It rained on my way home tonight. Without an umbrella in the car, I was forced to race to my front door barefoot (my dressy shoes would've caused an injury) with my huge diaper bag over one shoulder and a sleeping Rain over the other. I quickly said hello to Tim on my way in (by that I mean I hissed, "It's cold in here!"), and put Rain gently into the crib. I took off her shoes, and she fell back to sleep.
I walked out of the room, and finally go to say a proper hello to Tim, who I hadn't seen all day. A few minutes later, I went to the bathroom. While I was there, I could hear Rain crying. She must've woken up in the dark room and wondered where she was. I heard Tim go into the bedroom to get her. She continued to cry for a bit then stopped. When I stepped out of the bathroom again, Rain was crying.
Tim said, "You want to hear about what kind of abuser she is?"
Sure, I'm always up for that.
"Well," he said, "she started crying, so I went to get her. I tried to walk her around, but she kept crying. So, I took her out to the living room, and when she saw you weren't here, she stopped crying. She started to fall asleep, and then she heard you flush the toilet. Her head shot up, and her face looked like, 'Ha! She's here!'"
So, by the time I opened the door, the waterworks were on. Bad baby! Bad!
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
100 & Rightiest
Today is my 100th post since Rain was born. That's just madness.
Carry on.
So, a moment of reflection is in order, I'm sure. After an incident today, I thought about what the hardest thing about parenting is. I'm sure it's different for everybody, but for me it's "rightiest." Look, I'm a Type B+ personality (not quite as psycho as an A, but definitely prone to overdoing stuff), and that means I'm always torn between doing what's right and rightiest.
Oh, I know my fellow grammarians (halla if you love semicolons) are shouting, "There is no such word!" But, my syntax-loving brethren, let me explain. Sometimes I find myself debating what I think is right versus what I feel is right. I can't say one is "more right," because then it feels like I'm saying one choice is wrong. Neither choice seems wrong, but one seems rightier. For example, let's say I'm working on a business project at home. After a few minutes, I really get into it, and here comes Rain. She toddles in with her two very cute teeth, a smile, and a look like, "So ... are we going outside now? I've been playing quietly for a while now." She got these big cheeks, right? And she's all giggling like, "How fun am I? Who wouldn't want to play with me?" There I am thinking about all the work I have to do. Don't I want to show her a good work ethic by example? Don't I want her to be independent? Isn't some of the money we make going into her piggy bank (and by "piggy bank" I mean high-interest-yielding online savings fund) after all?
It's not that working is bad. Playing with Rain definitely isn't wrong. But what's rightiest?? Let's say someone always picks up extra hours at work to save for her kid's education or just to buy fun stuff for her. Nothing wrong with that. But, if she starts missing all her kid's ball games and whatnot because she works, well, now she's skipping out on good things. Then I'm thinking, "That is SO me. I could work every weekend to pay for Rain's college, and then when I turn 40, someone will hit me with a car. I'll miss all her Saturday games, and still not see her graduate!"
That kind of thinking is downright dangerous. I mean physically dangerous. Several times in Rain's short life I have made bad choices because I get distracted doing something that I think is best. The choice wasn't bad, but it definitely wasn't the rightiest.
Today Rain & I went out for our daily walk. I did the whole mommy thing & put Rain in shorts, bathed her in SPF 50, & brought a sufficient water supply (plus snacks). I put her in her stroller for 15 minutes, then let her walk beside me. She toddled down the sidewalk and walked all over the grass in her spiffy new leather shoes (softies for newbie walkers). After forty minutes, I decided it was time to come in. The heat was too much, & Rain looked sleepy. We were playing in the grassy field in front of our apartment, so thankfully, the walk home would be short.
I was about to slip Rain into her stroller when I noticed a large spider sitting on the fabric hood. I put Rain down next to me and told her, "Mommy has to get this guy out of your seat, then we'll go home." I shook the fabric for a second, but the spider didn't move. I frowned, shook the fabric again, and the spider jumped to the grass.
"Yay!" I said to Rain.
Who was no longer there.
I looked up, and there Rain was, toddling 12-15 feet from me. In the few seconds I was messing with the spider, Rain had run towards our apartment door. The front of our first-floor apartment is much lower than the surrounding landscape, so it looks as if you're going underground when you walk up to our door. The problem was that to get to our apartment Rain would have go down a stairwell. On either side of this stairwell is a 3-4 ft drop-off. Below that is nothing but cement and stone landscaping.
As I saw Rain toddle towards the edge of the drop-off, 3 things happened:
One, even though I took off running, I knew I would never make it. She was too far ahead of me.
Two, I felt instant guilt. This is the day, I thought, where I screw up our lives. She'll break her neck, and I'll kill myself.
Three, I screamed, "RAINNNNN!"
Now, when I say, "Rain!" from time to time--let's say, when she runs off with my car keys--Rain always runs faster. Even when I'm annoyed because she's spilling something across the carpet, she runs because she thinks it's a game. To her, calling after her is a sign you want to play chase.
But, when I shouted, "RAINNNNN!" I tell you my soul was in it. I screamed that scream that people do when horror is inevitable. Anyone outside probably turned to look.
Rain stopped, looked back at me, and I tackled her. I was thrilled, mad, happy, & scared. "Thank you, God!" I said. I told Rain, "Your Father was watching out for you, because your mommy is an idiot." I know I'm not an idiot, but I felt like one. I was mad for making the right decision to rid Rain's stroller of the spider, but not the rightiest one: watching her. I should've held her hand while I was distracted or kept her in front of me. Every few weeks something like that happens, and I feel lousy. I try to do the right thing but plenty of times it's not the rightiest thing.
... Wowzers, I could never be an inspirational speaker. I'm getting a weight off my chest by tossing it on my back! Yikes. Ok, on the upside, welp, Rain's a pretty happy & healthy kid. During the 99 posts before this, I can say Rain & me have had a great, although unpredictable, time. The only one who could say anything different would be Rain.
And she can't type.
Carry on.
So, a moment of reflection is in order, I'm sure. After an incident today, I thought about what the hardest thing about parenting is. I'm sure it's different for everybody, but for me it's "rightiest." Look, I'm a Type B+ personality (not quite as psycho as an A, but definitely prone to overdoing stuff), and that means I'm always torn between doing what's right and rightiest.
Oh, I know my fellow grammarians (halla if you love semicolons) are shouting, "There is no such word!" But, my syntax-loving brethren, let me explain. Sometimes I find myself debating what I think is right versus what I feel is right. I can't say one is "more right," because then it feels like I'm saying one choice is wrong. Neither choice seems wrong, but one seems rightier. For example, let's say I'm working on a business project at home. After a few minutes, I really get into it, and here comes Rain. She toddles in with her two very cute teeth, a smile, and a look like, "So ... are we going outside now? I've been playing quietly for a while now." She got these big cheeks, right? And she's all giggling like, "How fun am I? Who wouldn't want to play with me?" There I am thinking about all the work I have to do. Don't I want to show her a good work ethic by example? Don't I want her to be independent? Isn't some of the money we make going into her piggy bank (and by "piggy bank" I mean high-interest-yielding online savings fund) after all?
It's not that working is bad. Playing with Rain definitely isn't wrong. But what's rightiest?? Let's say someone always picks up extra hours at work to save for her kid's education or just to buy fun stuff for her. Nothing wrong with that. But, if she starts missing all her kid's ball games and whatnot because she works, well, now she's skipping out on good things. Then I'm thinking, "That is SO me. I could work every weekend to pay for Rain's college, and then when I turn 40, someone will hit me with a car. I'll miss all her Saturday games, and still not see her graduate!"
That kind of thinking is downright dangerous. I mean physically dangerous. Several times in Rain's short life I have made bad choices because I get distracted doing something that I think is best. The choice wasn't bad, but it definitely wasn't the rightiest.
Today Rain & I went out for our daily walk. I did the whole mommy thing & put Rain in shorts, bathed her in SPF 50, & brought a sufficient water supply (plus snacks). I put her in her stroller for 15 minutes, then let her walk beside me. She toddled down the sidewalk and walked all over the grass in her spiffy new leather shoes (softies for newbie walkers). After forty minutes, I decided it was time to come in. The heat was too much, & Rain looked sleepy. We were playing in the grassy field in front of our apartment, so thankfully, the walk home would be short.
I was about to slip Rain into her stroller when I noticed a large spider sitting on the fabric hood. I put Rain down next to me and told her, "Mommy has to get this guy out of your seat, then we'll go home." I shook the fabric for a second, but the spider didn't move. I frowned, shook the fabric again, and the spider jumped to the grass.
"Yay!" I said to Rain.
Who was no longer there.
I looked up, and there Rain was, toddling 12-15 feet from me. In the few seconds I was messing with the spider, Rain had run towards our apartment door. The front of our first-floor apartment is much lower than the surrounding landscape, so it looks as if you're going underground when you walk up to our door. The problem was that to get to our apartment Rain would have go down a stairwell. On either side of this stairwell is a 3-4 ft drop-off. Below that is nothing but cement and stone landscaping.
As I saw Rain toddle towards the edge of the drop-off, 3 things happened:
One, even though I took off running, I knew I would never make it. She was too far ahead of me.
Two, I felt instant guilt. This is the day, I thought, where I screw up our lives. She'll break her neck, and I'll kill myself.
Three, I screamed, "RAINNNNN!"
Now, when I say, "Rain!" from time to time--let's say, when she runs off with my car keys--Rain always runs faster. Even when I'm annoyed because she's spilling something across the carpet, she runs because she thinks it's a game. To her, calling after her is a sign you want to play chase.
But, when I shouted, "RAINNNNN!" I tell you my soul was in it. I screamed that scream that people do when horror is inevitable. Anyone outside probably turned to look.
Rain stopped, looked back at me, and I tackled her. I was thrilled, mad, happy, & scared. "Thank you, God!" I said. I told Rain, "Your Father was watching out for you, because your mommy is an idiot." I know I'm not an idiot, but I felt like one. I was mad for making the right decision to rid Rain's stroller of the spider, but not the rightiest one: watching her. I should've held her hand while I was distracted or kept her in front of me. Every few weeks something like that happens, and I feel lousy. I try to do the right thing but plenty of times it's not the rightiest thing.
... Wowzers, I could never be an inspirational speaker. I'm getting a weight off my chest by tossing it on my back! Yikes. Ok, on the upside, welp, Rain's a pretty happy & healthy kid. During the 99 posts before this, I can say Rain & me have had a great, although unpredictable, time. The only one who could say anything different would be Rain.
And she can't type.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
War of the Wills
Rain, honey, put those pants down. We don't touch things that aren't ours. Put those pants down now, please, before--are you trying to match it??
Come on, sweetie, smile for the picture. Your great grandma and auntie were nice enough to send you a gift, so how 'bout a smile? Keep your hat on, please. Smile. Keep your hat on. Smile. Keep your hat on ...
Rain! No more clothes. Didn't I say no more already?
Wait for mommy, please. Wait for mommy. WAIT for mommy. WAIT FOR MOMMY!!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Bowling
A few weeks ago, I bought a toddler-sized wooden bowling set. It was sorta too cute to pass up (c'mon, wooden toy in useful/coordinated tote? Sold!), and I thought I could try to teach Rain how to play something different. Our first lesson went something like this:
Step 1: Wowee! Bowling is too fun!
I decided I'd have to show her how fun bowling could be, so I wildly cheered and hollered as I rolled the ball across the floor. My exaggerated expressions proved to her that, clearly, she was missing out.
Step 2: Create suspense
"1 ... 2 ... 3!" I exclaimed, and rolled the ball towards the pins. "Look at the ball hit the pins!" Anyone who has done this with a baby or puppy knows the frustration of pointing to something and saying, "Don't look at my finger, look at what I'm pointing at. No, not my finger, that, that!"
Step 3: Demonstrate prowess
I hit one pin, and Rain's brow lowered in puzzlement. Was this a good thing? Was it an accident? I hit two pins at once, and her mouth made a big O. That's right, kiddo: Mama is a pro. Be glad we're not taking bets.
Step 4: Train apprentice
I put the ball in Rain's hand. "1 ... 2 ... 3!" Ball drops to the floor but fails to roll more than a few inches. Surprisingly, Rain understands this was not the goal. Frustration mounts.
Step 5: The student becomes the master
I gave her the ball again. Rain stared at it. After a moment, she dropped the ball. She toddled over to the pins and kicked them all down. Problem solved.
Step 1: Wowee! Bowling is too fun!
I decided I'd have to show her how fun bowling could be, so I wildly cheered and hollered as I rolled the ball across the floor. My exaggerated expressions proved to her that, clearly, she was missing out.
Step 2: Create suspense
"1 ... 2 ... 3!" I exclaimed, and rolled the ball towards the pins. "Look at the ball hit the pins!" Anyone who has done this with a baby or puppy knows the frustration of pointing to something and saying, "Don't look at my finger, look at what I'm pointing at. No, not my finger, that, that!"
Step 3: Demonstrate prowess
I hit one pin, and Rain's brow lowered in puzzlement. Was this a good thing? Was it an accident? I hit two pins at once, and her mouth made a big O. That's right, kiddo: Mama is a pro. Be glad we're not taking bets.
Step 4: Train apprentice
I put the ball in Rain's hand. "1 ... 2 ... 3!" Ball drops to the floor but fails to roll more than a few inches. Surprisingly, Rain understands this was not the goal. Frustration mounts.
Step 5: The student becomes the master
I gave her the ball again. Rain stared at it. After a moment, she dropped the ball. She toddled over to the pins and kicked them all down. Problem solved.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Every Time I Turn Around!
Where is the reason, the logic?? Two weeks ago, at her own birthday party, Rain had NO teeth. Now she has TWO with a possible third peeking through. Every time I turn around, that kid's got a tooth coming in. 'Bout time!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Lump
A few posts ago, I mentioned a special project I'm working on. The project will be ready to view in about another week, but here is a little something related to it ...
So, I was running errands for the house last week (something I do every day now), and decided it was time to finally get the tires balanced on my car. I had to, because any time I went past 65 miles an hour (and that's the bare minimum in Texas), my steering wheel started to rattle. Anyway, there I was at the tire shop trying to keep Rain entertained without bothering the other customers.
Rain wanted to walk everywhere and see everyone. Most people are cool with a toddler standing 2 feet away and just staring (they may smile and whatnot), but others decidedly don't want children even looking at them. So, I had to trail her the whole time making apologies. Even when I let her play with her toy puppy (a singing dog that I loathe & love, depending on my patience for repetition that day), she sat for a minute before tossing the thing aside. Out of desperation, I let her sit on my lap & empty out her diaper bag, something she thoroughly enjoys.
Her hairbrush was there, so I decided to give her hair a once-over. Her back was towards me, and I hoped the soft brushing would distract her.
It was me who would needed the distracting. Behind Rain's ear, on her skull, was a lump. A hard lump the size of a dime. I was surprised, and worse, could tell the thing wasn't a bruise or temporary injury of any sort. I checked the rest of her head for similar lumps, but there was only the one. I waited, oh, about 2 seconds before calling Rain's doctor while mumbling, "What is it? What is it?"
I think every newbie parent has had the moment where part of your inner voice says, "Hey, calm down. Be a mom and settle yourself down before you freak your kid out, too." The other part of your inner voice, the completely panic-stricken side, wants to scream and call your mommy. The fear sets in quickly, because it was already there. We've all had lifetime experiences with this: a child-like trust that a thing, a person, or a relationship is forever, and bam! It's forcefully taken away, and we never want to be that foolish again. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was a sucker, right?
Forget Darwin. This isn't about wanting a species to continue. If that was the case, I'd have 10 kids (wow, I can hear Tim choking on his coffee from here). Every kid, every single one, is irreplaceable, and from the moment a baby comes home from the hospital, we have a whispered terror that he or she, too, will be something taken away. Oh, sure, the rational side tells us our children will be fine and outlive us by many years, but what if? What if??
OK, I'm going to stop now. I'm working myself up all over again. I called the doctor's office, and a nurse told me, "If it gets bigger, call us." What? Lady, I'm not talking about my iguana, I'm talking about my kid!
Ugh.
I'm going to continue to follow her advice for 1 more week, then I'm succumbing to the inner voice whose advice begins with, "Contact the American Academy of Pediatrics ..."
So, I was running errands for the house last week (something I do every day now), and decided it was time to finally get the tires balanced on my car. I had to, because any time I went past 65 miles an hour (and that's the bare minimum in Texas), my steering wheel started to rattle. Anyway, there I was at the tire shop trying to keep Rain entertained without bothering the other customers.
Rain wanted to walk everywhere and see everyone. Most people are cool with a toddler standing 2 feet away and just staring (they may smile and whatnot), but others decidedly don't want children even looking at them. So, I had to trail her the whole time making apologies. Even when I let her play with her toy puppy (a singing dog that I loathe & love, depending on my patience for repetition that day), she sat for a minute before tossing the thing aside. Out of desperation, I let her sit on my lap & empty out her diaper bag, something she thoroughly enjoys.
Her hairbrush was there, so I decided to give her hair a once-over. Her back was towards me, and I hoped the soft brushing would distract her.
It was me who would needed the distracting. Behind Rain's ear, on her skull, was a lump. A hard lump the size of a dime. I was surprised, and worse, could tell the thing wasn't a bruise or temporary injury of any sort. I checked the rest of her head for similar lumps, but there was only the one. I waited, oh, about 2 seconds before calling Rain's doctor while mumbling, "What is it? What is it?"
I think every newbie parent has had the moment where part of your inner voice says, "Hey, calm down. Be a mom and settle yourself down before you freak your kid out, too." The other part of your inner voice, the completely panic-stricken side, wants to scream and call your mommy. The fear sets in quickly, because it was already there. We've all had lifetime experiences with this: a child-like trust that a thing, a person, or a relationship is forever, and bam! It's forcefully taken away, and we never want to be that foolish again. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was a sucker, right?
Forget Darwin. This isn't about wanting a species to continue. If that was the case, I'd have 10 kids (wow, I can hear Tim choking on his coffee from here). Every kid, every single one, is irreplaceable, and from the moment a baby comes home from the hospital, we have a whispered terror that he or she, too, will be something taken away. Oh, sure, the rational side tells us our children will be fine and outlive us by many years, but what if? What if??
OK, I'm going to stop now. I'm working myself up all over again. I called the doctor's office, and a nurse told me, "If it gets bigger, call us." What? Lady, I'm not talking about my iguana, I'm talking about my kid!
Ugh.
I'm going to continue to follow her advice for 1 more week, then I'm succumbing to the inner voice whose advice begins with, "Contact the American Academy of Pediatrics ..."
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday: Get Your Own Rib!
Monday
A quick note on Rain's Memorial Day party, which we had a day before her actual birthday. We had a family-friendly BBQ--complete with kite-flying and bubbles--at a small park. My favorite thing about the whole party was that Rain had a great time. She never cried, though she took an obligatory nap. She walked around and visited with family & friends. By visited, I mean checked their plates for cake and ribs. A great day, really. Next year's party? Anywhere ... but Chuck E. Cheese.
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