It's now a few weeks into summer break, and we're into a routine of sorts. Marissa gets to go to camp or school of some type for most of the summer. The very last couple of weeks she doesn't, and we'll all go on a road trip. (And you KNOW that will be plenty of fodder for my blog.) Cami has preschool "camp" on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on Thursdays they have water day. Brianna has nothing going on this summer. She's old enough to help out with the baby and to talk on the phone with friends and email and listen to her MP3 player. And occasionally say that she's bored. I think she's smart enough not to say that very much. She'd like to take pottery lessons, which they do at a ceramics store here, but a) that costs money, a pretty good little chunk per lesson, and b) I haven't gotten around to even thinking about really doing it, money notwithstanding. She's mainly eager for school to start. She gets to go to a Catholic private school this year and is very excited. She's already compiled the supply list and has gathered up what she has already and talked to me several times about what she yet needs. And it's only mid-June. Needless to say, I have told her that as much as I appreciate her eagerness, it doesn't rank quite as high on my list of priorities as it does hers. Which means we'll worry about supplies in about 6 weeks. In the meantime, I've got smaller fishies to fry all over the place. Fishies that cry and whine and want stuff all the time.
I have gotten into somewhat of a routine for going to the YMCA and doing my cardio and yoga and getting my book page done at the newspaper once a week, but yesterday I threw a wrench into that by jamming my big toe quite hard. It zings with pain if I brush it against anything, even the sheet on the bed. Even if it's broken, there's nothing to do but wait. And "rest." Ha ha ha ha ha. I can feel the fat creeping onto my hips as I sit, when I DO sit, and I am hoping it heals speedy-quick, as Junie B. would say. (If you haven't read Junie B., you really must. It's hilarious.)
I am hoping/waiting for something profound or profoundly witty to spring forth from my inner muses, but nothing so far. So enjoy the post and know that Charlotte is 7 weeks old now (as of yesterday) and who knows how heavy. She was 9 pounds 10 ounces 2 weeks ago. Her brand-new, tiny infancy is becoming only a memory that makes me nostalgic even now.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Relative merits
I've found myself fascinated by how easy it seems now to take care of a newborn. I can say this even in spite of the occasional desperation I feel at midnight when every ounce of me (not counting how many) is crying out for sleep and the baby is not. I remember the feeling of desperation from each previous baby, especially the first. But even noting this, I am astonished at how much easier it is now.
I haven't read my book lately. Perhaps right now is a good time to get it out. (Let me also note that I -- like many authors, I have found out -- hate to read my own stuff. It becomes disgusting to me after writing it and editing it so many times. I hate it, think it's dreck, etc. I have heard this even from J.K. Rowling and many others, so at least I'm not alone. However, I feel I am absolutely correct in thinking it's dreck, and what was I thinking putting it in print for THE WHOLE WORLD TO READ AND KNOW THAT I AM A TERRIBLE WRITER!!?)
Anyway. Revulsion aside at my writing, it might be instructive, useful, humorous. Or embarrassing. That's what I'm thinking. I remember experiencing it and I remember writing about it. And I'm a bit embarrassed on one hand to think that I had such a rough time adjusting to tiny little person put into my care. It's not so bad now. But it sure as heck was then. I was such an amateur! But the nice thing is I have grown. Look at me! no hands! I'm a decent mother now. Who woulda thunk?
It's easier for several very good reasons. I'm sure there are others, but here are ones that spring immediately to mind: 1) I've done this three times before. I recognize what cries mean or I can guess pretty easily what baby needs. The choices are pretty limited. It's simple elimination. 2) I am not breast-feeding. This is a biggie, I think. I can hand baby over to someone else (see reason 3) and take off and live a fairly normal life without being tethered so completely. 3) I have four helpers. Two very useful ones. The other two not so incredibly useful but at least they're something. Marce is completely useful. Brianna is pretty much so. She can do things on her own but still is a bit baffled by how to calm fussy baby, which I seem to have down pat. (see number 1.)
I am really thinking in light of number 3 that I should have had this many useful helpers around when I had baby number 1. This is great stuff. But then reasons 1 and 2 play a significant role as well, so 3 isn't a stand-alone.
In the same vein, I also have been thinking about the relative merits of having one, two, three and four children. One is very hard because it's the first and you're completely without experience. But there's only one. But ... without the experience, it might as well be five. Having two is pretty hard because usually the first is only a couple of years old and is still pretty demanding and you have two little ones demanding all that one would demand. Twice as hard. Three isn't too bad. The first two keep each other busy, both are usually at least old enough to kind of take care of themselves, or the first can help out the second. You can go back to focusing on the one while the other two are somewhat under control (this is relative, mind you). Four is pretty nice because it's not much different than three; the same arguments apply, and by this time, time-wise, the oldest may actually be of some real value to you as "mommy's little helper," rather than the jokey way older ladies ask you when you have your second child, "Is (number one offspring) being Mommy's Little Helper?" (ha! Are you kidding? See argument for having two children ...) And of course, enough time has passed that they're all older and autonomous. 11-year-old, in my case, is helpful. 8-year-old takes care of herself just fine. 5-year-old is old enough to listen and understand and sometimes obey when told to leave Mommy alone because she desperately needs to nap because while everyone else was asleep last night, she was awake with baby Charlotte. So 5-year-old is old enough to understand and sometimes leave Mommy alone. In the case of today, she understands but doesn't obey. Arrgh. But try getting a 2-year-old to do that. That's definitely not possible. At least it is in the realm of possibility of a 5-year-old. If you see what I'm saying.
Lastly, I'm mostly astonished at how quickly time goes now. With Brianna, my first, who is now a beautiful and mostly helpful young lady, I thought time had slowed down to a crawl. I thought she would never get big or old enough to stop crying all the time and stop wanting me to hold her all the time, never give me time to myself, never ... all kinds of things. Now I'm absolutely amazed that she ever was that small. I can barely remember that. She's so grown up. Where did the time go? And watching Charlotte grow so quickly (she's up to 9 pounds 10 ounces as of yesterday), I am already, at 5 weeks, wishing she would slow down. I didn't get to appreciate her enough when she was only a few days old. Or a week old. Or two weeks. She's filled out so much. She's no longer that tiny, scrawny newborn that's all cheeks. Where did the time go? It's all going too fast. Sure, I'll be happy when she sleeps through the night, but at this stage of life, I'm not in any rush to make that time come too soon. Because that will mean I will be pining for her to be this size again, when she was only a month old and just beginning to smile fully and coo and talk to us. I am wise enough and experienced enough -- after all, those two qualities go hand in hand -- to know that time is going way too fast as it is. I don't want to speed it up anymore. I want it to slow down long enough for me to savor it, to get a good stop-motion picture that I can treasure forever.
And now I head off to bed, where I will hopefully rest peacefully while Marce takes care of our little sweetheart during the night.
I haven't read my book lately. Perhaps right now is a good time to get it out. (Let me also note that I -- like many authors, I have found out -- hate to read my own stuff. It becomes disgusting to me after writing it and editing it so many times. I hate it, think it's dreck, etc. I have heard this even from J.K. Rowling and many others, so at least I'm not alone. However, I feel I am absolutely correct in thinking it's dreck, and what was I thinking putting it in print for THE WHOLE WORLD TO READ AND KNOW THAT I AM A TERRIBLE WRITER!!?)
Anyway. Revulsion aside at my writing, it might be instructive, useful, humorous. Or embarrassing. That's what I'm thinking. I remember experiencing it and I remember writing about it. And I'm a bit embarrassed on one hand to think that I had such a rough time adjusting to tiny little person put into my care. It's not so bad now. But it sure as heck was then. I was such an amateur! But the nice thing is I have grown. Look at me! no hands! I'm a decent mother now. Who woulda thunk?
It's easier for several very good reasons. I'm sure there are others, but here are ones that spring immediately to mind: 1) I've done this three times before. I recognize what cries mean or I can guess pretty easily what baby needs. The choices are pretty limited. It's simple elimination. 2) I am not breast-feeding. This is a biggie, I think. I can hand baby over to someone else (see reason 3) and take off and live a fairly normal life without being tethered so completely. 3) I have four helpers. Two very useful ones. The other two not so incredibly useful but at least they're something. Marce is completely useful. Brianna is pretty much so. She can do things on her own but still is a bit baffled by how to calm fussy baby, which I seem to have down pat. (see number 1.)
I am really thinking in light of number 3 that I should have had this many useful helpers around when I had baby number 1. This is great stuff. But then reasons 1 and 2 play a significant role as well, so 3 isn't a stand-alone.
In the same vein, I also have been thinking about the relative merits of having one, two, three and four children. One is very hard because it's the first and you're completely without experience. But there's only one. But ... without the experience, it might as well be five. Having two is pretty hard because usually the first is only a couple of years old and is still pretty demanding and you have two little ones demanding all that one would demand. Twice as hard. Three isn't too bad. The first two keep each other busy, both are usually at least old enough to kind of take care of themselves, or the first can help out the second. You can go back to focusing on the one while the other two are somewhat under control (this is relative, mind you). Four is pretty nice because it's not much different than three; the same arguments apply, and by this time, time-wise, the oldest may actually be of some real value to you as "mommy's little helper," rather than the jokey way older ladies ask you when you have your second child, "Is (number one offspring) being Mommy's Little Helper?" (ha! Are you kidding? See argument for having two children ...) And of course, enough time has passed that they're all older and autonomous. 11-year-old, in my case, is helpful. 8-year-old takes care of herself just fine. 5-year-old is old enough to listen and understand and sometimes obey when told to leave Mommy alone because she desperately needs to nap because while everyone else was asleep last night, she was awake with baby Charlotte. So 5-year-old is old enough to understand and sometimes leave Mommy alone. In the case of today, she understands but doesn't obey. Arrgh. But try getting a 2-year-old to do that. That's definitely not possible. At least it is in the realm of possibility of a 5-year-old. If you see what I'm saying.
Lastly, I'm mostly astonished at how quickly time goes now. With Brianna, my first, who is now a beautiful and mostly helpful young lady, I thought time had slowed down to a crawl. I thought she would never get big or old enough to stop crying all the time and stop wanting me to hold her all the time, never give me time to myself, never ... all kinds of things. Now I'm absolutely amazed that she ever was that small. I can barely remember that. She's so grown up. Where did the time go? And watching Charlotte grow so quickly (she's up to 9 pounds 10 ounces as of yesterday), I am already, at 5 weeks, wishing she would slow down. I didn't get to appreciate her enough when she was only a few days old. Or a week old. Or two weeks. She's filled out so much. She's no longer that tiny, scrawny newborn that's all cheeks. Where did the time go? It's all going too fast. Sure, I'll be happy when she sleeps through the night, but at this stage of life, I'm not in any rush to make that time come too soon. Because that will mean I will be pining for her to be this size again, when she was only a month old and just beginning to smile fully and coo and talk to us. I am wise enough and experienced enough -- after all, those two qualities go hand in hand -- to know that time is going way too fast as it is. I don't want to speed it up anymore. I want it to slow down long enough for me to savor it, to get a good stop-motion picture that I can treasure forever.
And now I head off to bed, where I will hopefully rest peacefully while Marce takes care of our little sweetheart during the night.
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