You might call it a preschool or you might call it a loosely organized babysitting co-op. I call it a preschool because I dig it when the other kids call me "Teacher."
Every Tuesday and Thursday, Baby and I get up at the crack of dawn and hustle to the Upper West Side for preschool. Five moms trade off hosting a week's worth of preschool in exchange for a month's worth of toddler-less Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It's a good trade in theory, although it's complicated by snow storms, germs, and conflicting schedules. In our four weeks of preschool, there's really only been two days where I've been able to enjoy alone time.
With a little bit of advance planning, hosting preschool for two and three-year-olds can be a total kick. As long as they're well-rested and well-supplied with graham crackers, they'll be up for anything. When I started running out of ideas, I just made them spin around in circles until they fell down. While I was spinning I got another idea (jumping on a mini-trampoline with toy cars). Baby is a little behind the others in his ability to sit still and listen to a story or learn a lesson, but he's getting better.
The best preschool moment, I think, was the week that we made noodle necklaces. When the moms came to pick the kids up, one of the boys told his mom to kneel down and bow her head. Then he pulled the noodle necklace out from behind his back, placed it over her head, and said, "Mommy, this is a present for you. You look beautiful." Then he kissed her on the forehead. I should add that he did all of this according to the strict instructions that I gave him while we were stringing the uncooked rigatoni on the dental floss. We even practiced. Am I the best preschool teacher ever or what?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
True Beauty
I'm kind of lacking ideas to blog about today. Maybe I've been watching too much reality TV (hello? can we say embarrassing guilty pleasure?). I was going to do one of those list-y blog-y things where in the end you tag 200 people who are supposed to do the list-y blog-y things on their respective blogs, but I don't even have an interest in that today. My blog will remain a list-y blog-y virgin for yet another day.
Yeah, it must by the reality TV. Has anyone seen that new "True Beauty" show? After I watched the first episode, I got off the couch and slipped on the pile of brains that fell out of my head during the hour that I had watched it. Did I watch it again the next week? Yes, yes I did. I could give my excuses (nothing else on TV, DVD player maddeningly broken), but that fact remains that I watched it.
The idea of the show is that the contestants think they are being judged on their outer beauty, but they are actually being judged their outer beauty plus on . . . something else. The hosts say it's actually their inner beauty, but I'm not sure that's what it is. Basically, the judges watch all of the hidden video of those two contestants looking for moments when they fail to throw away litter or they belch really loudly. The person who does the greatest number of bad things gets kicked off and the person who does the fewest number lives to belch another day.
So, you see, at the end of the show, we will know who of this group of reality TV wanna-be stars was either the person with the fewest awkward moments or was so fabulously gorgeous that their inner beauty was never called into question.
I happen to think that "True Beauty" is actually based on a concept with a lot of potential. I mean, inner beauty, that's a pretty interesting topic and arguably one that has been fascinating smart people (people like, ahem, myself) for ages and ages. College courses are taught on the subject (although they are typically given names like "Philosophy 301: Ethics"). If someone gives hugs and snuggles to a complete stranger who falls off his bike, what does that mean, really? If someone who hardly has any money donates some of it to a fake charity, what does that mean?
I would have failed a lot of the inner beauty tests that the show sets up. When grown man falls off a bike, I honestly think, "you know, the biggest injury that guy just took was the hit to his pride, so I'm just going to walk on by and pretend that he did that on purpose." When someone at a table in a public place asks me to donate to their charity, I occasionally donate, but I usually don't. There may be people who live in the middle of New York City who give money to everyone on the street who asks for it, but I'm not one of them.
When I tabulate the multiplicity of ugly points to my character, my failure to donate to table-charities actually falls pretty low on the list. In fact, my tendency to watch pathetic reality TV shows comes a lot higher on the list than my failure to donate. Do I have my priorities mixed up?
Yeah, it must by the reality TV. Has anyone seen that new "True Beauty" show? After I watched the first episode, I got off the couch and slipped on the pile of brains that fell out of my head during the hour that I had watched it. Did I watch it again the next week? Yes, yes I did. I could give my excuses (nothing else on TV, DVD player maddeningly broken), but that fact remains that I watched it.
The idea of the show is that the contestants think they are being judged on their outer beauty, but they are actually being judged their outer beauty plus on . . . something else. The hosts say it's actually their inner beauty, but I'm not sure that's what it is. Basically, the judges watch all of the hidden video of those two contestants looking for moments when they fail to throw away litter or they belch really loudly. The person who does the greatest number of bad things gets kicked off and the person who does the fewest number lives to belch another day.
So, you see, at the end of the show, we will know who of this group of reality TV wanna-be stars was either the person with the fewest awkward moments or was so fabulously gorgeous that their inner beauty was never called into question.
I happen to think that "True Beauty" is actually based on a concept with a lot of potential. I mean, inner beauty, that's a pretty interesting topic and arguably one that has been fascinating smart people (people like, ahem, myself) for ages and ages. College courses are taught on the subject (although they are typically given names like "Philosophy 301: Ethics"). If someone gives hugs and snuggles to a complete stranger who falls off his bike, what does that mean, really? If someone who hardly has any money donates some of it to a fake charity, what does that mean?
I would have failed a lot of the inner beauty tests that the show sets up. When grown man falls off a bike, I honestly think, "you know, the biggest injury that guy just took was the hit to his pride, so I'm just going to walk on by and pretend that he did that on purpose." When someone at a table in a public place asks me to donate to their charity, I occasionally donate, but I usually don't. There may be people who live in the middle of New York City who give money to everyone on the street who asks for it, but I'm not one of them.
When I tabulate the multiplicity of ugly points to my character, my failure to donate to table-charities actually falls pretty low on the list. In fact, my tendency to watch pathetic reality TV shows comes a lot higher on the list than my failure to donate. Do I have my priorities mixed up?
Friday, December 26, 2008
Naughty or Nice
Baby's recent behavior would probably fall into the naughty category. If Santa had the strength of will to actually stick to his rule, Baby would have gotten a fat lump of coal this year. But, Santa is, you know, a wimp, so Baby got hooked up in spite of the fact that Baby had to make multiple trips to the naughty chair between gifts.
Baby likes the naughty chair. In his world of changing diapers, changing clothes, and changing schedules, there is one thing that remains constant: when he throws something at Mom's head, he'll go to the naughty chair. When he is uncomfortable or he disagrees with something, he doesn't throw a tantrum, he just calmly picks up whatever object is handy, toddles over to Mom, and throws it at her head. Then he'll run over to the front door and wait for Mom to come storming over. When she arrives, he'll hold out his hand and wait to be lead to the naughty chair, which happens to be a step stool in the bathroom. Throughout this whole process, his face wears the calm, smiling expression of a child who knows exactly who is in charge.
Once he's established that the naughty chair rule is still in force and all is well with the world, he'll say, "Mommy, nice?" and Mom will lead him out of the bathroom. And he continues on his merry way.
I realize that there are two-year-olds who have worse problems, but, is there a way we can do this without me having to dodge flying objects a la President Bush?
Probably not. See, Baby often does things that are technically worthy of a trip to the naughty chair but not quite as bad as throwing things at my head. I'm just too lazy to stop whatever it is I'm doing to go into the whole naughty chair routine. I get annoyed when he pushes the buttons on the dishwasher for example, but it's easier to reset the buttons than it is to chase him down, march him to the naughty chair, etc. A Matchbox car imprint into my forehead will get me moving every time.
Baby likes the naughty chair. In his world of changing diapers, changing clothes, and changing schedules, there is one thing that remains constant: when he throws something at Mom's head, he'll go to the naughty chair. When he is uncomfortable or he disagrees with something, he doesn't throw a tantrum, he just calmly picks up whatever object is handy, toddles over to Mom, and throws it at her head. Then he'll run over to the front door and wait for Mom to come storming over. When she arrives, he'll hold out his hand and wait to be lead to the naughty chair, which happens to be a step stool in the bathroom. Throughout this whole process, his face wears the calm, smiling expression of a child who knows exactly who is in charge.
Once he's established that the naughty chair rule is still in force and all is well with the world, he'll say, "Mommy, nice?" and Mom will lead him out of the bathroom. And he continues on his merry way.
I realize that there are two-year-olds who have worse problems, but, is there a way we can do this without me having to dodge flying objects a la President Bush?
Probably not. See, Baby often does things that are technically worthy of a trip to the naughty chair but not quite as bad as throwing things at my head. I'm just too lazy to stop whatever it is I'm doing to go into the whole naughty chair routine. I get annoyed when he pushes the buttons on the dishwasher for example, but it's easier to reset the buttons than it is to chase him down, march him to the naughty chair, etc. A Matchbox car imprint into my forehead will get me moving every time.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Old News
I watched the Godfather for the first time last week. I loved it.
Every once in a while I see a movie that I've always heard about and never seen, and I love it. I watch it ten times in a row. I watch the director's commentary ten times in a row. I send it back to Netflix and immediately put it back in my queue so I can be pleasantly surprised when my new favorite movie appears in the mail next year.
I think to myself, "This movie is so great. Why hasn't anyone told me about it before?" But then I slap myself in the forehead because everyone has told me about it before. I just ignored them. The question is, why did I ignore them?
Sometimes I put off watching, reading, or eating something that I know I'll love just because. I don't know why. Sometimes it's because I don't have the money or time for it. Sometimes it's because I don't have the energy to get hooked on something new. And sometimes I just don't. I know it's not human nature because Husband doesn't understand this at all. If he hears that a movie is good, he whips out his phone and immediately buys it. As you can imagine, my occasional reticence annoys him to no end. I also know that my mom and my sister do the same thing, so I'm not the only self-punishing weirdo around here.
Maybe it's because I'm saving it for Christmas . . .
Here is a short list of the things I know I will be glad I did that I haven't done yet:
Visiting England
Roasting a whole chicken
Watching "Firefly"
Using Mac makeup
www.pandora.com
Attending a J. Reuben Clark society meeting
Listening to This American Life
Seeing "Wicked"
Visiting a dermatologist
Here is a short list of things that I put off forever and couldn't believe I'd put off for so long once I finally tried it:
"The Godfather"
"Dr. Strangelove"
Audiobooks
Setting up my printer
Making my own bread
"The Office"
Cooking with fresh garlic
Every once in a while I see a movie that I've always heard about and never seen, and I love it. I watch it ten times in a row. I watch the director's commentary ten times in a row. I send it back to Netflix and immediately put it back in my queue so I can be pleasantly surprised when my new favorite movie appears in the mail next year.
I think to myself, "This movie is so great. Why hasn't anyone told me about it before?" But then I slap myself in the forehead because everyone has told me about it before. I just ignored them. The question is, why did I ignore them?
Sometimes I put off watching, reading, or eating something that I know I'll love just because. I don't know why. Sometimes it's because I don't have the money or time for it. Sometimes it's because I don't have the energy to get hooked on something new. And sometimes I just don't. I know it's not human nature because Husband doesn't understand this at all. If he hears that a movie is good, he whips out his phone and immediately buys it. As you can imagine, my occasional reticence annoys him to no end. I also know that my mom and my sister do the same thing, so I'm not the only self-punishing weirdo around here.
Maybe it's because I'm saving it for Christmas . . .
Here is a short list of the things I know I will be glad I did that I haven't done yet:
Visiting England
Roasting a whole chicken
Watching "Firefly"
Using Mac makeup
www.pandora.com
Attending a J. Reuben Clark society meeting
Listening to This American Life
Seeing "Wicked"
Visiting a dermatologist
Here is a short list of things that I put off forever and couldn't believe I'd put off for so long once I finally tried it:
"The Godfather"
"Dr. Strangelove"
Audiobooks
Setting up my printer
Making my own bread
"The Office"
Cooking with fresh garlic
Monday, December 01, 2008
On the Bus from Boston
So, while I was getting on the bus from Boston (where we spent a wonderful Thanksgiving) to New York, I heard this man say something on his phone that I keep remembering. I love hearing other people's conversations. One of the many cool things about public transportation is the fact that it allows you to hear other people conversations. Nosey people like me can satisfy their nosiness without having to figure out the complicated procedure of wiretapping.
Anyway, so this man said, "I'm on my way to New York, and I'm going to turn my cell phone off because I just read an article about cell phones causing skin cancer, so I'll call you in about five hours." He's not the first person I've encountered who is concerned about their cell phone signals doing bad things to them. I just thought his response to this information was weird.
Let's say you discovered that cell phones caused skin cancer, no question about it. Would you immediately call your friend--on your cell phone--and tell him that you were going to turn your phone off for a few hours? No, because it wouldn't do any good. If your cell phone caused cancer in Boston, it will still cause cancer on the bus ride away from Boston. You can't reduce it's cancer-causing properties by turning it off for five hours as if you were preserving the battery. It would make more sense to find a pay phone, call your friend on a land line, and tell him that he can no longer reach you on your cell phone because you threw it in the Charles River.
Then, as I was pushing my stroller this morning, I thought, maybe this man didn't actually believe that his cell phone caused him cancer. Maybe, the article had made him a little nervous, and he needed some time away from his phone to forget about the article. It makes the man seem kind of overly sensitive to his own feelings, but it makes more sense than turning a phone off on the bus because you think that the phone will give you cancer during those four hours.
It would be like me calling Husband and saying "Hi, I'm taking a taxi home instead of a bus because I just watched 'Speed.'" Now, I don't actually think that the bus I ride home will have a hidden bomb inside it, but, you know, why worry about it? Why spend the bus ride picturing my broken body tumbling across the pavement amid burning seat cushions and twisted steel? Take the taxi and save the bus for a time when I'm not thinking about bus bombs.
Because I do not like to feel nervous, I choose to avoid horror movies where bad things happen to nice people like me. Because I do not like to feel nervous--and I would be lost, naked, lonely, and powerless without my cell phone--I choose not to look for any articles linking cell phones to skin cancer.
Anyway, so this man said, "I'm on my way to New York, and I'm going to turn my cell phone off because I just read an article about cell phones causing skin cancer, so I'll call you in about five hours." He's not the first person I've encountered who is concerned about their cell phone signals doing bad things to them. I just thought his response to this information was weird.
Let's say you discovered that cell phones caused skin cancer, no question about it. Would you immediately call your friend--on your cell phone--and tell him that you were going to turn your phone off for a few hours? No, because it wouldn't do any good. If your cell phone caused cancer in Boston, it will still cause cancer on the bus ride away from Boston. You can't reduce it's cancer-causing properties by turning it off for five hours as if you were preserving the battery. It would make more sense to find a pay phone, call your friend on a land line, and tell him that he can no longer reach you on your cell phone because you threw it in the Charles River.
Then, as I was pushing my stroller this morning, I thought, maybe this man didn't actually believe that his cell phone caused him cancer. Maybe, the article had made him a little nervous, and he needed some time away from his phone to forget about the article. It makes the man seem kind of overly sensitive to his own feelings, but it makes more sense than turning a phone off on the bus because you think that the phone will give you cancer during those four hours.
It would be like me calling Husband and saying "Hi, I'm taking a taxi home instead of a bus because I just watched 'Speed.'" Now, I don't actually think that the bus I ride home will have a hidden bomb inside it, but, you know, why worry about it? Why spend the bus ride picturing my broken body tumbling across the pavement amid burning seat cushions and twisted steel? Take the taxi and save the bus for a time when I'm not thinking about bus bombs.
Because I do not like to feel nervous, I choose to avoid horror movies where bad things happen to nice people like me. Because I do not like to feel nervous--and I would be lost, naked, lonely, and powerless without my cell phone--I choose not to look for any articles linking cell phones to skin cancer.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Taxes
I don't think I've ever blogged about anything remotely political before such as taxes. I think my reticence stems from really wanting people to like me. I've decided to start voicing my opinions about politics more often. If it gets boring, I'll stop.
I started college directly after high school, attended law school directly after college, married during my first year, got pregnant during my third year, and stayed home to care for Baby for the two years after graduation. During that time, I was supported by the federal government in the form of Pell grants, loan subsidies, loan deferments, Medicaid, WIC coupons, and food stamps (not to mention the non-financial support of interstate highways, national security, consumer protection, national parks, etc.). So basically, when you hear the term "welfare mother," think of me. And think of about three hundred of my law school classmates who depended on all of these federal social programs and more. All of those former welfare recipients are now either working in excellent jobs or giving exceptional full-time care to their children.
Had I not been so supported, I am fairly certain that I would have taken a different path. I would have dropped out of law school and never gone back, chosen not to get pregnant for at least five more years, or chosen to put Baby in full-time child care precisely six weeks after he was born.
I am eternally grateful to a government that partially supported my decisions to get a terminal degree AND have a child in my twenties AND stay home to care for that child. My education is a gift that enriches my world. The last two years that I have had with my healthy baby cannot be measured or replaced. In me, the United States has an educated, patriotic, service-oriented citizen who will gratefully devote a significant portion of her life to the nurturing of American children and a significant portion of her family's income to taxes. Still, I'm humbled to realize that the government considers me to be an acceptable return on their investment.
There is always a lot of talk about certain groups of people having to pay more than "their share" of taxes. Over the course of our lives, Husband's and mine, I can only hope that we are able to pay much more than our share of taxes.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
On the tail-end of a two hour nap
I'm starting to find my stride out here. Last week I was ready to plunge my head into my new gas-powered oven, I was so tired and unorganized. It's amazing what a couple of days of regular naps and regular night times can do for a mom. Funny that I feel like I'm finding my stride at six weeks exactly. That's precisely when I felt like I could handle the motherhood schedule after Baby was born. Something about getting through one full month cycle and half way into the next? I don't know. Maybe it's just because I bought a pair of nifty green shoes today. (I'll go ahead and give a little cyber wink even though the loose pun in the paragraph above was originally unintended).
;)
Or it could just be the season. Fall is pretty great, and fall in New York freakin' rocks. I will always miss my college hometown with its back to school exhuberance in the fall, but that doesn't mean I can't notice and love the about-to-get-started feeling that's fallen over this marvelous city. It makes every day a perfect day, and who cares that my internet is slow or my laundry isn't folded yet. The colors are changing in Central Park, and it looks to be just as beautiful as I had hoped. The political season has provided me another four years' worth of sheer spectacle, and I feel like we're on the cusp of exciting change. The posters and marquis are up for the new theater season. The rich old couples on the Upper West Side are starting to dress their tiny dogs in designer dog jackets. Husband just score some tickets to the Rangers game tonight at Madison Square Gardens.
Maybe in the coming weeks I'll put up some good posts about politics, law, or economics, but today I am full of joy that transcends any of these subjects.
;)
Or it could just be the season. Fall is pretty great, and fall in New York freakin' rocks. I will always miss my college hometown with its back to school exhuberance in the fall, but that doesn't mean I can't notice and love the about-to-get-started feeling that's fallen over this marvelous city. It makes every day a perfect day, and who cares that my internet is slow or my laundry isn't folded yet. The colors are changing in Central Park, and it looks to be just as beautiful as I had hoped. The political season has provided me another four years' worth of sheer spectacle, and I feel like we're on the cusp of exciting change. The posters and marquis are up for the new theater season. The rich old couples on the Upper West Side are starting to dress their tiny dogs in designer dog jackets. Husband just score some tickets to the Rangers game tonight at Madison Square Gardens.
Maybe in the coming weeks I'll put up some good posts about politics, law, or economics, but today I am full of joy that transcends any of these subjects.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Pioneers
When I was in elementary school, I think I read too many "Little House" books. It put me off pioneer/western media for a long time. I didn't hate pioneer stuff. I was just bored by it. Even after I married an enthusiastic amateur American Western historian, I still couldn't manage more than the briefest interest in the wagon ruts and sepia photographs that thrilled him.
Here in New York, I find myself fascinated with pioneers. Granted, I'm starting small: I haven't started a tourquoise collection, and I'm still not terribly interested in wagon ruts, but I did netflix "High Noon." And I'm looking for a good pioneer book to read (I have to be choosey because I don't want to pick the wrong one and never go back. After all those millions pageants, campfires, musicals, church talks, and how-to-make-butter-in-a-baby-food-jar lessons, it took a month in New York City to teach me how to relate to the pioneers of the American west.
I can understand what it feels like to see and seize an exciting and scary opportunity on the other side of the continent. I can relate to the desire to see my children grow up in a culture so different from mine, but one that I think will give them a good life. I can finally understand what it's like to be so lonely that I wonder if this whole endeavor was a bad idea.
I'm not saying that my little family's journey to New York has more than a fraction of the scope of the journeys of my pioneer ancestors. I'm just saying that I'm beginning to understand. And I'm proud.
Here in New York, I find myself fascinated with pioneers. Granted, I'm starting small: I haven't started a tourquoise collection, and I'm still not terribly interested in wagon ruts, but I did netflix "High Noon." And I'm looking for a good pioneer book to read (I have to be choosey because I don't want to pick the wrong one and never go back. After all those millions pageants, campfires, musicals, church talks, and how-to-make-butter-in-a-baby-food-jar lessons, it took a month in New York City to teach me how to relate to the pioneers of the American west.
I can understand what it feels like to see and seize an exciting and scary opportunity on the other side of the continent. I can relate to the desire to see my children grow up in a culture so different from mine, but one that I think will give them a good life. I can finally understand what it's like to be so lonely that I wonder if this whole endeavor was a bad idea.
I'm not saying that my little family's journey to New York has more than a fraction of the scope of the journeys of my pioneer ancestors. I'm just saying that I'm beginning to understand. And I'm proud.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Provo
I've been having "Our Town" moments all day today. For those of you who didn't attend their high school's production of this play, the most famous scene is one in which the main character, who happens to be dead, is able to see one of the days of her life. Appalled by how she was able to move through every day of her life without realizing how amazing it was, she can't stand to watch more than a few minutes.
I feel like my Provo self has sort of died, and, for the few days I have here before I move, I find myself wandering around glumly, wishing I had more time. This is the time of year that hundreds of Southern Californians in designer sunglasses descend upon Provo to attend BYU, UVU, and beauty school. They will spend the fall, winter, and spring loudly criticizing my city. Provonians are so totally lame. Provo is so totally ugly. The food is so totally gross. I don't think I ever really defended Provo to one of these people (we Provonians rarely do, prefering to let our fine city speak for itself at its own measured pace). Tonight, my last Sunday night as a Provonian, I would defend Provo with the ferocity of Monte Python's Black Knight: With blood spurting from the sockets where my appendages used to be, I would howl after my Southern Californian opponents, "Come on back and fight!"
For all its lack of political, ethnic, and religious diversity, Provo is bursting with gorgeously complicated people, and the more I work on figuring them out, the more I love them. They may be close-minded crazies, but they're my close-minded crazies. For all its dry brown summers and wet brown winters, the Provo landscape provides moments that make me gasp at their loveliness. Provo doesn't have any gourmet markets to speak of, but there are enough grocery stores for my mom to make some kick-booty lasagna and for Sweet's Island Eats to produce a menu on par with any similarly priced New York City restaurant.
I'm glad to move to my jewel of an apartment in New York City, I really am. If I didn't feel like it was a change for the better, I wouldn't be doing it. But I am Provo Portia, after all, and I am sad tonight to leave my home.
I feel like my Provo self has sort of died, and, for the few days I have here before I move, I find myself wandering around glumly, wishing I had more time. This is the time of year that hundreds of Southern Californians in designer sunglasses descend upon Provo to attend BYU, UVU, and beauty school. They will spend the fall, winter, and spring loudly criticizing my city. Provonians are so totally lame. Provo is so totally ugly. The food is so totally gross. I don't think I ever really defended Provo to one of these people (we Provonians rarely do, prefering to let our fine city speak for itself at its own measured pace). Tonight, my last Sunday night as a Provonian, I would defend Provo with the ferocity of Monte Python's Black Knight: With blood spurting from the sockets where my appendages used to be, I would howl after my Southern Californian opponents, "Come on back and fight!"
For all its lack of political, ethnic, and religious diversity, Provo is bursting with gorgeously complicated people, and the more I work on figuring them out, the more I love them. They may be close-minded crazies, but they're my close-minded crazies. For all its dry brown summers and wet brown winters, the Provo landscape provides moments that make me gasp at their loveliness. Provo doesn't have any gourmet markets to speak of, but there are enough grocery stores for my mom to make some kick-booty lasagna and for Sweet's Island Eats to produce a menu on par with any similarly priced New York City restaurant.
I'm glad to move to my jewel of an apartment in New York City, I really am. If I didn't feel like it was a change for the better, I wouldn't be doing it. But I am Provo Portia, after all, and I am sad tonight to leave my home.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Never sick of words, words, words
Baby is getting some crazy language skillz. Every day he comes out with a word that I had no idea he knew. He loves learning new words, and he's constantly asking me, "whatsat?" Some concepts are a little tricky to translate into babe-ese. He really wanted to understand the blue and white "Y" I had painted on my cheek tonight for the Northern Iowa game. How to explain in terms he'll understand? "Face paint?" "Y?" "BYU?" "Yucky mess?" I tried them all. We'll see what sticks (besides the face paint, which ended up all over both of us after our bedtime cheek-smooshing ritual).
Sometimes it is heartbreakingly sweet to see the world through the language of a two-year-old. Today, before his nap, he announced, "I want to sleep." Well, now that I see it typed, it looks a teensy bit more enunciated than his version. His consonants are quite that developed, but his version was no more garbled than the PA system of New York's Metro Transit Authority. Anyway, I joyfully started carrying him to his crib for his nap, and then he said, "No. Spooky. I want to hold you sleep." Needless to say, I let the laundry do itself while I held him for forty-five minutes until he fell asleep.
See, I went so long, hopelessly in love with this little person, and so so so curious about what was going on in his little brain. Now that he can tell me, my satisfaction knows no bounds. I respond by doing, fetching, or feeding him what ever he asks.
And of course, there are funny language acquisition stories, which I have been looking forward to experiencing since forever. Example: While I was moving out of my kitchen, I handed Baby a picture I had on the wall of dried chipotle peppers. He squinted at it for a while, and then looked up at me and asked, "poop?" Now that word he pronounces as clear as a bell. Yes, dear. Mommy hangs pictures of poop on her kitchen walls. When we get to New York, maybe I'll replace that particular picture with one of arugula or something. Of maybe I'll stick with the chipotles. The image may be a handy reminder when I decide to tackle Potty Training.
Sometimes it is heartbreakingly sweet to see the world through the language of a two-year-old. Today, before his nap, he announced, "I want to sleep." Well, now that I see it typed, it looks a teensy bit more enunciated than his version. His consonants are quite that developed, but his version was no more garbled than the PA system of New York's Metro Transit Authority. Anyway, I joyfully started carrying him to his crib for his nap, and then he said, "No. Spooky. I want to hold you sleep." Needless to say, I let the laundry do itself while I held him for forty-five minutes until he fell asleep.
See, I went so long, hopelessly in love with this little person, and so so so curious about what was going on in his little brain. Now that he can tell me, my satisfaction knows no bounds. I respond by doing, fetching, or feeding him what ever he asks.
And of course, there are funny language acquisition stories, which I have been looking forward to experiencing since forever. Example: While I was moving out of my kitchen, I handed Baby a picture I had on the wall of dried chipotle peppers. He squinted at it for a while, and then looked up at me and asked, "poop?" Now that word he pronounces as clear as a bell. Yes, dear. Mommy hangs pictures of poop on her kitchen walls. When we get to New York, maybe I'll replace that particular picture with one of arugula or something. Of maybe I'll stick with the chipotles. The image may be a handy reminder when I decide to tackle Potty Training.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Apartment
For the last few days, the absence of bar studying has left a void in my stress-life. I have more than filled it by worrying about my New York apartment.
I have one, a New York apartment. My lease begins on September 2 and I will move in on September 3. This means that for one day, I will have legal possession of an apartment in a very nice location in Manhattan without actually living there. The proverbial ink is still wet on my bar exam, and I'm already living extravagently (for one day at least).
The apartment is adorable; the proximities to Husband's work, the Central Park, and the subways couldn't be better; the ward is fabulous; the landlord is a peach; the rent is (slightly) less than I expected; and we will have a dishwasher. But I still wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of night, convinced that I picked the wrong apartment.
When I whine to friends and family about my worries, they usually repond by saying, "so what if you picked the wrong apartment? There's nothing you can do about it now." Actually, there's one thing I can do about it now: I can stress about it. And when my monthly rent costs roughly the same amount of money as my wedding, I have a right. See, there were two really great apartments, and they were both good for different reasons. Now that I've committed to one of them, all I can think about are the reasons I liked the other one. I think this is called the paradox of choice, and I think I'd better get over it if I'm planning to live in New York City. If there's one thing New York has, it's options.
I have one, a New York apartment. My lease begins on September 2 and I will move in on September 3. This means that for one day, I will have legal possession of an apartment in a very nice location in Manhattan without actually living there. The proverbial ink is still wet on my bar exam, and I'm already living extravagently (for one day at least).
The apartment is adorable; the proximities to Husband's work, the Central Park, and the subways couldn't be better; the ward is fabulous; the landlord is a peach; the rent is (slightly) less than I expected; and we will have a dishwasher. But I still wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of night, convinced that I picked the wrong apartment.
When I whine to friends and family about my worries, they usually repond by saying, "so what if you picked the wrong apartment? There's nothing you can do about it now." Actually, there's one thing I can do about it now: I can stress about it. And when my monthly rent costs roughly the same amount of money as my wedding, I have a right. See, there were two really great apartments, and they were both good for different reasons. Now that I've committed to one of them, all I can think about are the reasons I liked the other one. I think this is called the paradox of choice, and I think I'd better get over it if I'm planning to live in New York City. If there's one thing New York has, it's options.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Bar
The bar is over, and it is 99-percent out of my life. Little by little, I'm exorcising bar studying.
First to go were the posters. By the time we took the bar, we had about twelve posters and a smattering of Post-its decorating the walls of our apartment. Our family portrait was replaced by a summary of a corporate promoter's pre-incorporation liability. Our guests were greeted by a poster by the front door describing five different types of New York homicides. Baby and I memorized New York's defeasible fees while I served him his morning mush. After the bar, Baby and I spent a joyful afternoon coloring large pictures on the backs of the posters and turning them into "car slides." Then I threw them into recycling. May they meet a more fulfilling fate in their next incarnation.
Next I cleared all of the random study documents and programs from my computer desktop into an innocuous folder labeled "bar." I also removed all bar-related Web pages from my favorites list.
Once I mail back the study books (in exchange for a hefty deposit) and I get over the little post-traumatic stress flu I seem to have developed, this summer's bar study will be nothing but an ugly, fuzzy memory. Really, very much like pregnancy.
How did the bar exam go? Meh. Fine. I don't know. I don't really want to commit one way or the other until I know if I passed or not. I will say that the agony of the bar is not in the taking of it, but in the preparation for it.
The experience of taking the New York bar was fascinating to say the least. I think next year Baby and I may pack a lunch and lounge in front of the Javitz Center in New York City for the last couple of days in July, just to observe thousands and thousands of the most accomplished, privileged, and intelligent young people in New York muttering to themselves while clutching clear plastic bags of pens, pencils, feminine hygiene products, and "quiet snacks."
By the way, "quiet snack" clearly means something different for everyone. I saw one guy with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs in his clear plastic bag. While hard-boiled eggs aren't the noisiest snack in the world, I think it would be more than a little distracting to the people around me if, in the middle of the exam, I started chipping away at my tenth egg shell.
But that's just it, the bar brings out the weirdo in everyone. Some people wore law nerd tee-shirts ("I own Blackacre" or "This is my lucky bar exam shirt" or "Scalia is my hero"). Some people announced that they were wearing fresh-out-of-the-package underwear. One guy was running high-knee sprints across the back of the room during the multistate multiple choice section. Anything to give them that extra little boost. I don't think I did anything too weird. I guess I wouldn't really know though, if it seemed normal at the time.
And now it's done. There is a greater sense of closure for me now than there was when I graduated from law school. My feelings run along the lines of the typical graduation speech: When I can see past the nastiness of studying, I have a profound sense of satisfaction in doing a Very Hard Thing, followed almost immediately by an overwhelming gratitude for the scores of people who have taken care of Baby, Husband, and me over the last few months (years, really). Now I'm standing on the brink of an entirely different chapter for my little family. What I'm looking forward to more than anything, is the ability that my education, my degree, and my license will give me to toss back into the universe a little bit of Good.
First to go were the posters. By the time we took the bar, we had about twelve posters and a smattering of Post-its decorating the walls of our apartment. Our family portrait was replaced by a summary of a corporate promoter's pre-incorporation liability. Our guests were greeted by a poster by the front door describing five different types of New York homicides. Baby and I memorized New York's defeasible fees while I served him his morning mush. After the bar, Baby and I spent a joyful afternoon coloring large pictures on the backs of the posters and turning them into "car slides." Then I threw them into recycling. May they meet a more fulfilling fate in their next incarnation.
Next I cleared all of the random study documents and programs from my computer desktop into an innocuous folder labeled "bar." I also removed all bar-related Web pages from my favorites list.
Once I mail back the study books (in exchange for a hefty deposit) and I get over the little post-traumatic stress flu I seem to have developed, this summer's bar study will be nothing but an ugly, fuzzy memory. Really, very much like pregnancy.
How did the bar exam go? Meh. Fine. I don't know. I don't really want to commit one way or the other until I know if I passed or not. I will say that the agony of the bar is not in the taking of it, but in the preparation for it.
The experience of taking the New York bar was fascinating to say the least. I think next year Baby and I may pack a lunch and lounge in front of the Javitz Center in New York City for the last couple of days in July, just to observe thousands and thousands of the most accomplished, privileged, and intelligent young people in New York muttering to themselves while clutching clear plastic bags of pens, pencils, feminine hygiene products, and "quiet snacks."
By the way, "quiet snack" clearly means something different for everyone. I saw one guy with about a dozen hard-boiled eggs in his clear plastic bag. While hard-boiled eggs aren't the noisiest snack in the world, I think it would be more than a little distracting to the people around me if, in the middle of the exam, I started chipping away at my tenth egg shell.
But that's just it, the bar brings out the weirdo in everyone. Some people wore law nerd tee-shirts ("I own Blackacre" or "This is my lucky bar exam shirt" or "Scalia is my hero"). Some people announced that they were wearing fresh-out-of-the-package underwear. One guy was running high-knee sprints across the back of the room during the multistate multiple choice section. Anything to give them that extra little boost. I don't think I did anything too weird. I guess I wouldn't really know though, if it seemed normal at the time.
And now it's done. There is a greater sense of closure for me now than there was when I graduated from law school. My feelings run along the lines of the typical graduation speech: When I can see past the nastiness of studying, I have a profound sense of satisfaction in doing a Very Hard Thing, followed almost immediately by an overwhelming gratitude for the scores of people who have taken care of Baby, Husband, and me over the last few months (years, really). Now I'm standing on the brink of an entirely different chapter for my little family. What I'm looking forward to more than anything, is the ability that my education, my degree, and my license will give me to toss back into the universe a little bit of Good.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Not Dead, but Barely Conscious
At this time in one week, I will be finished with the bar. The feeling is remarkably similar to the way I felt when I set my date with the hospital to induce labor two years ago. Even though I wasn't exactly relishing the idea of the birthing process, I could take comfort in the thought that I wouldn't be pregnant any more. I take enormous comfort in the thought of not doing practice bar exam questions and essays any more.
So, basically, this is just another reason why moms make great law students and lawyers: They have specially practice getting out of bed to face another wretchedly exhausting day, day after day after day.
A little over a week ago, I attended my last bar review lecture. It was, technically, the last formal lecture of my lifetime of formal education, which is quite a meaningful idea, really. That didn't stop me from spending half of the lecture scrolling through Manhattan apartment listings. And, really, if I had spent the entire lecture paying rapt attention to the lecturer, it would indicate that I might enjoy more formal education. And I would not.
Enough about bar study. Who wants to hear about bar study? No one. That's why I haven't had anything interesting to blog about for three months.
On the other hand, everyone is interested in hearing about the adventures of my fabulous baby. (That was a joke: I realize that not everyone is all that interested in my baby, but some people are, and talking about Baby makes me happy. And when I'm happy, everyone is happy).
Baby had his second birthday last week. His whiz-bang gift from his parents was a pair of red Converse high tops. Just picture that: A summer-buzzed, brown-eyed, scabby-kneed, two-year-old tearing around in red Converse high tops. Carrying a birthday cupcake. No need for a photo (although there will be one eventually on my other blog). I think you have the idea.
He is so cool. I'm a pretty cool mom, and husband holds his own on the cool department too, but we don't even hold a candle to Baby when it comes to cool.
I'm pretty sure a summer of non-parent caregivers has only made him cooler. Now, granted, two-year-olds are freakishly sponge-like when it comes to picking up words and social, but I think the fact that he has been exposed to a wide variety of people and experiences this summer has given him even more mental stimulation than he would have had with me. This makes me feel good. He's learning all kinds of nifty tricks through his babysitters' hard work. Yesterday, after an unwarranted attack on his cousin, he actually said "bah-weese," which (obviously) means, "sorry." He didn't learn that from me, (as if I ever say "sorry") but that doesn't mean I'm not ok with enjoying and taking credit for it.
I will not be updating this blog for at least a week. During that week, I am asking any and all who love me to direct some good karma in my direction, specifically in the form of prayers, but, you know, I'm good with whatever. There are bigger things in life than passing the New York bar, I know, but they are a little hard to imagine at this point.
So, basically, this is just another reason why moms make great law students and lawyers: They have specially practice getting out of bed to face another wretchedly exhausting day, day after day after day.
A little over a week ago, I attended my last bar review lecture. It was, technically, the last formal lecture of my lifetime of formal education, which is quite a meaningful idea, really. That didn't stop me from spending half of the lecture scrolling through Manhattan apartment listings. And, really, if I had spent the entire lecture paying rapt attention to the lecturer, it would indicate that I might enjoy more formal education. And I would not.
Enough about bar study. Who wants to hear about bar study? No one. That's why I haven't had anything interesting to blog about for three months.
On the other hand, everyone is interested in hearing about the adventures of my fabulous baby. (That was a joke: I realize that not everyone is all that interested in my baby, but some people are, and talking about Baby makes me happy. And when I'm happy, everyone is happy).
Baby had his second birthday last week. His whiz-bang gift from his parents was a pair of red Converse high tops. Just picture that: A summer-buzzed, brown-eyed, scabby-kneed, two-year-old tearing around in red Converse high tops. Carrying a birthday cupcake. No need for a photo (although there will be one eventually on my other blog). I think you have the idea.
He is so cool. I'm a pretty cool mom, and husband holds his own on the cool department too, but we don't even hold a candle to Baby when it comes to cool.
I'm pretty sure a summer of non-parent caregivers has only made him cooler. Now, granted, two-year-olds are freakishly sponge-like when it comes to picking up words and social, but I think the fact that he has been exposed to a wide variety of people and experiences this summer has given him even more mental stimulation than he would have had with me. This makes me feel good. He's learning all kinds of nifty tricks through his babysitters' hard work. Yesterday, after an unwarranted attack on his cousin, he actually said "bah-weese," which (obviously) means, "sorry." He didn't learn that from me, (as if I ever say "sorry") but that doesn't mean I'm not ok with enjoying and taking credit for it.
I will not be updating this blog for at least a week. During that week, I am asking any and all who love me to direct some good karma in my direction, specifically in the form of prayers, but, you know, I'm good with whatever. There are bigger things in life than passing the New York bar, I know, but they are a little hard to imagine at this point.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Update on bar study and Baby-missing
Starting bar study was a lifestyle change for me, and I tend to deal with lifestyle change by developing new junk food addictions (Fritos, anyone?) and plunging myself into temporary mild depression. Depression lends itself to staying in bed while I wait for dishes to wash themselves and Baby to learn to refill his own sippy cup with soy milk. It doesn't lend itself to blogging, at least, not for me. I've learned that when I blog depressed, I get embarrassed, just as I get embarrassed when I blog while I'm delirious with happiness.
So if you haven't seen a blog post from me in a while, send me a box of cookies. It will always be appropriate.
I'm over the depression (I think). Now I'm just bored with this stuff. It's a special type of law boredom combined with the type of feeling you'd get if someone put you in the room with an elephant carcass and a fork and said, "go ahead: dig in." It's interesting, logical, illogical, maddening, and huge. And every two minutes or so, I miss my son.
How I miss my son. He now spends six+ hours a day, not with me, but with a few carefully chosen caregivers who nurture him with love, enthusiasm, and goldfish crackers. In the back of my mind, I know I should spend my few hours a day with him on "quality time," but when I do see him, I am too overcome with chest-thumping love to get out his educational flashcards. Instead, I just want to let him eat popcorn until his gums bleed and watch "Cars" until the saline fluid in his eyeballs dries up. I press my cheek into his sweet-smelling pokey summer haircut and stop myself from mentally reviewing riparian law.
This morning he looked up and me and said Pfutz? That means something, but I don't know what. He has an honest-to-goodness word, and I don't know what it is. Up till now, I've been the only one who knows his words.
Look, I'll prove it: Batz means "I want to watch 101 Dalmations." Poose means, "Please feed me soup or some other savory canned delight." Lala, depending on the context, either means "I need a drink of water" or "I'd just love to participate in the shower I can tell you're about to take." Mamoh mean, believe it or not, "let's get out the educational animal flashcards and throw them on the floor until we find the picture of the clown fish who looks just like our friend, Nemo." I can also tell you, with manic animation, the etymology and linguistic roots of all of those words, but I've learned from experience that my expertise in Baby-ese is only interesting to me, Husband, and, on occasion, a Grandparent. And now there's an entire word that I can't connect to anything in my Baby's universe.
What if it means, "Mom, I think it's time to thank you for sacrificing the heel of your sexy fire-engine red shoe by shoving it in a revolving door to prevent me getting knocked over while I paused to pick up a cigarette butt?" I swore I wouldn't miss it when he said that to me.
The point is that while I'm wrapping my head around the difference between notice recording statutes and race-notice recording statutes, I'm missing what I consider to be an enormously important stage in my baby's development. When people ask me if I plan to put Charlie in daycare while I get a full-time legal job in New York, I'm tempted to dip into my vast Baby vocabulary and say nononoNoNoNoNO!
So if you haven't seen a blog post from me in a while, send me a box of cookies. It will always be appropriate.
I'm over the depression (I think). Now I'm just bored with this stuff. It's a special type of law boredom combined with the type of feeling you'd get if someone put you in the room with an elephant carcass and a fork and said, "go ahead: dig in." It's interesting, logical, illogical, maddening, and huge. And every two minutes or so, I miss my son.
How I miss my son. He now spends six+ hours a day, not with me, but with a few carefully chosen caregivers who nurture him with love, enthusiasm, and goldfish crackers. In the back of my mind, I know I should spend my few hours a day with him on "quality time," but when I do see him, I am too overcome with chest-thumping love to get out his educational flashcards. Instead, I just want to let him eat popcorn until his gums bleed and watch "Cars" until the saline fluid in his eyeballs dries up. I press my cheek into his sweet-smelling pokey summer haircut and stop myself from mentally reviewing riparian law.
This morning he looked up and me and said Pfutz? That means something, but I don't know what. He has an honest-to-goodness word, and I don't know what it is. Up till now, I've been the only one who knows his words.
Look, I'll prove it: Batz means "I want to watch 101 Dalmations." Poose means, "Please feed me soup or some other savory canned delight." Lala, depending on the context, either means "I need a drink of water" or "I'd just love to participate in the shower I can tell you're about to take." Mamoh mean, believe it or not, "let's get out the educational animal flashcards and throw them on the floor until we find the picture of the clown fish who looks just like our friend, Nemo." I can also tell you, with manic animation, the etymology and linguistic roots of all of those words, but I've learned from experience that my expertise in Baby-ese is only interesting to me, Husband, and, on occasion, a Grandparent. And now there's an entire word that I can't connect to anything in my Baby's universe.
What if it means, "Mom, I think it's time to thank you for sacrificing the heel of your sexy fire-engine red shoe by shoving it in a revolving door to prevent me getting knocked over while I paused to pick up a cigarette butt?" I swore I wouldn't miss it when he said that to me.
The point is that while I'm wrapping my head around the difference between notice recording statutes and race-notice recording statutes, I'm missing what I consider to be an enormously important stage in my baby's development. When people ask me if I plan to put Charlie in daycare while I get a full-time legal job in New York, I'm tempted to dip into my vast Baby vocabulary and say nononoNoNoNoNO!
Friday, May 09, 2008
Bar Study
Today is the first day of a the period of my life which I shall call "studying for the bar." Husband and I briefly reviewed all of the multistate subjects, just to get an overview.
Criminal law and torts are my old friends who still call me every few days, just to see what's going on.
Evidence sends me e-mails on my birthday.
Contracts is an acquaintance who looks familiar, but I could be remembering someone else.
Property law?
Criminal law and torts are my old friends who still call me every few days, just to see what's going on.
Evidence sends me e-mails on my birthday.
Contracts is an acquaintance who looks familiar, but I could be remembering someone else.
Property law?
Stroller Selection
I'm on a quest for Baby's perfect New York stroller. Last summer, I borrowed a Maclaren Triumph from my generous sister-in-law. I used that stroller for most of Baby's waking hours. I used it as Baby's high chair, I carried my groceries in it, I rocked Baby to sleep in it, I took it to church, I rattled it across the cobblestones at Fulton Fishmarket, I bounced it down subway stairs, I plowed it across the Sheep Meadow at Central Park. The Triumph treated me well, but of course I found some minor problems. As a purely hypothetical example, it just might maybe tip over backwards if you hang a bag full of soup cans over the handles while you're grocery shopping.
As many New Yorkers have told me, shopping for a stroller is like shopping for a car (and nearly as expensive, I'm finding). In some ways it's even more difficult than shopping for a car.
First of all, for all of its excellent qualities, Provo is not a great place to buy high-quality strollers. There are lots of babies, yes, but people with money just drive their babies around in their SUVs and people without money can't afford to drop hundreds of dollars on a stroller for their hundreds of kids. You can find a not-too-bashed-up Graco at a consignment store for thirty bucks, it'll pretty much do yuh. So, if you're a Provonian in the market for a stroller that's very lightweight, very high quality, foldable with one hand, steerable with one hand, manageable over curbs, cobblestones, and subway stairs, your selection is limited.
Also, strollers are baby items, and the baby world goes through fads. For example, right now I am seeing a fad of dress-up fairy princess birthday parties among two through four-year-old girls. If little girls had these when I was little, they didn't invite me. Ruffly dresses with matching lacey panties are out. Monkeys and alligators in primary colors are in. Keeping this in mind. I have to wonder how much of the $900 on the price tag of the popular (well, popular in New York) Bugaboo Chameleon is due to the fact that it's trendy. Don't get me wrong: I'm pretty dang trendy, but not $900 worth of trendy.
As many New Yorkers have told me, shopping for a stroller is like shopping for a car (and nearly as expensive, I'm finding). In some ways it's even more difficult than shopping for a car.
First of all, for all of its excellent qualities, Provo is not a great place to buy high-quality strollers. There are lots of babies, yes, but people with money just drive their babies around in their SUVs and people without money can't afford to drop hundreds of dollars on a stroller for their hundreds of kids. You can find a not-too-bashed-up Graco at a consignment store for thirty bucks, it'll pretty much do yuh. So, if you're a Provonian in the market for a stroller that's very lightweight, very high quality, foldable with one hand, steerable with one hand, manageable over curbs, cobblestones, and subway stairs, your selection is limited.
Also, strollers are baby items, and the baby world goes through fads. For example, right now I am seeing a fad of dress-up fairy princess birthday parties among two through four-year-old girls. If little girls had these when I was little, they didn't invite me. Ruffly dresses with matching lacey panties are out. Monkeys and alligators in primary colors are in. Keeping this in mind. I have to wonder how much of the $900 on the price tag of the popular (well, popular in New York) Bugaboo Chameleon is due to the fact that it's trendy. Don't get me wrong: I'm pretty dang trendy, but not $900 worth of trendy.
Friday, May 02, 2008
On the Road
When I was in eighth grade I wrote a poem called "On the Road." I can't remember the whole thing now, but from what I do remember, it was pretty awful. I haven't written a poem in a long time. If "On the Road" is any indication, that's probably a good thing.
Anyway, today I really am on the road. Our family is in the fine city of Winnemucca, Nevada as we end the first leg of our road trip to California. By the way, "Winnemucca" is precisely the type of word Baby would say on his own, so I had high hopes of adding an extremely cool word to his vocabulary. Alas, even after multiple efforts to trick him into saying it, he failed to add it to his vocabulary before he fell asleep in his car seat.
Every time I go on a long car trip I promise myself that this time I won't read in the car (motion sickness, I know, nerd-alert) and I won't eat junk food (not a good combo with motion sickness). But what would a long car trip be without the combination of junk food flavored motion sickness? Not the kind of car trip I've ever had. So I spent my first hour in Winnemucca settling the Pringles and Nutty Bars in my churning stomach.
Baby is sleeping in the motel closet. He seems to like it. Hopefully he won't wake up with yet another hideous memory that will need to be repressed and then gradually drawn back into Baby's consciousness with the help of a kindly, parent-hating therapist.
Anyway, today I really am on the road. Our family is in the fine city of Winnemucca, Nevada as we end the first leg of our road trip to California. By the way, "Winnemucca" is precisely the type of word Baby would say on his own, so I had high hopes of adding an extremely cool word to his vocabulary. Alas, even after multiple efforts to trick him into saying it, he failed to add it to his vocabulary before he fell asleep in his car seat.
Every time I go on a long car trip I promise myself that this time I won't read in the car (motion sickness, I know, nerd-alert) and I won't eat junk food (not a good combo with motion sickness). But what would a long car trip be without the combination of junk food flavored motion sickness? Not the kind of car trip I've ever had. So I spent my first hour in Winnemucca settling the Pringles and Nutty Bars in my churning stomach.
Baby is sleeping in the motel closet. He seems to like it. Hopefully he won't wake up with yet another hideous memory that will need to be repressed and then gradually drawn back into Baby's consciousness with the help of a kindly, parent-hating therapist.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Graduation
I know, I know, I've already graduated, but I was allowed to experience the full graduation experience again last week when Hubby graduated.
I think most people would agree that graduation day itself is kind of a mixed bag. With all of the emotions tied into it, wonderful, sad, and boring, it kind of comes out a wash. An emotion map of Hubby's graduation day:
1) I was stressed up to my ears, pulling all of the last-minute plans together for picture taking, video taping, calling everyone about parking, getting a babysitter, etc.
2) I was surprisingly moved with pride when the faculty and graduates marched in. I've been to dozens of graduations, but I still think the pomp and circumstance is really cool.
3) I was super nervous before Hubby's speech. I knew it was a good speech (I wrote about a third of it and edited all of it), and I knew that Husband would deliver it well, but I really, really wanted everyone to love my fabulous husband, and I knew law students are groomed to be a prideful, sneering lot.
4) I had a growing sense of elation as the speech was received with applause and laughter (the good kind).
5) After the glow wore off, boredome, boredom, boredom. The Provo Tabernacle is hot and the doctoral hooding ceremony takes a long time.
6) I had my usual crowds-make-me-nervous jitters during the reception afterwards, but luckily Hubby's talk and our upcoming move to New York City gave me and enviable two automatic topics of conversation with my hundreds of law school acquaintances. I was also sinfully proud of my husband.
7) The rest of the day is an exhausted blur. Dinner? Some kind of something at my in-law's house? So tired. Haven't truly slept in. Five. Years.
The next few days I watched my husband go through post-graduation depression. First it's "hooray, I have so much time on my hands, and everyone loves me!" Then it's "boo, I have so much time on my hands, my friends are all gone forever, and I'll never be popular again!" Now he's turning the corner to "hmm, I have so much time on my hands, maybe I'll engage in an interesting and world-improving non-law activity before I have to start studying for the bar." I have to hand it to him: It took me three months and a baby to get to that point.
I think most people would agree that graduation day itself is kind of a mixed bag. With all of the emotions tied into it, wonderful, sad, and boring, it kind of comes out a wash. An emotion map of Hubby's graduation day:
1) I was stressed up to my ears, pulling all of the last-minute plans together for picture taking, video taping, calling everyone about parking, getting a babysitter, etc.
2) I was surprisingly moved with pride when the faculty and graduates marched in. I've been to dozens of graduations, but I still think the pomp and circumstance is really cool.
3) I was super nervous before Hubby's speech. I knew it was a good speech (I wrote about a third of it and edited all of it), and I knew that Husband would deliver it well, but I really, really wanted everyone to love my fabulous husband, and I knew law students are groomed to be a prideful, sneering lot.
4) I had a growing sense of elation as the speech was received with applause and laughter (the good kind).
5) After the glow wore off, boredome, boredom, boredom. The Provo Tabernacle is hot and the doctoral hooding ceremony takes a long time.
6) I had my usual crowds-make-me-nervous jitters during the reception afterwards, but luckily Hubby's talk and our upcoming move to New York City gave me and enviable two automatic topics of conversation with my hundreds of law school acquaintances. I was also sinfully proud of my husband.
7) The rest of the day is an exhausted blur. Dinner? Some kind of something at my in-law's house? So tired. Haven't truly slept in. Five. Years.
The next few days I watched my husband go through post-graduation depression. First it's "hooray, I have so much time on my hands, and everyone loves me!" Then it's "boo, I have so much time on my hands, my friends are all gone forever, and I'll never be popular again!" Now he's turning the corner to "hmm, I have so much time on my hands, maybe I'll engage in an interesting and world-improving non-law activity before I have to start studying for the bar." I have to hand it to him: It took me three months and a baby to get to that point.
Monday, April 21, 2008
For Reals, Sister
There are so many awesome blogs written by stay-at-home moms these days. It's one of those phenomena that makes the Internet worth all the porn. I don't have time to link to all of my favorite mom blogs (Baby's going to wake up any second), but read this one to understand (whispered, reverantly) naptime.
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