Empty

An HCG level of fifteen does not a hospitable uterus make.

I have a retest this morning. Think thoughts of thirty.

But the doctor is not hopeful. And I can’t handle the disappointment again, so I am not either.

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship…

A conversation with the new friend Charlie and I met on the swings today:

Friend: “What do you do?”

Me: “I’m working on my dissertation in wi*nd scie*nce but I’d rather be a lactation consultant. What about you?”

Friend: “I have a masters degree in clinical psychology but what I really want is to be a yoga instructor.”

She LOVED my line about Charlie doing the standing sun salute in utero. (which I made before I knew of her career aspirations, hello I am not that desperate)

(Except that I am and I would have done an entire standing sun salute right there on the playground if it meant a new friend who lives nearby)

She gave me her card. But only after I pushed Charlie on the swing for so long he was looking at me like “Sorry to interrupt you Mother, but I seem to have lost the feeling in my legs. Perhaps we should move to the scary stairs of death or the slide now, hmmmm?”

When Ryan got home I did a little happy dance in a circle around him while waving the card enticingly just out of his reach and chanting “I got a numbah! I got a numbah!” He may have thought I was having a seizure.

So anyway, I just emailed her an upbeat “So nice to meet you this afternoon, let’s have coffee sometime soon!” Which I think is an improvement from my rough draft “Will you be my friend?” with little check boxes for yes or no. I don’t know enough HTML to make that work in an email.

GOOD MORNING!!

Ooooh, it feels so good. Blazing fast reliable internet after two and a half weeks of “sharing” some stranger’s extremely unreliable wireless network. It’s delightful. Of course we can’t find our wireless router so I can only sit three feet away from the modem. But I don’t care. You know what else? Cable. Yes. I’m watching A Wedding Story now and just finished up two episodes of Bringing Home Baby. Charlie’s napping. I’ve unpacked three boxes, sorted all Charlie’s clothes, put away the too small and out of season ones, stuffed all the BumGenius diapers, done two loads of laundry, AND brushed my teeth. I’ve eaten a banana, a cookie, and a piece of whole wheat bread with hippie peanut butter on it.

And I haven’t had any caffeine. It’s day three. Day one was alright because I had a lot of donuts and cookies. I almost committed several felonies on day two. So far so good today. But I haven’t tried to drive anywhere. I’m saving tons of money now that The Big Green Coffee Shop is out of my pockets.

Maybe this is sort of what it’s like when a smoker quits and can run up a flight of stairs without getting winded. I can think straight. RIGHT WHEN I WAKE UP! Wild.

The weather has finally improved after being in the low 40s and raining all weekend so maybe we’ll go to the park this afternoon. Or maybe I’ll still be doing laundry. We’ve had houseguests for two weeks so I’m a little behind on everything.

I wish I had more to say, but I’m booorrring. Last night Ryan and I stole a couple of minutes to go to the grocery store together to buy paper and pens. Ro-maaannn-tic. He didn’t make any comments when I bought more cookie dough, I turned down the radio when Delilah came back on… it’s the little things that make a relationship special.

Gratitude

Thanksgiving, and the accompanying deluge of advertising suggesting you celebrate the birth of our Savior (or the miracle of the provision of the oil for the consecration of the Temple, did I get that right?) by buying a six-thousand dollar TV made me reflect on how much I really have to be grateful for and how little I really need. My material needs have all been met. I have a reliable car, a warm place to live, more than enough to eat, and plenty of clothing in good condition that will serve me for years to come. I have a great (warm, kind, sexy) husband who loves me and whose job pays enough that I can finish my dissertation (last post’s temper tantrum notwithstanding) part time while still getting to stay home with Charlie much of the time and an adorable, healthy little boy. There is nothing more that I need.

Thanksgiving was fun. We had seventeen at the table. Four generations. Charlie ate his turkey chopped and mixed with mashed potatoes and he has an insatiable taste for cranberry sauce. After dinner the little cousins made paper airplanes from plans in the Dangerous Book for Boys while everyone else sat around the table enjoying eachother’s company. Thanks to a cold front that passed through Wednesday afternoon it felt like November outside and when Ryan and I took a very bundled up Charlie to the park to go on the swings there were families playing football in their coats and nice clothes. One dad stopped and said he recognized us from church and wished us a happy Thanksgiving.

It was perfect!

Oh, and to Mr. Anonymous, who leaves mean-spirited comments on blogs under the guise of a “helpful suggestion”: Your indicates possession while you’re is a contraction of the two words you and are. Therefore your comment made no sense and I was forced to delete it.

Shame.

My sister just changed careers. With my family’s cheerful encouragement and support.

I’m happy for her. Her last job was ridiculous and she was miserable. And the new one sounds really neat and has lots of potential.

One question. How miserable do I have to be before I will have my family’s cheerful support in making a change?

How many days have to end in frustrated tears? How many humiliating meetings with my advisor? How many creative answers to questions about my progress from well-meaning family members? How many more fake smiles and artificial conversations about how great it is to be stuck with this decision I made for myself more than four years ago, before marriage, before motherhood?

I am ashamed to want to quit. Much has been invested in me finishing. So although there is no future for me in this career in South. And we are paying for daycare though I make no income. And Charlie learned to shake his head “no” at daycare which makes me think he hears it a lot (I’m not one of those people. But it still makes me worry). I will find some way to drag myself through the rest of this process.

But it won’t be for me.

When all else fails, it’s time to trick your baby

Charlie, since he has my DNA, has an aversion to protein foods that are not scrambled eggs. He would happily eat nothing but organic whole grain flax seed waffles (which are exactly like ordinary toaster waffles except they taste terrible and cost twice as much), yogurt, bananas, applesauce, and pears if I would just stop being so mean and let him. He once ate an entire double egg breakfast taco (a tortilla wrapped around about four scrambled eggs) the other day. In the morning I have to give him his banana first and then carefully remove the waffle from the freezer, hide it behind my back, walk sideways over to the toaster, stealthily slide the waffle in and push the button, then remove the cooked waffle to cool. If he sees that waffle it is o-v-e-r for the banana. Tonight I took the empty waffle box out of the freezer in front of him and he sat on the floor clapping and laughing and signing “more” until he realized I was throwing the box away and not making him one. And then he was MAD. Which is really quite funny.

I’ve been trying to coax him into eating some more of what the pediatrician describes as “table foods” and thinks Charlie is capable of eating exclusively. Tonight I put him in the highchair, cut up some chicken breast into tiny pieces suitable to his toothless mouth, and put the chicken and some peas and carrots on his tray. I then moved to another part of the kitchen because I learned from Amalah that the worst thing you can do is act like you care what he eats. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he put a piece of chicken in his mouth, became enraged, and then flung it onto the floor to our dog. Stifling a laugh, I watched as he did the same thing with a pea and then a carrot. And then a few pieces of Vermont Cheddar that I put on there. Then I sprinkled some Cheerios among the debris on his tray hoping a few things would get in accidentally. Instead I learned that I have underestimated Charlie’s sorting and fine motor skills. The same thing happened last night with chicken, rice (which he eats at restaraunts but not at home), and blueberries.

When Ryan came home tonight he got out our food chopper, chopped up about an adult sized portion of chicken, mixed it with a tub of Gerber carrots, and gave it to Charlie who sucked the whole thing down like it was candy.

WHO’S THE MAN NOW?!

This morning I took Charlie with me to buy some donuts for my grandparents, who are staying with us for Thanksgiving (four generations are living in one house right now, it’s pretty cool). I bought some donut holes and gave him one to try in the car before we left. He carefully chewed it up and when I couldn’t see anything more in his mouth I asked if he was all done. He enthusiastically signed “All Done”, so I closed his door and walked around to the driver’s side. Clearly I misunderstood him when he signed all done because his angry screams could be heard outside the car before I opened my door. He calmed down after several minutes and then the sugar hit him. He started yelling “YA YA YA YA YA” and talking to himself as we drove home. I hid the bag after he had a few more donut holes at home. But apparently I didn’t hide it well enough to keep myself from polishing off the rest of them myself.

And that’s why it only cost $4

I have this shirt that I bought from the Gap a few months ago. It is black and fitted and has a few little buttons in the front and is comfy. And it was $4. Perfect!

You know how when you buy a fancy dress or low rise jeans you always make sure you can sit down in the item before you buy it? I think next time I buy a shirt I am going to spend a few minutes carrying Charlie around to make sure the shirt’s neckline does not allow him to expose my entire bra without me noticing. Like he did at Little Gym on Saturday when I was this close to making a new friend. A new friend who now knows I wear a bra with so much coverage I could use the extra material to make a new pair of pants.**

The potential new friend is not the same woman I had this pre-Birds Class conversation with though:

Her: “My Justin is sixteen months old, he’s the oldest boy in this class! How old is your little one?”

Me: “He just turned one a few weeks ago.”

Her: “Well I guess Justin isn’t the oldest anymore, then!”

Me: blink…blink…blink…turn slowly, pretend to fuss with invisible spot on Charlie’s shirt

Now Ryan and I have a little routine where I say “I guess Justin’s not the oldest anymore, is he?” in a fake cheerful sing-songy voice and Ryan says “WTF?!” and then stares at me with his mouth partway open.

**not that I’m complaining… this thing is straight out of the Oprah bra-makover-lose-ten-pounds-instantly show.

Oh Poop.

So yesterday I dragged Charlie around the mall on a mission to find a good price on Robeez, the adorable and orthopedically correct leather slippers for infants (because his narrow-minded daycare insists he wear shoes to class and also because my mom offered to buy him some because he looks so darn cute in shoes) and when we got home he was conked out in his carseat. I carried him up to his room and changed his diaper. The thought of putting his shorts back on briefly crossed my mind, as he has been known to escape from his diaper before, but I thought that since he was so tired he would go to sleep quickly without any diaper hyjinx.

A little PSA to my two or three readers who are expecting little ones… NEVER PUT THEM IN THEIR CRIB WITHOUT SOMETHING BETWEEN THEIR LITTLE HANDS AND THOSE DELIGHTFULLY TEMPTING LITTLE TABS ON THEIR DIAPERS.

I am dumb dumb dumb.

So, about twenty minutes later I was sitting on my coffee table watching Maury (because we can’t find our remote and channel surfing is impossible from the couch) and Charlie started crying. At first I thought he would settle himself down and go back to sleep but then I noticed something different in his voice. Something that said “I removed my pants and am now totally covered in poop. Please come help me, Mama” perhaps?

Yes, that’s exactly what he was saying.

The smell hit me as soon as I got to his door. I carried him (at arms length) over to his changing table and looked at the tiny box of wipes and then back at his long, chubby, poop encrusted legs AND arms. Not only would wipes not work, I would almost certainly get poop all over myself in the process and since I only have three shirts that I like I couldn’t take that chance.

Silently cursing myself for feeding him black beans for lunch, I took him into the bathroom (which thankfully does not yet have a rug in it) stripped him down, and put him straight into a bubble bath. He did not object. Once he was clean and dry and dressed in both a tshirt AND shorts, I started on his crib. Everything (bumper, sheet, blankie, Phent, pacifiers) went into the washing machine. I went back upstairs and found more poop on the floor, the wall, the bars of the crib, all over the changing table, and on the bathroom floor. Oh, and on my shorts where he was playing with the hem while I was getting his bath ready.

I found a little more IN HIS EYEBROW later in the harsh glare of the lights at the grocery store. I licked my finger and dabbed at it and smiled at the other mothers like “Heh heh, kids can’t eat anything without getting it everywhere.” Which in an indirect way is true I guess.

He will be sleeping in thumbless mittens from now on.

BAM!

Dear Dr. Lastname,

(what the hell??)

I am writing to ask if you would be willing to review a manuscript for the Journal of Sciencey Gobbledygook.

(Wha?)

The manuscript title is “Hard hard hard scary sort of related to your research.” Please let me know within the next few days if you will be able to take this on.

(Uhhhhh…)

Sincerely,

Editor

(Uhhhhh…)

I IMed Dr. Advisor and told him I’d decline and pass along his name and he said “You are qualified to do this but you may not be comfortable critically reviewing a paper at this time.” Orrrrr maaaybe they wouldn’t be comfortable with ME because they THINK I ALREADY HAVE A PHD!! Maybe it would be like that time I went on a field project trip as an “expert in residential construction” and ended up sitting in the back and writing down field notes the whole time. Educational for me, disappointing for them.

Yeah.

But still, pretty cool! Almost makes the ENTIRE DAY I spent making histograms yesterday seem less asinine.

I like to leave myself encouraging little sentiments in my research notes at the end of each day