On my mind: snowboarding and babysitting

Honestly, skip this post if you are unprepared for rambling irrelevance. I apparently needed to exercise some demons today. Oh, and find a friggin' babysitter.

It would be a total lie to say that I took to snowboarding as easily as I thought I would. I knew it would be hard and that I would fall, but I imagined by the end of the day I’d be pretty proficient, able to at least handle the small hills without many wipeouts. And I might have been had it not been for the thousands of pint-sized skiers and shredders who hit the hill Sunday afternoon and totally freaked me out by either going really fast around me, really slow in front of me or by wiping out as many times as I did and lying in the snow dramatically after each fall, a little hazardous slalom course, the likes of which I certainly wasn’t ready to handle.

But all in all it was as fun as I thought and I did eventually feel like I got the hang of it. Had I not been so worried about taking the children out and having to face off against their eager parents watching from the bottom of the tow rope (and by worried I mean if I hadn’t thrown myself eagerly into the powder every time I saw anyone in front of me in order to avoid collision), I’m pretty sure I would have spent a little more time upright. I can’t even talk about Nate, who looks like he was born on a snowboard after only two times out. He was up on the chair lifts and down parts of the hill I didn’t even get near enough to look at, but he was also patient and supportive of me wiping out on the seedling hill through the best of the morning. This is huge for me: I usually HATE when he’s better at something than I am and can’t stand to have him instruct me, but this time it really worked for us and I didn’t call him condescending once.

The full injury count is hard to assess at this time because I stupidly went to an insanely tough conditioning class at the gym on Monday, so I’m not sure if the sore muscles are due entirely to one of the other. But I did knock over Cameron, my faithful and wonderful 18-year-old teacher who wondered several times if I was deaf or just unable to follow instruction. I hit my head a lot (next time a helmet for sure), overworked my legs, bruised my knees, knocked my shoulder hard and overworked my quads, and Nate either pulled a muscle or worsened a very small hernia he has had most his life. Who the heck cares? I can’t wait to back on Thursday night. I watched the X Games for inspiration and find myself standing in my snowboard stance while doing dishes or just hanging out, and I’ve been dreaming about weaving down the hills—toe - heel, toe - heel—the last few nights.

Nate and I were lucky on Sunday to be able to go boarding together because Laura (pronounced Yo-ra by darling C) was kind enough to offer to spend the whole morning with Clementine, a morning which must have been a hell of a lot of fun because C now asks for Yora morning, noon and night. Having Laura and her clan so close and so involved in our lives is a saving grace—they are the closest thing to family we have in Detroit, and that is something I’m really missing as my life with a kid gets more and more back to normal. It’s not just that I miss hanging out with my family…although I really do…it’s that I’m finding it hard to find a sitter for those still-rare nights (or days) that Nate and I actually want to leave the house together. Alone. Just the two of us. No Clementine.

I do work in a high school, so it’s not like there is a shortage of kids around. And it’s not like I’m still the neurotic new mother who won’t leave her kid with anyone. Sure, I would like to leave C with someone she knows or can come to know (we’ve had a few one-hit wonders), but the real problem is the extra expense of a sitter. It’s hard to justify a $20 movie night that ultimately costs $40 and is replete with constant cell phone checking, the possibility of interruption and the nagging sense that we’re on a schedule, that we MUST be back when we say we will. I have Laura, but anyone who has someone like that in her life will tell you it’s a careful balance—you never want to take advantage, to overuse that go-to person to the point of fatigue. I feel like I need to protect Laura for the important stuff, the big stuff, not just the dinners out and little errands. I know she’d balk and say whenever, whatever, but I just can’t abuse that.

The real issue, I think, is that when I’m looking for a sitter I feel the same pit-of-the-stomach dread I felt when I was in a doctor’s office recently and read some common-sense article about how all parents should have a will in case of disaster and an emergency bank account with 6 months of expenses in it. Holy shit, I thought, we are totally unprepared for anything out of the ordinary—job loss, death, anything.. And although not being able to find a sitter so we can go out Friday night is hardly on par with this, it does make me feel totally vulnerable, at the whims of another person, a little bit out of control. It’s hard for me to ask for help—I’m always worried I’m inconveniencing someone or asking too much—and even when I do ask, it’s hard for me to trust that it will all work out in the end. Hiring someone is easier than asking a friend to help out, but even that isn’t foolproof. How many times as a teenager did I flake out on a job? Karma is a bitch, baby.

Let me remove my wrist from my forehead a minute: I do realize the sitter conundrum isn’t dire. I realize that if we did run into some emergency, something unexpected, the people we know are awesome. I have no doubt that we’d be covered in the face of a catastrophe. But what about when we had theater tickets (with Laura) and our babysitter backed out that morning? Who do you call then without feeling like you’ve abandoned your kid with the first warm body you can find? More importantly, how do you justify leaving your kid with a series of strangers all the time? And how do you ask your friends with kids of their own or busy lives to rearrange everything so you can go out and be footloose? All of our friends around here who have kids also have grandparents and families that sit for them, so it’s not like we can trade a night for a night. Our friends who don’t have kids are either too busy or just not interested in kids and would be totally traumatized by a night alone with my picky, lovely little girl. If we lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t the white trash hole ours is, I imagine I could have some sort of bohemian co-parenting arrangement with the great family down the street or next door, an open door kind of thing that made life a constant sleepover, an easy give and take. These utopias surely exist somewhere, right?

This would be so much easier if we lived near our families (even though they are scattered all over). I’d feel so much more relaxed, so pleased knowing she was hanging out with her grandparents, her cousins, her aunts and uncles. Even if we didn’t do it a lot, it would be so nice to know that the option was there in case we ever did get a whim. Nate and I are doing a tremendous job dividing labor and splitting the work up—I get out as often as I like while he stays home with C (and vice-versa, though he is such a hermit I have to force him out). The problem with all this splitting and dividing is that we’re doing very little together these days beside pass out on the couch after a long day and let insipid TV shows decay our brain and once lively conversation. Of course there are no easy solutions—my sister lives close to my mom and has more than once admired my life as a pioneer in family-free lands. I guess I should just quit my bitching and get back to the constant phone calls in search of SOMEONE to sit.

Again, sorry for rambling.

What's a weekend without a medical emergency?

I wish doctors offered frequent flyer miles or a rewards system because we sure have had to see a lot of them in the last few weeks. Yes, the arm fracture and subsequent dozen trips to the doctor but also Nate's asthmatic bronchitis and this weekend's pink eye, courtesy, of course, of day care. Clementine woke up Saturday morning with her eye sealed shut with junk, so we hightailed it to the urgent care office, got some drugs and put her under quarantine for the rest of the weekend. She's actually here with me at work for the day, behaving beautifully because I've plugged her into the beloved "Mah Na Mah Na" and her Aunt K has been spoiling her with cake.

But there is much to tell of our weekend snowboarding adventures (you won't be reading it on my corporate sponsor's website just yet). After work. After the laundry. After, after, after.

In training for life as an exotic dancer

My sister and I joke about our kids' dance moves sometimes. Whether it's Clementine cozying up to the pole lamp in our bedroom, Nora doing some bump and grind on the floor or Abby in her flamboyant costumes doing her best rendition of the dance in Little Miss Sunshine (yes, I have seen a movie released since Brokeback Mountain--one single movie to which I will refer whenever appropriate), they all have what it takes to be exotic dancers and love to flaunt it. We choose to view it as cute and funny at this point but reserve the right to become total hypocrites when this behavior continues in, say, middle school. Parenting is all about boundaries, you know?

Clementine is upping the ante on her exotic dancer training a little lately in her Muppet-obsessed frenzy. [Aside that may just be repetition, but I'm constantly trying to justify: it's true that I have lightened my stance on TV and don't feel any shame. We bought her the first season of the Muppets on DVD, and while they have indeed afforded me some quiet moments to be more than three feet from my daughter, they have also proved all my suspicions about TV to be pretty dead-on. Now that she knows what's in the magic box, she wants it on ALL the time and wanders around calling "Ma Nah Ma Nah" and "Da-too" for the Muppets, she slaps her kneee for "Drummer Hoff," and she creis "Shoe, shoe!" for this great 40s cartoon called "The Kids in the Shoe." It's like crack--now that she's had a little, she wants more and more.] She calls out for the number "Lydia the Tattooed Lady," and then stands in front of the TV trying to writhe around like the bikini-clad stuffed pig. It's pretty cute, but it also involves sticking her butt way out toward the audience and bumping it around a lot, which Clementine follows by turning around and lifting up her shirt. I suppose this is so we can admire her tattoos, but of course she isn't Lydia and can't jiggle just so to get Andrew Jackson to climb up the hill of her stomach.



I can't capture her best moves on camera, so I'll need to grab some video because I think this kid has the stuff, which of course has me and Nate totally relieved--as a successful exotic dancer, darling C won't need us to put her through college and we don't have to worry if we don't put a penny away for retirement. Our little Gypsy Rose will support us.

In other news, she alternately loves and hates her barettes. Since she is nothing but an extremist these days, love means she absolutely, positively cannot go another minute without having it in her hair RIGHT NOW, I don't care if you are changing my diaper and have poop on your hand because I'm turning over and pointing at that damn barette NOW NOW NOW! And hate means get it the fuck out of my hair now or I will rip ever strand of my hair from my head angrily and throw it on the floor in front of me and why aren't you listening to me I'm gong to start screaming....AHHHHHH! Here she is somewhere in between, either on her way to hate or just getting back from love:



And still other news: only Nate got to realize his dreams of snowboarding last night because I couldn't get a sitter. I'll hopefully get my chance on Sunday and will probably be so busy nursing my sore ass OR fielding offers from thousands of would-be sponsors that I won't be able to blog about it. Luckily my manager is on the case, prepping my gear and planning for a life following her famous parents around:



I think I'm slappy because it's Friday. One last thing. Clementine wants to give you something because she just loves you all so much:

Back in blue

I have returned from Texas, a state which is very proud of its Texas-ness. Everywhere I looked there were state flags, single stars, references to the "Lone Star," and lots of other reminders of where in the world I was. I don't say this in a pejorative sense at all--it is just fascinating and for me, a true Yankee, kind of daunting because I don't know exactly what Texas stands for and so I don't know what it means to be so surrounded by it. In my ignorance I think of Texas as a red state, home of Bush, a state with big, silly fence to keep Mexicans out, a state about which I'm honestly not very curious. Nevertheless, when I was able to get over myself and quiet my suspicions that everyone was going to find out I was a Yankee and chase me to the city gates with flaming brooms, I had a good time exploring San Antonio (which many people call "San Antone," and I don't know if it's a Johnny Cash reference or what). We saw the Alamo, which isn't nearly as big or impressive as you think it will be but is still worth the visit both for the beautiful grounds (home to the biggest, most beautiful oak tree I've ever seen) and for the cute retired guys in red jackets who staff it and are eager to leap on each and every tourist and explain the significance of the handle of a single sword, the dust from the walls, the trajectory of the sunlight across the floor, whatever. They were so serious I was afraid to ask about the basement and instead listened to a ridiculously long explanation of the taking of the Alamo.

Tacky souvenir shopping is always really high on my list whenever I'm away, and I like the idea of bringing something home for darling C when I'm away. I was pretty close to buying a mounted jackalope (made from a real rabbit) because it was truly, truly tacky, but it was stupid expensive and the fake stuffed one seemed so much more appropriate (did I ever think I'd use a word like that?@!). I also got her a creepy Mexican puppet she and the cat love to fight over, and a few other tacky knick knacks I got along the Riverwalk before heading to some very chic restaurant for the conference dinner. It was strange to sit on the low banquettes in the dim lighting, sipping some ultra-cool cocktail while screaming to be heard over the pulsing electronica--it was like revisiting another life. But soon enough the women migrated to one table, and we all started talking about our kids because it is just SO much easier than trying to find some other common ground with such temporary acquaintances. As mortifying as it is to admit, I took the first bus back to the spa after dinner and left the carousing to everyone else--even though I was the youngest person in the whole group. Lame, yes, but I had a full night's sleep in a comfortable bed to claim.

It was otherwise an uneventful trip except that I got to spend a lot of time by myself (such a luxury), thinking about what my next step might be career-wise. I totally fell into this job some years ago, and while it does afford me some flexibility and even a little power, it interests me less and less as time marches on. Part of it is my amazing boss leaving last June and part of it is the growing realization that I won't be able to keep calling myself a poet much longer if I don't get out there and do something about it. I miss literature. I miss language. I think it's time to get back to teaching. Duh! some of you are thinking. It's true I came to that conclusion this same time last year and allowed them to convince me to stay in my current job, but I can't get jazzed about it anymore. And I have to stop whining.

We're going on the first whole week of Clementine's life I haven't had a camera in her face at least once, and it's not all that bad. I did miss her first trip in the sled, some general cuteness as she has started loving looking at picture albums to recite everyone's name and lots of great candids, but I think we'll all survive. Hopefully my damaged goods will be fixed and returned soon, though, because there are some triumphant moments on the horizon: Clementine will have her cast removed in three weeks AND her father and I are going to learn to become world-class snowboarders. It's true we haven't skied since high school and have only practiced snowboarding in our minds and living room, but I'm fairly certain it's my sport.

From the road: my first working mama business trip

This time last year it was unfathomable to me that I would ever be ready for a business trip that took me away from darling C for more than a night at the very most. File that under What the fuck did I know? I’m in San Antonio for a business conference at a spa that has beautiful grounds, tons of amenities and the most comfortable beds EVER—they could sleep six without touching and are like sleeping on clouds. Last night I went to bed calm and relaxed and didn’t wake up until the morning. I wasn’t even listening for my name from the depths of dreams.

I did, of course, have pangs of longing when Nate wrote me an email about how she’s asking for “Mama” every ten minutes and then saying “yeah” in her honey-sweet voice when he reminds her that I’m working. But I think I’ll survive. We’re home tomorrow night, and I’ll be there first thing when she wakes up Sunday morning.

The conference itself is a butt crusher, and hanging with my boss lacks a certain element of fun and excitement as far as travel, but how can I complain? I got to see some old friends and their new baby, I’ve had lots of margaritas, I’ve done yoga in the sagebrush and I’m off to see the Alamo! I wonder if they’ll let me see the basement (and if you don’t get that reference, you might need to consult Conky 2000).

Cast art

Since Clementine is obsessed with tattoos, which she pronounces "dat-too," constantly scanning the bodies of everyone she meets looking for them: dattoo? dattoo?, I knew she'd be psyched to get her own ink, albeit not nearly as permanent as mine. We started with a few pieces but are now trying to get our friends involved by carrying Sharpies around in the diaper bag. So far we've only gotten flames, though a dinner date tonight Laura ("Lola" to darling C) might fill it out a bit more.

It has gone from totally white:

to some bits and pieces from her mama and dad:

to flamingly fabulous:

She likes showing it off, but she also gets a big kick out of wearing her BabyLegs on her arms:


We visited the doctor yesterday and had to endure a whole new round of X-rays, this time without me even in the room. Needless to say, she screamed and yelled the whole time but was pleased to learn that this lovely type of behavior earned her stickers and an endless supply of lollipops, which her mean-ass mom confiscated after our first and last lollipop experience which had her sticky from head to toe. We learned that her bone is "angulated" a bit. In the ER they saw it and thought they would have to sedate her to straighten it out (IV and drugs...no thanks). This guy yesterday thought they could use a wedge in her cast or some manipulation in the office and the resetting the cast, both of which sound infinitely better than drugging her, though I'm sure it will do NOTHING to allay her increasing fear of doctors. Sadly, her pronunciation has improved and she's no longer calling them "cocktors" like in the ER, even though the guy yesterday was kind of an ass. He had the bedside manner of a jellyfish and reacted really poorly to her objections when he abruptly walked into the office and grabbed at her arm with nary a greeting. He also tried to give her a sling, although the smallest they had was for a 4-year-old and it's not like she's going to keep it on. Maybe I'll fashion one out of an old necktie or something...

All of this and she refuses to slow down even a second. She's still very busy in her kitchen (mostly cooking eggs, though she has every other kind of wooden fruit in the universe) and getting into whatever she can. She has become addicted to the same three or four books and has funny ways of DEMANDING you put down the book you are trying to read her and get her the one she wants. For example, making an ugly throat-cleaning sound means she wants you to read Yummy Yucky (I guess the Yucky sound is the throat cleaning), saying "No no!" means she wants to ready Mo Willem's Don't Let the Pigenon Drive the Bus (because you say "No" whenever he asks), and "No mah" means snowman or The Truth About Snowpeople. There are a few others, but I think I've blocked them out. It's funny, but I swear to god if I have to read Yummy Yucky again I may lose my mind, especially because there are so many other great books I want to read with her. She'll tolerate a good dozen, but there are some she won't even let me pull off the shelf.

And, um, can we talk about this face?

Thank you, Internet. Now can I have a nap?

If any good has come from our exciting new lives as parents of a child in a cast, it is that I've made so many new friends (and reconnected with so many old ones) in the last two days. I've gotten lots of calls and emails and a few comments reassuring me there will be no lasting mental scars for any of us and, more importantly, that I'm not alone. Apparently not realizing your child has a broken bone OR realizing it but just not having time to deal with it until after dinner is a part of parenting, and I'm getting very zen about the whole thing. I know feeling guilty is useless, but I feel my heart break a little every time I look at her or imagine breaking a bone and not being able to tell anyone--look, it really hurts. I would so much rather have broken my own bone!

Then, when I've had my maternal moment, I can't help but laugh at the stories I will one day tell about the whole ordeal, including last night when I watched her try to pick up a pretzel with the stubs of fingers that poke out of her cast. It was frustrating, but she wouldn't give up and even grunted a little for good measure. When she finally grabbed hold of it and began to lift it to her mouth (her other hand was occupied with her sippy cup), the 90 degree angle of her cast made it impossible for it to get it to her lips, and instead of readjusting she craned her head left, left, left even more, trying to find a way for finger and lips to meet. It was sad. But also kind of funny.

So thank you all for your kind words and your advice. Now can you do something about our shitty sleeping? We were right in the middle of a pretty smooth transition to her own room, her own bed, and now no one's sleeping well AT ALL. Clementine can't get comfortable, which means she's wide awake and needing lots of comfort. We're committed to the bed and refuse to backslide, which means we aren't just doing what's easiest and hauling her in bed with us. What that means is that one of us is in there with her most of the night (last night it was me and it was ALL night), trying to help her get comfortable and avoiding the giant clunk of cast into our foreheads every time she moves around. Let me tell you, the damn thing isn't smooth--I have scratch marks all over my face, which isn't nearly as bad as the huge bags under my eyes from getting only about two hours of sleep. It's like having a newborn, and I think I can only take another night of it before I try to figure out a new plan. Like sedation. Or soundproofing.

I am still managing to get some pictures, though my camera isn't fixed. I have been dragging home a camera from work that has a broken lens, but it still works with the zoom lens which is why I have such odd close-up perspective on all the shots. It may look like I'm right up in her face, but I'm actually a half a room away calling "Clementine, Clementine!" like a moron. From far away it's hard to see she even HAS a cast:

But she has a great sense of humor about it. She would forget her arm was there at all for a while, but then she'd try to use it only to find it was stuck under the table. Nevertheless, she laughs AND is still very excited to me five:

I can't get the monkey hat off her sometimes. She is obsessed with all things monkey.

Lest you think she's gettin a free ride and all kinds of spoiling just because she's hurt and we feel guilty, she's still doing her chores. Again, it's a tight shot so you really can't see how cute it is, but every night we tell her to "do her laundry" and she scours the hallway, picking up anything in her path and takes it, piece by piece, to the laundry chute to throw it down. It's harder now with one hand, but she's not slacking:

I can't put any of her bath shots with my ingenious saran wrap water shield up here because they all show her parts and I'm a little leery of bath pictures on the internet after hearing some bizarre Flickr stories, but here is one of my favorite new pictures of darling C and her dad. She almost never gets out of the bath happy, but I think now that the cast makes baths so miserable we have more of this to look forward to:

Further adventures in parenting: the hospital edition

That I didn’t title this post “Why I’m the worst mother ever” shows only that I’ve come a long way since crying like a baby when the pediatric orthopedic doctor told me Clementine’s arm was fractured in two places and that he might have to sedate her in order to set it. It’s not that I feel guilty for letting her fall off the couch (OK, I do feel guilty about that, but kids fall, right?). It’s that I SENT HER TO DAY CARE this morning with a fractured arm. After she fell last night and cried a while, she seemed just fine. Well, she seemed like she was in pain at first, but there was no swelling, she was still using the arm and I just didn’t sense in my gut that there was something broken. We read the books, checked the internet, called my sister, but it seemed like it would be crazy to rush her to the emergency room like insane, overprotective parents. Why not give it a night, see how she was doing in the morning and call the pediatrician? Nice gut instincts, huh? I feel terrible and have been replaying every second between her falling off hte couch and finally calling the doctor to see if I really did miss a big sign. The doctors were all very nice in telling me that it's hard to tell with kids, especially if they can't talk and seem as happy as she did. This did not make me feel all that better, but I did talk to another mom whose daughter had fractures for three days before they got an x-ray. It made me feel a little better. But not really.

When I neglectfully dropped darling C. off this morning I asked Julie to keep a close eye on her and she called me within 3 hours to say something wasn’t right. At that point I hadn't seen CLementine awake for three hours since the fall, so that's what I keep telling myself. Julie isn't more caring or more attentive than I. Is she? Her call is how we ended up calling to Dr. and then getting x-rays and then being shuttled to the ER where we got MORE x-rays before they put a cast on her. With hindsight I see thiswhole event is not such a big deal (her life was never in danger), part of being a parent and all that, but it breaks my heart that my tiny, lovely little daughter who is not even 1 ½ years old has a broken bone. I cringe even more when I think that she went almost 24 hours before someone put a cast on it so it would stop hurting her.

Other than a total freak-out both times she was x-rayed and constant crying while the doctor (whom she called “cocktor”) put on the cast, the girl was a trooper. She handled the waiting with a sweet sense of humor, and she charmed all the patients waiting in the ER. The kid went hours without food but was still sweet as a peach. What did I ever do to deserve such a love? We let her eat Mac and Cheese and didn’t force the veggies when we finally made it home for dinner, we read her all the books she wanted and eventually left her asleep (uncomfortably) in her own bed. See? We’re still committed to her own bed. Of course in retrospect all the bitching I did this morning about what a shitty night’s sleep we had last night seems exceptionally cruel when I see now that she was probably calling out to idiot parents that she was IN PAIN, not just that she missed them.

I feel like I’ve been initiated into a new circle of the parenting club—more than half the other people in the ER were parents with kids in various splints, casts, slings and band aids. And we all survived. But know what my sister said to me on the way home? “Oh my god, you’re totally that mother with her kid in the cast.” Hmmm. I guess am. Poor little monkey. Time to break out the summer clothes!

Can it be this easy?

I do not want to be smote by the sleeping gods by bragging, but I can hold it in no longer: Clementine has her own bed and has been sleeping (mostly alone) in it for the past three nights. We have been kicking this around for a little while, and although I think co-sleeping, accidental as it was at first, was a great choice for us for a long time, we had all outgrown it before Christmas. She was waking us up in the middle of the night and we were waking her up when we came to bed, and although I loved being able to hold her close and smell that sweet little head, I think the negatives were outweighing the positives. We went to IKEA some Saturday right before Christmas, and as we were wandering through the labyrinth of fiber-board furniture, we came across a low bed that was so inviting and enticing to Clementine, that she lept up in it, put her head down on the pillow and said “Shhhhhhh,” pretending to go to sleep. Sure, Nate and I hemmed and hawed about whether we could afford it, whether we should find something used or smaller, whether it was the right time, but in the end, how could we argue? We bought it (realizing immediately we had brought the wrong car to the store, meaning I was pinned beneath it the entire ride home and risked beheading), took it home and promptly…did nothing. We had so much to do for Christmas and so little time to do it that we waited until we returned from our epic travels to find a mattress, take down the crib and set up the bed.

But sure enough it did get done. I bought some sock monkey sheets (which are her new obsession since her grandma made her one we call Coco), gathered her stuffed animals to give her some company and braced ourselves for the struggle of our lives. While it hasn’t been a walk in the park, it has been pretty dang easy, with none of the bumps, bruises, marathon crying sessions or other trauma I imagined. It’s true that I did sleep most of the first night in there with her (and “sleep” is a strong term for lying next to her and shushing her while she said “Coco,” “ball” and “vroom” while pointing to the monkeys, bowling balls and cars on her sheets), but the second night was gang busters. Oh, yeah, and last night I was in there again, but it was my fault I stayed so long—I fell asleep. OK, so maybe it doesn’t sound all that great, but I can’t tell you how nice it is to feel like I have my bed and my sleep back. We will have to continue to adjust, and I’m not going to play hardball just yet with the midnight wakings until we’ve given her a little more time to adjust.

I’m pretty proud of this move, but I feel like I can’t quite shout it from the rooftops. It’s a big deal to me, but most other people can’t believe we still had her in our bed anyway. I wanted to tell my dad last night on the phone, but then I remembered my sister telling me that he grumbles about how useless the crib he got us was. I told my friends at work today, but then one accidentally outed me as a cosleeper at the lunch table and my boss, who already thinks I’m an insane doting mother, was visibly horrified and disturbed, citing how dangerous a practice it is. Will the shame never end? I need a meeting to attend—Cosleepers Anonymous, but even that implies that it’s something I want to get over. Sure, it’s done for us now and it’s the right thing at the right time, but I tell you one thing for sure—if we ever have another kid, we’re going to do it the same way. And I’m not just speaking out of my ass here: Nate totally agrees. One of my only mom friends (who has been mystified by my cosleeping) called me last night, and when I said “I have some very exciting news to share with you,” she immediately countered with “Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant.” Heck, lady. I just got my bed back—how do you think something like that would happen so soon?

Knowing me, you are no dount wondering where the heck the pictures of the new bed are. Shouldn't I have taken about a hundred by now, including some fancy night shots of her sleeping soundly in it? The truth is that my camera is BROKEN. And I have to send it in to have it fixed, and it might take a few months and I have to send a check with the camera, which I couldn't do until after Christmas so I didn't accidentally bounce ANOTHER check. Yikes. So I'm going to have to find a way to borrow a camera from school or something because I really feel like I'm missing an arm without my camera. As it happens my awesome school camera is also having trouble and only the zoom lens works. Maybe I can take some very close up shots of the bed. Or maybe I can stand very far away and shoot it. Hmm.

Before I dash off to a very important meeting (voice dripping with sarcasm here), I want to say to my cousin and sister who have included me in a little meme thing that I’m not ignoring you. Seeing as I write a heck of a lot down here on this blog, there’s not a lot people don’t know about me. Especially you, sissy. But here are some things I’m thinking not everyone remembers about me. Or maybe they never knew them. Or maybe they don’t care. Whatever. And I’m not putting “I’m a cosleeper” here because…guess what?...I’m not! Well, not really anyway. I took my cousin's lead (because, even though I hardly know her, we LOVE the same book--I can't stop rereading Special Topics in Calamity Physics) and put a lie in here. See if you can spot it.

1. I am a published poet who has seriously fallen off the wagon. There are very few people in my life these days that remember the time when I was a poet first and everything else second. That makes me sad, especially because I was surrounded by poets and poetry less than five years ago. I fear not being able to get back into poetry and then spending my life regretting it.
2. I feel very comfortable with most of my musical tastes, but I secretly can’t stop listening to or singing “Fergalicious.” Or “Sexy Back.” If you don’t know who sings these songs that you are much hipper than I.
3. I am poised to become a totally amazing snowboarder (even though I’ve never done it before) if we ever get some snow. Seriously, I feel drawn to it and think I’m going to kick some serious ass. I’ve been practicing in my living room.
4. I have always dreamed about living in Texas, a state that celebrates the big and tacky in everything. My business trip there next week is exciting because I have a chance to see some friends but also chill out and imagine moving there.
   
5. I’ve put on quite a bit of weight since I stopped breastfeeding, which is one of the reasons I was able to last so long—I KNEW this would happen and would have gone on pumping forever so I could keep eating ice cream if only it were a little easier.
6. I always paint my toenails blue. When I remember to paint them. Which isn’t so frequent these days.

We have officially survived

Much can be said of what a trial Christmas can be between the shopping and the wrapping and the parties and the obligations and the travel and the headaches. Sure, it's a great holiday, but it's also a hell of a lot of work. This year it happened to be a hell of a lot of fun with a wild child very into the spirit of it all, which is why I've been MIA for a few weeks. I'm now sitting in my living room enjoying the first bit of peace I've had since the 12th of December, and I'm trying as hard as I can to ignore the stacks of presents I have to find a home for, the scraps of wrapping paper my very lonely cat left as reminders of being left behind and the bunch of bills I can't even being to think about how to cover.

I've only managed to deal with pictures from Christmas Eve, since we hit the road after Christmas day for an epic journey across several states, into at least a half dozen houses and with a baby that was alternately the sweetest, most lovable little creature and a small demon sent to terrorize my mortal soul. I think we can say for now that Clementine does not travel well, or at least she doesn't like to sleep in strange beds night after night after spending days with people she doesn't know and not being allowed to stick to any sort of sleep schedule. But those tales will come later. For today, pictures of Chirstmas Eve, when I convinced Nate we should *gasp* try to go to church so Clementine could hear some Christmas carols and maybe even see the nativity play (OK, and maybe I wanted her to be seen in the cutest dress ever). She certainly let us know what she thought of all that by squirming, fussing and crying for the first five minutes of the service so that I spent the remainder of it in the bowels of a very stately church chasing my little devil around. I think it's safe to say that will be our last attempt for a while. We went immediately out for Chinese, where she revived, gorged herself and passed around tons of good cheer:



When we got home, I decided I could wait no longer to open the 7-foot tall box that my mother-in-law had sent. I was nervous it would be some god-awful thing that was important for her to buy, despite our tastes or desires, but we were all very pleasantly surprised to see that she had made the most amazing tee pee, which Clementine fell in love with immediately and now must play in at all times. And, yes, Floyd likes it too...maybe a little too much.



Nate and I killed a bottle of wine while playing Santa. It was more fun than I had imagined to set up the kitchen set we bought her and to arrange presents under the tree, stuff the stocking, etc. Clementine appreciated every effort, and it took us until almost 2 p.m. the next day to open all the carefully wrapped presents. That isn't a sign of wretched excess, just the first hints at what I suppose will be her ultimate rebellion: tidiness. She picked the wrapping paper off a piece at a time and ran back and forth to the garbage can with all the scraps. One present took about 5 minutes, and then of course we had to take it out to play with it.

The excitement I got to see on her face that day was repeated last night when we finally returned home--it was like Christmas all over again as she was reunited with her toys, her tree, her cat, her high chair. She screamed with delight as she ran around and touched everything in the house. And then she was wide awake until after midnight because her schedule is officially fucked, out the window, done. I say it every year and this one is no exception: next year we are totally staying home.