Getting grounded.

I am not grounded. Normally, I have a nice, comfy connection with my environment. Home is stable, work is normal if a little boring and family is… endlessly entertaining. But lately I’ve been feeling like I’m hovering through my days, not really feeling connected to anything and not absorbing information that’s whizzing by.

In hindsight, I think I’ve been fooling myself that I skated through our rapid sell, buy, move cycle without the normal disturbance that bubbles up from such a big life change. In our efforts to get settled, it seems like our normal routines have gone by the wayside. I'm convinced Rob and Colin are moving things to screw with me. (Oh. My. God. That sounds like my dad. Nevermind the rest of this post, I'm screwed.) My normal hobbies are tucked away in the closet, bypassed for the “excitement” of organizing closets and hanging drapes and other fripperies around the house. And my head is elsewhere, in the clouds of career and choices and challenges and change.

Our “spring” weather isn’t helping. We’re stuck in an annoyingly oscillating weather pattern of snow/sun/rain/gray/rain/sun/hail/gray. I’ll just blame it all on wacky barometric pressure. Screw you wacky barometric pressure.

Getting my hands literally into the ground helped a bit. This weekend we got the Back 40 prepped for my veggie garden. Rob built me a lovely raised bed and we (by we I mean Rob except for my jiggly five minute turn at the mantis) tilled another plot with some lovely soil amendments.

Then the fun began. I planted a mess of starter plants purchased at our local nursery (Farmington Gardens, I recommend it) and transplanted two trays of seedlings that we had started when my mom was here. My goal for this year was to involve Colin in the cycle of seed to food so I bought some jiffy peat pots to start a variety of plants inside since it was still, you know, SNOWING two weeks ago. I think two.five is still a bit too young for the concept of NOT pulling the plants out of the ground, but he loved smooshing the seeds into the dirt.


The raised bed will house two varieties of pumpkins and corn. I wanted to plant popcorn but can’t find the seeds yet. Can you just plant Orville? The main section contains tomatoes (six varieties, hope you all like homemade sauce!), basil, garlic, celery, sugar and snap peas, pickling cucumbers, fennel, zucchini, Walla Walla onions, leeks, cilantro (Rob’s request), lettuce, carrots (orange and purple), bell peppers (one each red and green) beets and sunflowers. Whew.

I haven’t tried most of these, but thought it would be fun to see what happens.

Evolution of a Mom

When I first became a mom, I felt very self-conscious when I was talking to Colin. Even in our own home, I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was talking to myself and someone was going to jump out of the corner and point and laugh at my attempts to talk to my baby. And out in stores? Fahgetaboutit. If I had something to tell Colin, I whispered it to him.

But over time, I seem to have lost my sense of doofiness (along with so many other things that fall under the Pride category) when talking to Colin in public. It helped when he stopped staring at me with those big ol eyes that said, “Mama, you’re a crazy lady talking to me when I can’t talk back. People think you’re talking to yourself” even though I knew that he was reacting and enjoying my prattle. Captive audience? No way, he was ENJOYING it. And once he started interacting with sounds, and now full on sentences, I feel like I have a buddy along with me.

This occured to me recently when I took Colin with me grocery shopping. I kept up a conversation with him the whole time – at normal voice volume, and didn’t even give a second thought at the people who were in the aisles with us. Well, until Colin started screaming just to see me react. that little turd.

It seems to have taken its sweet time, but I finally feel more confidente in my Mom role. I like being a mom. I like having mom things to do like playgroup, and trips to the zoo and watching cartoons in our jam jams, and our Toddler and Me exercise class (oh just a fair warning, I can sense the presence of soccer mom syndrome as I cheer on Colin’s attempts to gallop faster than that mop-headed boy) and having an excuse to work at home part of the week.

I tend to write more about the inane struggles, because frankly, if I can’t find humor in it, I’m going to end up huddled in a corner popping Prozac and rocking myself into my special place. But I love him! I really do love him! Yes, despite all the trauma of work mornings and battles of control, I am in fact head over heels for my stubborn, funny, kind, blockheaded, huggy little boy of a baby.

Spring Visit

My mom came up for a long weekend this past weekend. Haven’t seen her since February. You know, for a chick with cancer, she looks pretty damn great! Colin was tha-rilled to see Grandma. We had recently hosted Oma and Opa in town to help us corral Colin while we moved, so he’s been in grandparent heaven this last month.

While Mom loved the new house, the never-ending stairs were a bit of a chore. But she didn’t take us up on our offer to have Rob sherpa her up and down, so I guess it wasn’t too bad.

We mostly did what we do best. Lounge around and go shopping. It's nice to not have to have a activity agenda since the 'rents have seen a lot of what Portland has to offer. And since Mom likes me best, all I have to do is be myself to make her happy. (just seeing who's paying attention) And we had a nice weather tease and were able to actually go outside for a while. My blindingly white skin didn't know how to react.

Luckily we now have an actual guest room, with an actual bed in it, so she had a comfy spot to sleep. Rob’s folks had had to make due with our (albeit nice) inflatable bed. But that was better than the big stack of cardboard boxes we could have thrown some blankets on, so you know…it’s all relative. And next time they’ll, along with any other guests *hint hint* will have a comfy bed too. Although in fair warning, our concierge has a fondness for pouncing on guests with a full capacity diaper and a hearty GOOOOD MORRNINGGG!!!!

In hindsight we did cross off a few big items on my Laura-do list in between all the wine and sleeping in. Not that those two were necessarily related to each other.

The weekend went by too quickly and we had a tearful parting at the airport. Colin had WBLS (wobbly bottom lip syndrome) for most of the day as he looked around for Grandma. But we’ll be heading south next month, so not too much time will pass. We’re actually heading north too to the see Oma and Opa. Can’t get too much of grandparent time!

I let Tax Day (cue the theme to Psycho) come and go without a diatribe on paying taxes. But really, what’s there to say? I’ve had to pay taxes for most of the years that I’ve been filing them. Sure, it sucks to write that check. But then again, getting a big fat refund means you’ve been letting the gov’ment use your money for free. So we strive for that elusive no owe, no refund mark. There’s always next year to beat the Man! And besides, I tried pouring out my tax day woes to my mom when she was here and I got The Look and a hearty “quit complaining.” So we moved on to shopping therapy and it was all good.

The Land of I Do

There once was a little boy who liked to have his Mommy and Daddy help him do things like walking up stairs, getting dressed, putting on shoes, opening the door and so much more.

One day, not too long ago, this little boy discovered a new magical land, it looked just like the world he had been living in, but in this new place, he could do everything by himself!

This new magical place was called the Land of I Do. In the Land of I Do, the little boy figured out that he can do many (very important of course) things all by himself. Even if he can’t really do something, in the Land of I Do, the little boy sternly says “I DO!” whenever Mommy and Daddy, or even Grandma, tries to help.

But secretly the little boy, who tries so hard to be a big boy, likes it when Mommy offers to hold his hand when they go up and down stairs or help put on his sneakers. At times like these, the little boy hugs his mommy's leg or head and says "tanks."

In the Land of I Do, the little boy is a big help to Mommy and Daddy. He opens and closes doors, puts trash in the garbage can, gets all his toys out on his own and sometimes puts them back, turns the water on and off, flushes the toilet, stirs the soup and helps clean up the garage.

Sometimes it’s hard for the little boy when he wants to do something dangerous or just not possible, so Mommy and Daddy have to remind him that some things aren’t “I Do.” Like putting on diapers or undoing his car seat buckle while the car is moving. Being told “no” makes the little boy very mad and sulky.

In the Land of I Do, mornings can be kind of tough on the little boy. Because even though he’s not ready to get out of bed, or be awake, he still wants to do everything by himself. But he’s soo tired. *yawn* And soo grumpy. *grr* And he just doesn’t have all the words he needs to say how he feels. So there are lots of tears and frustration in the Land of I Do on mornings like these. Because Mommy has to try to guess which of the hundreds of “I Do” moments she missed and let the little boy redo a few so that peace will be restored to the Land of I Do.

Since this little boy is usually a very good little boy, the Land of I Do is a place where Mommy and Daddy are okay to be living in, especially since they really do like this little boy.

Especially since even in the Land of I Do, he gives the best huggy bear hugs and smooshy moosh smooches.

The End.

Some things are better left to the experts

Surgery, pouring foundations for skyscrapers, making tortillas… all things that are better left to the experts.

I tried out my sister-in-law’s recipe for pulled pork today, since I had five hours to kill. I recall her serving these with soft taco fixings, with the end result being a tasty culinary treat worthy of gorge-status.

Since I didn’t have tortillas on hand, I thought I would play Martha and make my own to impress my husband with my culinary genius. We are insanely lucky to live in the same city (nearly) as Bob’s Red Mill. I love me some Bob’s. If you haven’t discovered Bob’s or don’t live in Portland, it’s a local mill (check out the website here) that produces everything from healthy flours of every variety to soup mix to hot cereals, dried fruit, yada yada. Some stores carry a few of their items. Whenever I need a gift for Dad, I head to Bob’s and load up. It’s a guaranteed winner.

Back from that side trip… On my last venture to Bob’s, I bought some Masa Harina. According to the package, "Masa Harina Flour is used to make authentic Mexican tortillas." According to my taste buds, what I made was most certainly not authentic Mexican tortillas.

Here’s what I envisioned making.

Here’s what I made.

Beautiful, no? And how should I describe for full impact... They were like dry, rubbery vaguely disk shaped blobs of cooked toddler glue (ie, flour and water mixed together). I followed the directions – two cups masa to one cup water. Apparently not adding salt and butter/lard makes it healthy? But uh, not so high on the tasty scale.

I tried out the end product on the toddler – he loves tortillas. He looked at it, smiled and said “tillas!” Put a bite in his mouth, and then made a sad forlorn face and said, “Why Mother? Why would you feed me this tasteless Frisbee? Am I really that bad of a boy?” Okay, he didn’t say that. He spit it out into my hand and said “icky” and walked away.

Luckily the pork turned out great, and Rob (in a bit of frantic fridge foraging) found a half package of who knows how old tortillas languishing in the bottom of the fridge, so we were able to avoid "enjoying" my creations. I want to try again on the tortilla front, but I’ll be doing a little recipe research first.

The mirror me

I have a burning question that keeps me awake at night. Do I look like the mirror me or the photo me? Because I'm cool with the mirror me, she’s a gal who is fairly confident of who she has become and makes more of an attempt to smile at her own reflection. But the photo me? I do not like the photo me. She is a puffy beast.

Let’s back up.

Soo many many times when I’ve gotten ready for a family picture I do a final mirror check. Hair okay? Yep, okay, looks like it has a little body today. Makeup okay? Yep, no random shine. Face chubby today? Eh, I can see cheekbones and a jawline. Not bad. And there’s always the dimples to fall back on! Okay, here’s the hard part, how does the body look. Hey! I look like I have boobs in this shirt. Bonus! Bulges seem under control especially ifisuckinthebellynaturallyjustlikethis. Butt? Well, we can’t win them all but overall, looking okay.

I head out with a bit of confidence aaaanddd everyone say cheese!

Then I see the results.

Holy hellfire in tarnation. Who is that chubby, greasy, helmet-haired, inverted chest, lumpytummychipmunkcheeked lumpy lumpkin? I didn't look like that five minutes ago in the mirror!!

In general I don’t like photo me. Sure, there are the random snaps that I’m okay with, once a few years have passed. And then you realize that when that picture was taken, you were probably bitching about how you looked. And you want to tell that past you, "Hey past you. Quitcherbitchin, because if you knew then how you would look today, you’d keep your mouth shut and move on with life. mmkay?"

The disparity between reality and photo selves becomes worse when shorter people are taking the picture, which is a guaranteed additive of a neck goiter. Photo me would be a much happier person if everyone took down angle photos. Hence - most of my favored pictures of our little trio are taken by moi with the camera up in the air and pointed DOWN.

Then I worry. Which one is the real me? The mirror me or the photo me? When I look at pictures of other people, they look the same in real life and in pictures. So is that how people see me?

I like the mirror me, sure I have some improvements to make, but you know, it’s me. I don't think I'm ugly. But I see the bad photo me and want to cry and cry and cry into my pillow and eat potato chips because that will certainly fix what ails me. And besides, even when I know I’ve lost weight it doesn’t show through the camera. So screw you calorie police!

I wonder if I have the opposite of body dysmorphic disorder (where people think they are ugly when they are not), and see myself as better than I really am? And when I say better, I really mean thinner and less, um, textured.

And then I don’t care anymore, because luckily I have a cute kid that gets all the camera time these days. But when I can't sleep these are the thoughts that creep into my brain and I feel I must share...

Disclaimer

After rereading yesterday's post, I feel like I should have added a disclaimer. "No bumbles were harmed in the mommy meltdown described herein."

This morning went better. He still didn't want to get up, but I hauled my own carcass out of bed a little earlier to give us a litttle more time to adjust to the concept of being awake for the day before we had to head out the door.

When I got home yesterday I apologized to the little man for my bad example. He jabbered something at me about mice and trees and it was all good.

Monday, schmonday

I really don’t have any personal grudge against Mondays. Some weeks I dread stepping back into the grind, and others, I look forward to escaping the velvet ropes of staying home.

But that little person in our lives, who is developing more of his own ideas about how the world should cater to his needs, is not a morning person. And is definitely not a Monday person. And woe the parent (me) who has to wake him up and get us out of the house on time.

I stop outside his door, firming up my resolve to stay patient, since there is no way of knowing if it will be Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde that will answer my cheery “good morning, sunshine!”

Crap. I got Mr. Hyde. In a big way.

(in my best chirpy tone) “Good morning Colin!”
“No mama, sleepy now.”
(oh no, not again) “Sorry bud, we need to get up now.”
“NO MAMA. SLEEPY NOW!”
(I try a tactic that worked last week) “Hey, the suns out, wanna go see the sun?!”
“NO SUN. LIGHTS OFF NOW.”
(new tactic) “Let’s go play at Donna’s, she’ll have a yummy breakfast for you!”
“No Ghanna. Me nigh nigh. NO EAT!!”
(Shit. This is going to suck. Deep breath.) “Okay sweet pea, up we go”

And as I reach in to haul him out of his crib, I suddenly have my hands full of a screaming banshee doing his best to kick me in the head.

A full on wrestling match ensues as I try to get him dressed while his anger escalates to howling rage and my temper dissolves into ugliness as our shared trait of blockheaded stubbornness clashes on the changing table.

I then have to haul his flailing body safely down two flights of stairs and then more grappling to get his unresisting body strapped into the car seat, during which he’s hurling gut-deep howls right into my ear. I just hope he doesn’t barf on me. The drive to Donna’s is tense to say the least, as I keep up innane chatter about birds and sun in an effort to calm him down. His backseat snuffles rise into howls yet again as we pull into the driveway. Donna assures me, yet again, that he will be just fine as soon as I leave, and he always is. And I hold back the tears yet again as I one-part race and one-part hesitate out the door.

Mornings like this leave me exhausted, depressed and ready to climb back into bed for another few years. I can find no humor in the situation beyond the sheer "what the hell" craziness of the tantrum. No solace in the fact that he will likely have no memory of these fine Mondays.

Because the what ifs and whys start their insidious creeping in my brain. What if I'm having a negative impact on him? Why can’t I be more patient? What if this is more than just tantrums? Why doesn't he do this to Rob? Why can’t I stay home all the time, and why don’t I want to? What if he remembers me as a mean mommy? What if my priorities are all out of whack? Why don’t I just get to work late and hope my boss is running late too? What if I’m the only one that feels like/acts like this? Why do I let my guilt over job issues compete with my desire to have a happy well-adjusted bumble?

And so my week begins. I need a hug another latte.

The Little Things

I love my little boy.

Sure, I love the dimples, and big smiles. And the way he kisses my head and says "it's okay" if he thinks I'm sad. But in between causing mayhem and madness, he really tries to make my life easier. Although I think his motivation comes more from an insanely high desire to do everything himself rather than impress ol' mom.

Take his latest trick - blowing his nose. By himself on a tissue instead of handing me his freshly picked boogers (I guess that's better than him eating them). Then putting the tissue into the garbage. Without being asked.

The kid even puts the toilet seat down.

Let me awake from my swoon to ponder my good luck here.

And no, he's not potty trained. Not even close as far as I can tell. But he loves to sit on the potty, pants down or not, and flush when he's "done" and then wash his hands.

Now we just have to work in that critical in-between step of actually doing his business while he's there...

I know with each of these little milestones, discoveries and "me do" moments he's moving ever farther away from his babyhood (yes, yes. You were right. It does go by fast). And there are days I note the passage with a little twinge in my heart. But a kiss from mommy nearly always makes it better, and we still have chubby thighs to ponder and munch (his, not mine), huggy bear hugs and small hands to hold.

And any skill learned that reduces my involvement with sticky, stinky or just plain gross is one more skill I will applaud!