This morning, there was a horrible baby poop incident. Just a few minutes ago, I was in the bathroom and happened to glance in the mirror, which is when I noticed the brown smudge on my shirt. Poop? Quite possibly. I was walking around in that shirt for hours. I have now sunk to an all-time new low.
Sometimes motherhood stinks.
I’ve had so much to say lately, but so little energy. I just haven’t been able to force any blog posts out. I hardly know where to start with catching up, but I guess there’s one obvious place—I’m pregnant. I’ll be 10 weeks on Tuesday.
This turn of events was quite a shock to my system. Emotionally, I was all over the map. My husband and I hadn’t yet decided whether or not we wanted a second child, but were both learning toward not. Now the decision had been made for us. Both of us reacted with a sort of disbelief. Everything indicated that we were pregnant, but it wasn’t until I saw the ultrasound that I really accepted it, and I think my husband is still having a hard time wrapping his head around this new fact of our lives.
And then there’s the physical aspect of it. I was immediately nauseous, plagued with digestive problems, and fatigued. I spent hours at a time on the couch, too tired and sick to move. I’m feeling a little better, but on some days exhaustion still sneaks out of nowhere to drag me down, and the digestive issues just won’t stop. I felt great during most of my first pregnancy, so at least there is the hope that I’ll get better soon.
My belly is growing fast. I barely showed during the first 3-4 months with Marshall, but this time, for anyone with the will to see, I’m noticeably pregnant. We’re not planning to announce it at Marshall’s birthday party, but there’s a chance the news will come out anyway. If it does, it does.
For the record, we’re hoping for a girl. It’s our last shot at a daughter and my parents’ last shot at a granddaughter. That doesn’t mean we’d be upset about a boy, though. We’ll take what we get and be happy.
So now I’ve broken that big piece of news. It feels good to get it out. Maybe now I can get some other blog posts written. Wish me the energy!
The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin
Grade: B+
I have been thinking for a while about how to be a happier person. When this book came out, I hadn’t yet considered a systematic approach, but it sounded like an interesting idea, so interesting that I almost purchased the book. But instead, I requested it from the library and had to wait weeks for a copy to become available. Having to wait for it gave me high expectations, perhaps too high.
In the early pages of the book, I felt that the author, Gretchen, and I must have a lot in common. We seem to have many of the same problems in life and similar approaches to those problems. But it was also a way in which we are alike that kept me from loving this book.
You see, Gretchen gets bogged down in the details. I suspect that she, like me, is a detail-oriented perfectionist. She feels the need to cover every base, no matter how uninteresting or inconsequential, and parts of the book were rather dull as a result. It pains me to criticize her for this, both because she is like me and because she kept making a point of being true to herself, but that’s just the way it is.
And a major way in which we are different also dimmed my enjoyment. For each month, she decided to focus on one aspect of happiness, such as energy, money, attitude, mindfulness, etc. In some cases, I didn’t agree with the month’s theme. In other cases, the theme was fine, but the approach was very different from that which I would have taken. In these cases, her endeavors seemed pointless to me, so I didn’t enjoy reading about them. For example, one month she tried starting a collection just for the sake of having a collection. Crazy! It was even crazier given that she had spent one of her previous months getting rid of all her clutter. Me, I have several collections, but only because I like them, and I certainly would never advocate cluttering up one’s house or spending money on anything one doesn’t really want.
So while I think Gretchen’s project was a good idea, and I am happy that she feels happier after completing it, the book about it is only so-so.
Dear Marshall,
Sometimes when I’m feeding you dinner, one of us will start laughing, and then the other will start laughing back. We’ll sit there giggling for a while. I don’t know what we’re laughing about. Perhaps you know, but you never say.
Do we even need a reason to laugh? I guess not. Laughter for its own sake is fun. I never realized that before.
I’m so glad we can make each other laugh.
Love,
Mom
Dear Marshall,
You were sitting in your highchair, snacking on Cheerios, while your father was making your lunch. You were starting to get impatient, so I waved to you and said, “Hi, Marshall.” And you know what you did? You waved back at me and said, “Hi!” At least I think you said it. I tried to get you to repeat it, but you were more interested in your cereal.
Cheerio!
Mom
The first time I encountered a recipe with polenta, I followed the instructions for cooking it the old-fashioned way, thinking “how hard can it be?” What I didn’t realize is that polenta is Italian for “sore arms.” Well, not really, but just try stirring that thick, heavy stuff for 20 minutes straight. You will never need to pay for a gym membership again.
The quick-cooking kind is better for those of us who have neither the time nor the upper-body strength required for the old-fashioned kind, but just because it cooks fast doesn’t mean its harmless.
“Warning: cooking polenta may be hazardous to your health.”
That’s what the cooking instructions should say. Get distracted while you’re cooking it and the next thing you know, hot polenta is shooting out of the pan in all directions. You see, polenta is so thick that steam gets trapped inside and when it builds up enough pressure to escape, kapow! It’s like Pompeii all over again.
Death by Darjeeling by Laura Childs
Grade: C+
I love tea. I love cozy mysteries. So I thought this would be an ideal book. But what I got was a primer on how not to write a book. For example, I would not want to…
This story about a Charleston teashop owner who investigates a murder isn’t horrible, but I believe you’d be more satisfied buying a nice Darjeeling to sip while reading some other book.
The Puzzle Lady vs. the Sudoku Lady by Parnell Hall
Grade: B-
I bought this book because I am a puzzle lady and I wanted to read about myself. I was disappointed to find that I was a smart but cranky old lady who wasn’t very kind. Geez. Maybe the author really was writing about me. The cranky part is certainly accurate! 😉
The story is complicated and not particularly interesting, but I will try to give you some idea of what it’s about. The basic premise is that Minami, a sudoku constructor from Japan, comes to America to challenge Cora, the Puzzle Lady, to a crime-solving contest. Cora isn’t interested but ends up in a competition with Minami anyway. People die. Puzzles give clues. Yada yada.
There are four puzzles in the book: two crosswords and two sudoku puzzles. The crosswords are actually pretty good. The beauty of crossword puzzles is that each one is unique, so there is something to be gained by solving those that you come across. Sudoku puzzles, on the other hand, are all pretty much the same. Some are easy, some hard, but they all solve the same way and so I did not feel the need to do these particular puzzles.
One thing that particularly bothered me about the author’s style, and that I have seen elsewhere but never in such abundance, is dialogue with no cues to indicate who is speaking. You have to assume that the text in the first set of quotes is the first speaker, the second is the second speaker, the third is the first speaker again, and so forth. That’s fine for a while, but it is possible to lose track of who’s who if the dialogue goes on for a long time. And with nothing but incessant talking, you can’t visualize the story anymore, the characters sort of fade away, and the words are just echoes in the dark.
So I guess you could say that both books taught me about what to avoid as an author. Well, thanks for the lessons, y’all, but I’d really enjoy reading a good, modern cozy mystery for a change. Where, oh where, can I find one?
Dear Marshall,
Your father and I taught you how to wave. The funny thing is that we both realized, as we demonstrated by limp-noodling our hands in the air, that we’re not comfortable waving. There are many styles of wave, and neither of us has ever adopted a “signature” wave. You, however, now have a signature limp-noodle baby wave.
Now that you can walk, you like to do laps around the dining room table. Your father and I encourage you in this activity because it uses up some of your excess energy. Sometimes I crawl after you and we laugh as we go around. Then I turn it into a chase by saying, “Mommy’s coming!” You squeal in delight and jog a little faster. But Mommy always catches up and tickles you, which makes you giggle. Then I let you go and you start again. You’re so eager to play this game that I can initiate a round just by getting down on the floor and crawling. It’s a great way to distract you from being cranky or from trying to play with things that are off-limits.
Wave bye-bye now and run along!
Love,
Mom
Dear Marshall,
You seem to like the sound of my voice. When you were very young, I tried to sing baby songs to you and found that I didn’t know all the words. So I started making up my own songs. Then I couldn’t forget the words, you see, because the lyrics were mine (and subject to change).
First, of course, was the “Pumpkin Song.” Soon after that came “Clean Bum Bum,” which had rather limited lyrics (there were a lot of “bum bums” in it). I probably reached the pinnacle of my songwriting career with “Dancing Diaper Wipe.”
It’s a dancing diaper wipe, a dancing diaper wipe.
It’s dancing just for you.
(Repeat two times)
It flutters. It floats. It flips. It flies.
It’s dancing right before your eyes.
It flutters. It floats. It flips. It flows.
Now it’s right before your toes.
It flutters. It floats. It flips. It flees.
Now it’s right before you knees.
It flutters. It floats. It flips. It flies.
Now it’s back before your eyes.
It’s a dancing diaper wipe, a dancing diaper wipe.
It’s dancing. It’s dancing. It’s dancing just for you!
But let us not forget “Who’s the Cutest Baby?,” which is probably the only one I still sing for you now.
Who’s the cutest baby in the whole wide world?
Marshall is!
Who’s the cutest baby in the universe?
Marshall is!
Who’s the cutest baby of all of time?
Marshall is!
He’s the cutest baby, the cutest baby.
You smile when I sing it to you, and it’s that smile that makes you the cutest baby in the whole wide world.
Maybe when you’re older you will write songs for me. Just not about diaper wipes, ok?
Love,
Mom
Enough with the ultrathin TP, people! What is the point of it? You can double up, even triple up on the stuff, and it’s still thinner than cobwebs. The stuff is so useless, I don’t know why so many companies bother spending their pennies on the pretense.
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