated on his wife, dropped acid, and claimed that The Beatles were bigger than Jesus. And he was a damned talented musician. Don’t know what I’d call Doug if it weren’t for him. John Travolta – I don’t have it out for the Johns, it’s just a coincidence – is a freaking Scientologist. And Pulp Fiction is a damned good movie. What would I quote when ordering pork if it weren’t for the coffee shop scene? Ayn Rand is an obvious atheist, there are of course some flaws in her philosophy, and she has a really weird and violent outlook on sex. And she’s a damned good writer.
Why is it that we can ignore the political beliefs, religious beliefs, and immoral behaviors of entertainers yet we somehow cast stones at our friends when their idea of “fair” differs from ours? Why is it that we can suck it up and pay $7.50 to go see a movie made by a man who stands for everything that we detest yet we can’t hold our tongues when a friend – and I mean a true friend – supports a political cause that we choose not to rally behind? By true friend, I mean someone who has been your shoulder to cry on. Someone you’ve lifted up during hard times. Someone you’ve laughed with and made grandiose plans with. How can we turn our backs on these people and continue to throw our money and our time at people who stand for everything we loathe in the world?
I wish that we could let that ability to disregard that which we detest could carry over into our personal lives. I wish that we could look at our (fill in the blank) friends with a blind eye, just as we do Hollywood. It’s really a shame that we give more merit to the popularity of the latest movie than we do to actual deep-rooted friendship. I pray that I don’t make a hypocrite out of myself by doing just this. I hope that I’m a bigger person than that.
p.s. Nobody turned their back on me. Nothing happened. I just had an “a-ha” moment while reading The Fountainhead. Carry on!
Why is it that we can ignore the political beliefs, religious beliefs, and immoral behaviors of entertainers yet we somehow cast stones at our friends when their idea of “fair” differs from ours? Why is it that we can suck it up and pay $7.50 to go see a movie made by a man who stands for everything that we detest yet we can’t hold our tongues when a friend – and I mean a true friend – supports a political cause that we choose not to rally behind? By true friend, I mean someone who has been your shoulder to cry on. Someone you’ve lifted up during hard times. Someone you’ve laughed with and made grandiose plans with. How can we turn our backs on these people and continue to throw our money and our time at people who stand for everything we loathe in the world?
I wish that we could let that ability to disregard that which we detest could carry over into our personal lives. I wish that we could look at our (fill in the blank) friends with a blind eye, just as we do Hollywood. It’s really a shame that we give more merit to the popularity of the latest movie than we do to actual deep-rooted friendship. I pray that I don’t make a hypocrite out of myself by doing just this. I hope that I’m a bigger person than that.
p.s. Nobody turned their back on me. Nothing happened. I just had an “a-ha” moment while reading The Fountainhead. Carry on!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
NB
I just copied and pasted a bunch of old blogs from MySpace dating back to 2006. Happy reading and getting to know the Sheri before Daniel!
Love
I had an emotional day today. Not emotional as in I sat around and cried all day. And not emotional as in I wore skinny jeans and black eyeliner and moped around listening to Fallout Boy. Emotional as in I ran the gauntlet of emotional ups and downs and I am freaking exhausted. Well, maybe they weren’t ups and downs so much as backs and forths, but whatever. Guilt. Relief. Love. Joy. Indulgence. Pride. More pride. Happiness. Sadness. A smidge of anger. Longing. Loneliness. Camaraderie. Annoyance. You name it, I probably felt it today.
It occurred to me that this list of emotions is actually pretty short for one day, unless, of course, you’re Ron Weasley. But because I am neither redheaded nor a fictional character, it seems that this list, while comprehensive, is probably pretty typical for a normal day. For some reason, this list of emotions sent my mind to 1 Corinthians 13:13, specifically this: the greatest of these is love.
While I absolutely agree that love is the greatest of these, I had to wonder which is the strongest of these. Love will make you do some crazy things. Love will make you feel emotions you never even knew you had and will amplify other emotions tenfold. Love will take your breath away. But anger? Wow. Anger will make you do some crazy, fanatical, extreme things. And if you aren’t angry enough to actually do the things that are running through your mind, the fact that they’re running through your mind says a lot on its own. But then I came full-circle. I realized that the things that could make me think and do the crazy, fanatical, extreme things in anger were caused by love. Stick with me for a minute here.
I have a friend who has a friend who has a brother who has a baby. With me? Good. Well, something bad happened to that baby. I won’t go into detail because it’s not my story to share. The baby is going to be ok for those of you who are concerned. But I digress. The baby was hurt. Intentionally. Of course, when I heard this, I thought of my baby and how I would react if my baby were hurt intentionally. Words cannot describe the range of emotions that washed over me just when thinking about my baby being hurt. Extreme and fanatical come close. That’s what made me question the strongest of these. Of course, if it weren’t for the love I feel for my child, the anger would not exist. So here we are again – the greatest, and strongest, of these is love.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
I used to think these words were trite. Sadly, they only seem that way because at least 76 weddings per day pronounce these words before pronouncing man and wife. Love is all of these things and then some. It’s maddening and comforting. It’s fulfilling and fun. It’s glue and it’s a foundation. A foundation for families, for friendships, and for crazy, fanatical, extreme things. John was right – all you need is love. Once love takes its place in your life, the rest just falls into place.
It occurred to me that this list of emotions is actually pretty short for one day, unless, of course, you’re Ron Weasley. But because I am neither redheaded nor a fictional character, it seems that this list, while comprehensive, is probably pretty typical for a normal day. For some reason, this list of emotions sent my mind to 1 Corinthians 13:13, specifically this: the greatest of these is love.
While I absolutely agree that love is the greatest of these, I had to wonder which is the strongest of these. Love will make you do some crazy things. Love will make you feel emotions you never even knew you had and will amplify other emotions tenfold. Love will take your breath away. But anger? Wow. Anger will make you do some crazy, fanatical, extreme things. And if you aren’t angry enough to actually do the things that are running through your mind, the fact that they’re running through your mind says a lot on its own. But then I came full-circle. I realized that the things that could make me think and do the crazy, fanatical, extreme things in anger were caused by love. Stick with me for a minute here.
I have a friend who has a friend who has a brother who has a baby. With me? Good. Well, something bad happened to that baby. I won’t go into detail because it’s not my story to share. The baby is going to be ok for those of you who are concerned. But I digress. The baby was hurt. Intentionally. Of course, when I heard this, I thought of my baby and how I would react if my baby were hurt intentionally. Words cannot describe the range of emotions that washed over me just when thinking about my baby being hurt. Extreme and fanatical come close. That’s what made me question the strongest of these. Of course, if it weren’t for the love I feel for my child, the anger would not exist. So here we are again – the greatest, and strongest, of these is love.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
I used to think these words were trite. Sadly, they only seem that way because at least 76 weddings per day pronounce these words before pronouncing man and wife. Love is all of these things and then some. It’s maddening and comforting. It’s fulfilling and fun. It’s glue and it’s a foundation. A foundation for families, for friendships, and for crazy, fanatical, extreme things. John was right – all you need is love. Once love takes its place in your life, the rest just falls into place.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Work Widows Wednesday
Some good friends of ours live just down the road, have a son who's just about Daniel's age, and happen to keep a schedule similar to ours. We have what we call Work Widows Wednesdays. She's constantly widowed in the evenings - I'm only made to suffer two nights a week. Point being, we get together on Wednesdays and have dinner as a "family." I've decided that my regular blogs will take place after dinner on Wednesdays. Our little clan has it hard enough trying to find time to spend as a complete family. I don't think I should add another distraction (blogging) to making dinner, cleaning the kitchen after dinner, studying for an exam, mowing the grass, bathing the baby, putting the baby to bed, brushing the dogs (yes, I'm serious) . . . the list is already obviously long enough - you get the point. For those of you who are following, expect to hear from me then. :o)
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Welcome wagon
So I’ve been thinking about starting a blog for a while now. I used to blog anonymously, but that was before blogging was . . . well, cool, I guess. I haven’t quite decided what format it will take – if any – or what exactly I’m going to blog about. What our family has planned for the weekend? How I feel about my baby growing up? My daily struggles, be they mental, physical, or spiritual? My thoughts on the hottest political debate? However it plays out, you’re more than welcome to follow along and contribute as you see fit. I only ask that you respect my views and the views of others who comment on my views. Sheesh. That was a lot of viewing! Please disagree with me; tell me what you think and why you think I’m wrong (or right). Just do so in a manner that maintains at least the illusion of respect.
Thanks for reading!
Thanks for reading!
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