tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50418742023-11-15T05:16:34.289-08:00Posthipchick: Silent<img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v64/ryanpix/phcbannernew2.jpg"></img>
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hoodie czarina |
mother |
urbanite |
liberal |
foodie |
wife of amateur bloghacker |
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contactable at <a href="mailto:posthipchick@gmail.com">posthipchick@gmail.com</a>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comBlogger1183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-73346571259461113032006-12-14T12:05:00.000-08:002006-12-14T12:19:13.411-08:00It's been real, or Index, Harper's Style:<br /><br />Years since beginning this blog: 3 5/6<br />Jobs held in said four years: 3 (U*S*A Rugby's office manager, Teacher and now the illustrious Program Manager)<br />Marriages: 1<br />Pregnancies: 1<br />Births: 1<br />Places lived: 3<br />Cities lived: 2<br />Degrees Obtained: 1, and a credential<br />Blog Posts: 1,193<br />Times I have faked innocence about this blog: 3<br />Times I have been in a class and somebody has mentioned this blog without knowing who I was: 1<br />Friends made through the blog that I have actually met in real life: 10<br />Friends made through the blog that I have not met in real life but still oddly feel like friends because we email often: 4<br />Friends that I met in real life and then solidified the friendship with through the blog: 6<br />Times I have thought it was a better idea to shut the hell up and enjoy my life, quiet and boring as it is, than spend so much damn time on the Internet: 1, but it's enough<br /><br />Thanks all, for everything these past four years. It's hard to imagine what my life will be like without the blog, but I look forward to finding out.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-64469072196917874752006-12-12T16:48:00.000-08:002006-12-13T07:40:49.588-08:00Not Angry Enough:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.babble.com/">Babble</a> launches tonight without me.<br /><br />That’s right, I was fired before actually beginning. That really has to be some sort of record. Apparently my voice is too “mommy-<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bloggish</span>” and “not the right fit”.<br /><br />Babble is touting itself as irreverent and edgy, which I’m sure it will be. Alas, I am neither of those things.<br /><br />I think it boils down to me not being angry enough. I tried to pull out my <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">creds</span>- Hey! I listen to <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ani</span> <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Difranco</span> and Rage Against the Machine! I am angry, too! I swear!<br /><br />But in all honesty, I am not. Before being fired (this is my first firing, ever), I was having serious doubts. The approach they are taking seemed to be one that is constructed around being exclusive and hip for the sake of being hip. Different for the sake of being different. Which is great for them. They can wear the skinny jeans and leg warmers, but I’ll be over here in boot-cuts with clogs. For me, becoming a parent has been the great equalizer. Whether I talk to people who breastfeed or formula-feed, who co-sleep or have their babies in a crib in another room, who stay at home or send their children to daycare, we are all doing the best we can and love our children more than we thought humanly possible. Why do we need to divide ourselves up into categories and talk shit about the others? Won't we do better standing together?<br /><br />In all honesty, this brings up two things that I have been thinking about for awhile.<br /><br />The first is that I have never considered myself a writer. In fact, I hate writing. And yet I’<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ve</span> kept this blog for almost four years, so there’s that. I write. But I think the difference between a writer and a good writer is that a good writer can take banal things and make them funny and poignant. Whereas I have had funny or poignant things happen and I write them down. There is a difference.<br /><br />The second thing this brings up is the ever-increasing exclusivity of the blog world. Maybe it has always been there and I just haven’t noticed, but these days it feels like it taints things more and more for me. Since <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Blogher</span>, I have had a bad taste in my mouth about blogging but have just sort of plugged along. I thought that I was going to quit altogether but then decided to just take a month off and see how I felt. Something in me decided to give it one more shot, but I am still feeling like it might be time to pull the plug on <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Posthipchick</span>.<br /><br />Anyway, go read Babble and find out how to be edgy and irreverent. God knows you <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">aren</span>’t going to find out here.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-62076509242736137762006-12-10T20:51:00.000-08:002006-12-10T20:53:40.723-08:00Small World:<br /><br />Don't you love when someone answers your <a href="http://www.craigslist.org">craigslist </a>posting about selling your couch and they show up and it turns out to be someone you went to college with and totally enjoyed and now they are going to buy your couch and also you guys can hang out sometime? Yeah, I love that too.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1165447899352619282006-12-06T15:17:00.000-08:002006-12-07T14:16:17.133-08:00Heartbreak:<br /><br />I have spent the last few days alternating between obsessively refreshing my <a href="http://www.sfgate.com">sfgate</a> page, looking for news about the <a href="http://www.jamesandkati.com">Kims</a>, emailing and IM'ing with friends about possible scenarios, and caring for a sick baby while becoming sick myself.<br /><br />When I was up last night at 1 with a sobbing baby who just vomited all over me, I checked the page. At 3, when she was wrecked by not being able to nurse, I checked the page. I was holding out hope that James would be found alive and I am devastated to know that he isn't.<br /><br />Through all of this, I began to question <span style="font-style:italic;">why</span> exactly I cared so much. But the fact is, this story hits incredibly close to home. I know people who know each of them. They live on the same street as my MIL, not a mile from us. Their youngest daughter is exactly the same age as The Olive. <br /><br />You begin to play out the scenario- this could have been <span style="font-style:italic;">us</span>. <span style="font-style:italic;">We</span> could have taken a wrong turn. <span style="font-style:italic;">We</span> could have been terrified in a car for nine days, keeping our children alive by breastfeeding them. <span style="font-style:italic;">Our</span> husbands could have set out for help and died saving our family.<br /><br />It is sad but true, I think, that the more you feel connected to something, the more you pay attention to it. They are certainly not the only family to be suffering a devastating loss right now, but they are the only ones within my line of vision. <br /><br />I want to do something to commemorate their bravery and loss, but even with someone so close, I fear there is nothing I can do. So I will hug by sickly little daughter and wonderful husband a little tighter tonight and remember how amazingly lucky I am. May the Kim family have some peace.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Edited to add: <a href="http://citymama.typepad.com/citymama/">Stefania</a> and I are planning on putting some flowers at their family store tomorrow. If you would like me to add anything from you, leave it in the comments.</span><br /><a href="http://flickr.com/photos/posthipchick"><br />Pics are up.</a>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1165170821501681292006-12-03T08:24:00.000-08:002006-12-03T10:33:41.906-08:00I have become the mom I never thought I'd be:<br /><br />I am actively trying to get The Olive interested in the Teletubbies. As in I have tivo'd an episode and we turn it on about once a day to distract us from our current frustrations. I have this theory that the more she sees it, the more excited she will be about it. It usually lasts about two minutes, and then she's back to her "frustrated" noise, a sort of grunting like you think she might be pooping, but alas, it's just a special Olive noise used to express frustration at any given situation and is, based on my time with other babies, not a universal noise. It is also the noise I am quite sure will follow me into Hell, because there is nothing worse I have heard, ever, and if you find me in the mental institution one day, it is quite likely that noise that drove me there.<br /><br />So! The Teletubbies are quite trippy, no? I'm sure many have discussed these alien bears far more eloquently than I can. In fact, I'm sure some Education student somewhere has a fascinating thesis on the subject, so if you are so inclined, go ahead and look that up.<br /><br />Watching the Teletubbies has, however, confirmed one thing for me. British accents are just so much cuter than American accents. I feel that I am doing The Olive a disservice by not raising her in Ye Olde Country and allowing her to develop that endearing accent. There are simply no immersion schools for American English and British English, and I must say, I think that is a shame. We may have to cozy up a little more to some of our British friends to encourage a little rub-off onto The Olive's vocabulary.<br /><br />Or just watch more Teletubbies. Good mom, Good mom.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1164948705686688472006-11-30T20:28:00.000-08:002006-11-30T21:09:15.023-08:00Welcome to the Working Week:<br /><br />Everyone I "work" with (work in parenthesis because everyone besides me is a volunteer) are parents. So when there is a meeting at their house, they always welcome me to bring The Olive. I always politely decline, because while their school-age kids are content to watch a video in the other room, I don't have confidence The Olive is up to that yet.<br /><br />But today there was a meeting and the host not only told us children were welcome, but also that their nanny would be there. And the meeting was at a time that our nanny wasn't available and The Lovely Beausband had a work thing, so... I just marveled at how freaking lucky I am once again in having this job.<br /><br />Of course, there would be a little work "emergency" today, which meant I had to haul The Olive along to two meetings instead of just one. The first, she was great. I plopped her on a blanket on the floor with my keys and the house had an unbelievably friendly cat and I was free to hash out spreadsheet nightmares. She didn't even peep.<br /><br />Then we got to our next meeting and I foolishly tried to hand The Olive over to the nanny and the other children, who were so excited for her to come that they had "babyproofed" the house and pulled out all their old toys, you know what happened, right? Hint: I have a seven-month old. What do seven-month olds do? C'mon. You know it. Separation Anxiety, in full force.<br /><br />So after giving her a few minutes of trying to relax and realizing that was so not happening, I went and scooped her up and thought I would try to hold her on my lap during the meeting. I gave her my keys, my sunglasses, all the things that normally work to keep her quiet for whole minutes at a time.<br /><br />Of course, this is when The Olive decided to learn to talk. Sure, there's been the occasion 'Ga' here or there, but this was T-A-L-K-I-N-G. "Ba-ba-ba-BAAAAAAAA-Daa-DAAAAA-DAAAAA" at the top of her lungs. For the entire meeting. Of course, I was stunned. I have never heard anything like this out of her before. It was so jarring and sudden. Everyone was trying to hold a meeting, for Gods sake, about important websites and software and auctions and there was The Olive, trying to tell us all about how she wants to be a businesswoman when she grows up or how today's reading circle was. I honestly don't know. I do know, however, that nobody could even talk over her babble and I also know that she might not be invited to any more meetings.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1163122048639305602006-11-09T17:19:00.000-08:002006-11-09T17:27:28.666-08:00Hiatus interruptus:<br /><br />A few months ago, I got a comment on one of my posts and clicked over to the website of the commenter. I do this fairly often, particularly with commenters I am not familiar with.<br /><br />I clicked over and saw a family who had just delivered their baby at 27 weeks gestation. As in three months before his due date, thirteen weeks early. Early enough that I imagine most babies would not survive.<br /><br />I have said it before and I will say it again- this <span style="font-style:italic;">thing</span> that happens when you become a mom, where you feel so deeply for other mothers and the pain they go through- it is staggering.<br /><br />For almost three months, I have followed their son's struggles and accomplishments, and marveled at the fact that they have managed to stay positive and hopeful in the face of such fear.<br /><br />And it is so worth interrupting my hiatus to tell you that <a href="http://jack.sarahandarchie.com/2006/11/09/home-at-last/">today they took their son home</a>. I find it hard to imagine that they shed more tears than me, but I'm sure they did.<br /><br />Go Jack.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1162659694380468952006-11-04T08:59:00.000-08:002006-11-04T09:01:34.470-08:00November:<br /><br />Aren't you glad November is <a href=" http://www.fussy.org/nablopomo.html">NaBloPoMo</a>? Everyone posting and all.<br /><br />So while everyone else posts every day, I'm going to not post every day. I know, how meta.<br /><br />Have a great Thanksgiving and see you in December.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1162343761994566682006-10-31T17:03:00.000-08:002006-10-31T17:16:35.630-08:00Oh, Doctor:<br /><br />A few weeks ago I scheduled a doctor's appointment for today. I know I scheduled it for today because the receptionist asked "Are you sure it's ok for you to come in on Halloween?", and I know I'm losing marbles at a rate quicker than most drug users, but I'm pretty sure that all the people walking around in Hulk Hogan costumes and devil horns indicate <span style="font-style:italic;">something</span>.<br /><br />Anyway. I showed up at my doctor's door at our 1:30 scheduled time. My doctor, who I love, love, love, is ALWAYS running late. But you know- I'm a mom without much free time on my hands so the chance to sit in a quiet room and read magazines? Take an extra hour, doc. But I showed up and went to open the door and it was locked. And on it was a post-it from UPS, dated the day before. Which means nobody had been here since.... yesterday? How perplexing.<br /><br />I waited about 10 minutes, so totally confused about 1) why the doctor's office would be closed for two days and 2) why no other patients were waiting with me. I called and left a message, and then headed downstairs, about to give up. I stopped by the pharmacy and asked if they knew anything (if someone doesn't show up, I, of course, assume they have died, which seems an important thing to note about ones' doctor), and they called some super-secret-doctor-phone and lo and behold! She would be there in five minutes. <br /><br />So I went BACK upstairs and waited for another 15 minutes and she finally showed up, looking frazzled. Apparently the receptionist was supposed to have canceled all her appointments for today, which explains both the tardiness and the lack of patients. She just happened to be coming in in the afternoon to do paperwork. So we went on with the appointment, after chatting for quite some time, during which I was informed that answering services charge around $1,000 PER MONTH and I decided I am SO starting a side business as an answering service because that is some serious bank.<br /><br />The bottom line to the appointment is this: I do not have insomnia, I have a baby who wakes me up. And she really recommends that if your knee hurts, you shouldn't have sex on a hard floor. I want you to remember that.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1162167451572847062006-10-29T16:07:00.000-08:002006-10-29T16:37:09.763-08:00October's List Of Things They Don't Tell You:<br /><br />1. <span style="font-style:italic;">You will never leave the house past 7 p.m. again</span>. Seriously, we tried to go to a friend's for dinner on Friday night and it was a total disaster. And they HAD a yoga ball and a Pack & Play. But that's not enough for our girl, who was kvetching the whole time and wouldn't fall asleep. I remember when I was pregnant with The Olive, <a href="http://www.sweetjuniper.blogspot.com">Dutch and Wood</a> asked if we wanted to meet them for dinner at a local burrito place at 5 p.m. I thought they were crazy. 5 p.m.? Seems totally reasonable now.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-style:italic;">That babies are happier outside</span>. You, too, will find yourself aimlessly strolling the city streets as a way of getting the kvetching to end, please, oh please, make it end.<br /><br />3. <span style="font-style:italic;"> Babies love laptops</span>. I mean, who knew that would be her favorite toy ever? I'm sure it's in no small part due to the fact that her parents are always hiding behind them, but look! Lights! And clicky buttons! That make things move! It's the perfect toy!<br /><br />4. <span style="font-style:italic;">Babies don't always sleep more as they get older</span>. In fact, The Olive's sleep gets progressively WORSE the older she gets. I didn't know I could survive six months on no more than three consecutive hours of sleep, but you know. You get by.<br /><br />5. <span style="font-style:italic;">Babies don't like food right away</span>. Even though they've been grabbing at yours with their grabby little paws for months, it turns out they are not so into it themselves. Even sweet potatoes. Even Jamba Juice, for the love of god. What is wrong with these creatures?posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1161965009816561612006-10-27T09:03:00.000-07:002006-10-27T13:45:00.053-07:00Dear Olive,<br /><br />Yesterday you were six months old. That's half a year. Half a year in which I haven't slept more than three hours in a row, but we?ll get back to that.<br /><a href="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/archives/2005_09_01_posthipchick_archive.html#112726089334024233"><br />One year ago today</a>, you weighed about 4 ozs. and were approximately four inches long. You made me throw up a lot. I was certain you were a boy, and would constantly poke at you and call you ?Dude". As in ?Dude, please stop kicking me.?<br /><a href="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/archives/2006_04_01_posthipchick_archive.html#114616320899431577"><br />Six months ago</a>, they placed you in my arms and you felt huge at 7 lbs., 8 ozs. <br /><br />Now you weigh in at around 15.8 lbs., and are 26 1/2 inches. You are long and lean, not the chubby baby I expected. I blame this on the fact that you never stop moving. Yesterday at the mom's group, I noticed that the other moms hold their babies on their laps and the babies sit quietly, sucking on mom's finger or staring at a toy. Oh my god, that is so not you. I feel like I spend all day, every day, wrestling a monkey. You are not content to sit quietly on my lap for more than a minute, if that. You want to twist around to see what is behind you, and then twist around again, because god forbid you miss something. Oh sweet girl, how did you end up so much like me?<br /><br />All day yesterday, I kept thinking about the day you were born. I think it will stick in my memory forever as the best day of my life. I kept thinking "Six months ago right now, I had just had the epidural and was feeling great" or "Six months ago right now was when the pain started again" or whatever it was. Quite honestly, I don't think I have the sequence of time quite right in my head, but I'm ok with that. What I don't forget, and what I think I won't ever forget is the hours immediately after you came out. First of all, I could never quite wrap my head around the fact that a real, live baby was inside of me. I don't know why. I thought maybe you were a cat or something. So I had the house prepared- kitty litter, a little feeding dish, and then you turned out to be a baby. Who knew? I remember seeing you as they wisked you across the room, and I was finally able to open my eyes a bit because all the pain was suddenly gone. And I kept asking what you were, even though I was so sure you were a boy. "You have a daughter", they told me, and at once I was knocked back down again. I was so, so sure that you were a boy that the news sent me reeling. I was unprepared for a girl. And Boo-Boo? I am secretly so happy that you are a girl. I'm sure I would have been just as pleased with a boy, but it fills my heart no end to know that I get a daughter in this life. It is an indescribable feeling to know that we will get to share all those things that women share.<br /><br />The past six months have both dragged on in ways I never knew a day could drag, and simultaneously sped by so fast that sometimes I think that I'm on a train going 200 m.p.h. and that I can't get off. Where does the time go? It is so cliche, and yet so true. It's like I entered into a different zone when you came out, and now things are set differently. I cannot believe that the person that six months ago couldn't do anything beyond nurse and poop is the same person who slurps on a spoon, or sits up and plays or spins around in her Exersaucer, picking things up and throwing them to the ground. I can't imagine the changes that are going to happen in the next six months. It is almost too much to bear.<br /><br />Sometimes, on good days, your father and I talk about the next child we will have. Don't get your hopes up, little one. We need some sleep before you get a sibling. But we talk about it and we can't imagine that we will love another person as much as we love you. How can it be possible? YOU are clearly the most wonderful and amazing baby to ever live; how could another person compete? How could the experience of having a second ever be as special as having you?<br /><br />Yesterday, I was in the store, and I came across a mother and her young son. We got to talking and were immediately swapping sleeping tips and neighborhood news, then quickly devolved into postpartum body issues and marital relationships. How quickly and easily moms can talk. You no longer have the time to get to know someone slowly and build a friendship. Instead, it's five minutes in Target while the baby is pacified by their new toy. There is no bullshit involved. Leaving, I marveled at the way motherhood has done the wonderful trick of connecting me to all the other mothers in the world, all trying to do the best they can. It has changed me in ways I couldn't have imagined, and is the most defining thing to have happened to me in this life. For that, Olive, I will be eternally grateful to you.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/1600/IMG_3398.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/200/IMG_3398.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/1600/IMG_3400.0.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/200/IMG_3400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1161723711403723072006-10-24T13:56:00.000-07:002006-10-24T14:01:51.426-07:00Six Months (almost):<br /><br />My mom is famous for being the World's Worst Photographer. Seriously. Every single picture of me growing up is blurry. She would take prom photos that cut out your date EVERY SINGLE TIME. We have given her endless shit for her complete lack of skills, but it is becoming clear that I am following in her footsteps. Thank God the subject is cute.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/1600/IMG_3390.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/320/IMG_3390.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />Note the sitting up(!). Yeah, that happened.</span>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1161286606297668702006-10-19T12:25:00.000-07:002006-10-19T12:36:46.343-07:00Teacher, leave those kids alone:<br /><br />I had a dream last night that I returned to my old school and all my students were there. They were so happy to see me. Or happy in the way that teenagers show happiness about any sort of emotion. They joked with me and asked me shyly when I was coming back. And gave me shit, as teenagers are want to do.<br /><br />In the dream, I kept thinking, "I cannot believe I ever left teaching. I miss it so much."<br /><br />In real life, I miss it, too, when I have two seconds to even think about it. In theory, it sounds nice. In reality, I maintain that I have the best compromise for a mother ever. I cannot imagine having to get up at 6 a.m. every day (we roll out of bed around nine here), or grading papers after being away from The Olive all day. Being away from The Olive all day. Every day. Being needed so much all day and so much all night. I have no doubt that I would be back on meds at this point if I was back to teaching. If I hadn't died of exhaustion already.<br /><br />But there are still parts I miss. And I realize The Olive will not need me the way she does now forever. And there will be a point when I don't want to lounge in my pajamas all day, and I want to get back to feeling like I'm making a difference in the world beyond my little family. There will come a day when it feels right to go back to the classroom, I am sure of it.<br /><br />But last night I wrote out a 'Sleep Plan' for our house, and at the end I included a part about assessments. The teacher in me lives on.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1160852439974436272006-10-14T11:53:00.000-07:002006-10-14T16:26:56.996-07:00Insomniac Foodie:<br /><br />So, I am still suffering from post-partum insomnia here. It is awful, terrible, etc. I will not bore you with the details because I could complain about sleep from here to eternity and I fear it is getting a touch boring. I'm a new mom, I don't sleep. End of story.<br /><br />So, when the insomnia hits, I like to play some games to try to push myself into sleep. Counting sheep, counting backwards from 100 in 3's, listing the states in alphabetical order. Fun stuff. My newest game is a version of "I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing something beginning with (A, B, C, etc.)". But not one to stick to standards, I shake it up a bit. I'm not going on a trip, I'm going on a dessert island, forever. And I'm not bringing things, but rather food items that will be the only food available to me, forever. I must choose wisely. Here goes.<br /><br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing an avocado<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing bread<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing coffee (this is the hardest one for me. how does one choose between coffee, cheese (oh, beautiful cheese! i manage this one later with a touch of creativity), crab? it is tough, but the final decision is that I cannot live without coffee.)<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing d (there is something wrong with me that I cannot think of a food that starts with d. Neither can The Lovely Beausband. Please help us.)<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing eggs<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing flour<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing goat cheese (See? I get a cheese!)<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing half & half (for the coffee, and any cream-based cooking, since cream is another dreaded c-word)<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing icing, cream cheese<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing jack cheese<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing kosher salt<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing lemons<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing mozzarella, fresh<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing nuts<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing onions<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing potatoes<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing quinoa (I couldn't care less, but between this and quince, quinoa seems more versatile)<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing rice<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing sugar<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing tuna, ahi<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing unsalted butter<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing vanilla beans<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing wheat <br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing x (there are simply no x food words, so I forgo an x)<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing yogurt<br />I'm going on a trip and I'm bringing zitiposthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1160524174740498402006-10-10T16:39:00.000-07:002006-10-10T16:49:34.876-07:00Thank god she doesn't speak English yet:<br /><br />I hit my all-time low as a parent today. I was desperately trying to get out of the house for a meeting this morning. I got up on time, but then it was just one thing after another. Urgent work emails. The need to make more coffee. And to shower. And put on clothes. And to pump. The apartment felt particularly messy and crowded, and I kept tripping over shit. All the while, The Olive would not let me put her down. Not for one second. Not in the bouncy chair or the Exersaucer or the Hop-N-Pop or her special chair or on a blanket on the floor or on the bed. I would set her down, just to put on my pants, for Christ's sake, and she would cry. And wouldn't stop. I tried to let her work through it, but the only time she was happy was in my arms. And maybe you are a better mom than me, but I simply cannot get my make-up on while holding a baby. This went on and on all morning, with me running terribly late and trying to get everything packed up and I snapped. I told her to shut the fuck up, loudly, and then she cried and so did I. <br /><br />I do not want to be a mom who snaps at her children because of frustration. I know, in my head, that she was having some particularly bad morning- maybe she is teething or maybe she had a bad dream- who can tell? Her bad morning just wasn't working with my schedule, the schedule I have altered my life to adhere to. I know it's not her fault, but oh my god, was I frustrated this morning.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1160262787774614622006-10-07T15:50:00.000-07:002006-10-07T16:17:04.226-07:00Home:<br /><br />The Blue Angels are roaring overhead. The bluegrass festival is in full swing at the park. It is a beautiful autumn day in the city- the kind you fantasize about during the fog of summer and rain of winter and moist cool of spring. <br /><br />I got halfway to the bluegrass festival- literally, drove halfway there with The Lovely Beasuband and friends, after showering and getting dressed and packing the baby's bag and my bag and getting water and the Bjorn and the proper attire on everyone for the <span style="font-style:italic;">possible</span> weather at the park, now and as the day wears on. And then realizing by the time we got there and parked and walked the half mile to the festival, it would be time for me to turn around and leave to get back for the baby's nap, of which I <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> need to sleep for. So we moved people around cars and I took the baby to the local park to swing on the swings as a big "activity" for the day, to erase any guilt about spending the rest of the beautiful day inside, lying around on the bed. <br /><br />This is all because I went out last night- back to the mall, even though I hate malls and I am having some serious knee problem that is making walking generally unpleasant. But the night involved me getting some delicious cream puffs, and then randomly ending up getting a totally delicious dinner at a swanky restaurant, with me in my jeans and clogs and hair in a total mom bun, but damn if it wasn't good. But I think that when a switch-up in the routine happens- like we are out or even <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> am out, the baby does not sleep well, so regardless of the fact that she was put down at 7:00, she didn't really go to sleep until 11:30, and then was up early, and all of this is to say that I am very, very tired. <br /><br />I am going to rename this blog www.thetiredblog.blogspot.com.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1160079194954812062006-10-05T13:04:00.000-07:002006-10-05T13:13:14.996-07:00Bad Ideas I Had Yesterday:<br /><br />1. To go to the store (across town) to get the needed piece for my breast pump without calling first. Because <span style="font-style:italic;">obviously</span> they would be closed for an hour and a half staff meeting exactly when I showed up. And no other stores in this major metropolitan area seem to carry this piece.<br /><br />2. To kill time while waiting for store to reopen by spending an hour at a bookstore carefully deciding which book to get and finally choosing <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Caucasia-Novel-Danzy-Senna/dp/1573227161/sr=8-1/qid=1160078523/ref=pd_bbs_1/102-6040508-3959347?ie=UTF8&s=books">one</a>. Only to get home and realize, hmmmm, I've already read this book.<br /><br />3. And now I have to go <span style="font-style:italic;">back</span> across town to return that fucker. Grrrr.<br /><br />4. To try to eat dinner while holding the baby, who grabbed at every single thing, leaving a trail of pasta sauce all over the carpet. At one point, I just gave up and let all of the pasta and sauce form a pile on the carpet, because a girl's gotta eat.<br /><br />5. To try to "streamline" our nighttime routine by taking a shower with the baby. The experience made the car seat look like a good time. Horrible, slippery, not clean. Never doing that again.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1159848011301591812006-10-02T20:46:00.000-07:002006-10-02T21:02:16.876-07:00The Things We Do For The Children:<br /><br />I'm going to be up front here. I hate malls. Hate, hate, hate. The crowds of people, the bad, blaring music, the stale air, the same shit in every store. I concede, however, to enjoying a pretzel now and again. <br /><br />But anyway. <br /><br />Why, then, was I so excited to visit the <a href="http://westfield.com/sanfrancisco/">brand new mall</a> in downtown San Francisco (a place I usually avoid like the plague)? Why did I feel the need to rush down there with the masses of tourists and locals alike to see yet another fucking Bebe Sport store? <br /><br />And WITH the baby? Jesus God. The driving down there (singing 'You are my Sunshine' over and over and over and over the entire time because I got the baby model that HATES the car). The parking (a massive lot, where when you drive in it shows you electronically how many spots are available on each of the eight levels). The elevators (so many that go to all these different places, none of which we wanted to go to. would it be so hard to label them 'MALL'?). The loud music in every store that made the baby so fussy? The dressing room nursing and diaper-changing? The negotiating of the stroller in tiny little aisles? The fact that we had to use an inconveniently-located elevator to get to each of the five hundred levels? Why, in the name of God, did I think this was a worthwhile trip?<br /><br />It was the hat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/1600/IMG_3299.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1396/146/320/IMG_3299.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1159556549724337122006-09-29T11:39:00.000-07:002006-09-29T12:02:29.816-07:00All I talk about anymore is sleep:<br /><br />When you become a parent, suddenly the topic of sleep becomes the beginning of almost every conversation you have. How did you sleep? How many times does she get up? Where does she sleep? It goes on and on. But considering babies sleep almost 16 hours per day, it seems appropriate that sleep is in the forefront of everyone's mind.<br /><br />I always cringe when this conversation comes up, because it seems everyone else's five-month olds are sleeping in nice large chunks of time (four to even eight hours), and they just lie down and go to sleep. And The Olive still sleeps like a newborn. She's either bounced or nursed to sleep and we're lucky if we get two hours of sleep in a row. Of course, everyone has advice. Out of the bed! Cry it out! And I know. I really do. But we've tried out of the bed and it means she sleeps <span style="font-style:italic;">even less</span>. And I am totally unable to let her cry it out, because it's too painful for me to imagine her needing me and me not being there. So I just don't talk about it much, because it's easier than hearing the judgment or seething with envy that other people seem to sleep so much better.<br /><br />But The Olive started with the nanny this week (Oh, the glorious nanny!), and the first day, Nanny seemed very surprised that it took 30 minutes of bouncing for The Olive to go to sleep. Now for us, 30 minutes is an easy run. But I didn't want to scare her too much. Our lives revolve around that fucking yoga ball and we sweat, sweat, sweat it out as you bounce, bounce, bounce that baby- literally for hours every day. <br /><br />Apparently the nanny is not as in need of exercise and Zen-time as we are, and this did not seem like a reasonable way to spend her days. So yesterday? She put The Olive down for a nap? AND THE BABY WENT TO SLEEP! No crying. A little fussing, a little patting. IN NINE MINUTES! What the fuck, people? I have TRIED this, I am telling you. I have let her cry for up to 15 minutes. It only works her up <span style="font-style:italic;">more</span>.<br /><br />And then? The last few days? She's taking like two hour naps! Up from 45 minutes! And last night? She slept for FIVE HOURS IN A ROW! What a beautiful thing five hours of sleep is. I cannot even tell you what that amount of sleep can do to a person's spirit.<br /><br />This morning, at 9:00 a.m. (after she went to sleep at 8:00 p.m.), I woke up to her lying beside me, grabbing my nose repeatedly, and smiling and gasping in joy when I opened my eyes. There are certain moments of being a parent where you realize that this is the best decision you ever made, and every sacrifice you have to make is worth it because this person is the best thing you could have ever done. 9 a.m. this morning was one of those moments for me, and that is one hell of a way to start your day.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1159396248124466062006-09-27T15:23:00.000-07:002006-09-27T17:10:06.266-07:00Alone:<br /><br />I am alone in the house right now.<br /><br />As in, The Olive is with her nanny at our nanny share's house and I am "working" (aka lying in bed, ALONE, blogging).<br /><br />Nobody is kvetching about their current state. I am not trying to email while also playing peek-a-boo. I can just do the damn dishes already because no one is sleeping. Also? If I want to go to the bathroom, I can just get up and go. No prior arrangements need to be made.<br /><br />The only way I can begin to explain how having a child has altered my life is this: I was almost 31 years old. I was not all about going out. I rarely went to parties. Friday nights were spent watching NUM3ERS and eating take-out. But I could just throw a load of laundry in the washer and not worry about the noise. I had the time to whip up dinner. I was not always doing ten things at once, and none of them well.<br /><br />Did I cry leaving The Olive with the nanny? No. Am I dying for 4:00 to come so I can rush back to her? Nope. <br /><br />But did I call once to see how she is in our big 4-hour separation? I did. And she was fine. The nanny was bouncing her on the yoga ball. That, I don't miss.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Edited to add: It looks as though the feeling is mutual. I got there and she couldn't be torn away from her gumming of Brown Bear, Brown Bear to even give me a sideways glance. No, seriously. I called her name and tapped her shoulder, and still nothing. She was really into the book.</span>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1159246804141178122006-09-25T21:40:00.000-07:002006-09-26T11:41:23.970-07:00Mud-wrestling, without the mud:<br /><br />Although I wouldn't be surprised if mud got involved one of these days. <br /><br />Getting the baby to sleep is now a physical endeavor that often leaves me sweaty and out of breath. Nobody mentioned that five-month olds (Five months! Already! That reminds me- we went to the doctor on Friday and there was a woman there with her newborn (4-day old) baby and I seriously thought he was like three months premature because he was soooooo little. But no. I've just already forgotten how tiny newborns are. The mind is a crazy thing.) are squirmy little things. <br /><br />The Olive goes to sleep either by being nursed or being bounced on the yoga ball. Bounce, bounce, bounce. It used to be so easy. But now she's twisting herself around as you bounce her to try to see what else is going on. She ends up horizontal in my arms. Then it's the grabbing. My glasses. My hair. My lips. Last night she was squirming around so much and I was trying to stay in a Zen-mode, bounce, bounce, bounce, and she pushed herself off my chest, looked me right in the eye, and stuck my entire nose in her mouth and sucked. How can I help but crack up at that, therefore losing my Zen? And then she's cracking up as well, wide awake. No, baby, it is way past your bedtime.<br /><br />I swear I am working muscles I didn't even know I had. At the end of the day, I am so physically drained, I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep for days. All the lifting and pushing and pulling and carrying. It's no wonder I've lost all the baby weight and then some.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1158951399547242222006-09-22T11:26:00.000-07:002006-09-22T21:56:58.236-07:00Fork-bending:<br /><br />One of the women in my mom's group is a sign-language interpreter.<br /><br />This was brought up yesterday at the group and someone else said "I had a friend who was so paranoid she was going to go blind when we were young that she taught herself Braille." Everyone giggled a little and someone asked why she thought that. The woman said it was because of some book she read.<br /><br />Oh, I know that book. I cannot remember the name of it, but I think the main character's name was Laura. Or Denise. I can picture the cover- a teenage girl with feathered hair and dark sunglasses on being walked by a German Shepherd dog. While I, too, was convinced I would go blind one day after reading that book (and, of course, get a wonderful Guide Dog and boyfriend who was a guide dog trainer), I didn't go so far as to teach myself Braille. <br /><br />I was clearly too busy for such nonsense, as I spent those formative years trying to bend forks with my mind. <br /><br />I don't know why I felt the need to share this with the mom's group yesterday, who will certainly hold their children a little tighter when they see me coming in the future, I'm sure, but it's true. For a few years in there, I thought I had some mad ESP skillz that were "developing" and I would sit in the kitchen, staring at the silverware drawer, trying to bend forks with my mind. Or I would stare at a door, trying to open it with my mind. This was when I was not busy reading the messages my home planet was sending me due to my misplacement on Planet Earth. <br /><br />So, in stunning awkwardness, I told this to a group of Mom's yesterday, who all sort of politely laughed, until one of them said "Your mom must have wondered where all the silverware went", and we moved on. I didn't bother correcting her- <span style="font-style:italic;">obviously</span> people with ESP don't need to get the silverware out of the drawer to bend it. I mean, duh.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1158712475832969512006-09-19T17:19:00.000-07:002006-09-19T17:34:35.893-07:00I wish <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> had health problems:<br /><br />Last night at 10:00 p.m. a man came to our house and assigned The Lovely Beausband one task: To sleep. Now how he got this lucky is a longer story, but let's think about this for a minute- he had no other priority <span style="font-style:italic;">but to sleep</span>. Doesn't it just sound lovely? I seethed with jealousy, even if it does mean he has some little "health problem". Whatever. You get to sleep a full night through. <br /><br />But really.<br /><br />The Lovely Beausband has always been a bit of a snorer. But since I'm an early bedder, we haven't really had issues. I would go to sleep at around 9:00 and he would come to bed at an adult hour. If he snored, whatever. I was a deep sleeper.<br /><br />Enter pushing out a child.<br /><br />I am no longer a deep sleeper. Well, maybe I am, but it's hard to say given that I sleep in 2-3 hour increments. And when I wake up and hear the lawnmower beside me, and that is what causes me to stay awake, I want to kick someone. And I do. Repeatedly. Let's just say this isn't the best way to spend a night. Or five months of nights.<br /><br />So last night they came and hooked him up to a bunch of electrodes and a machine (I don't know <span style="font-style:italic;">why</span>, but he won't let me blog the pictures! Eleven electrodes on his face alone!), and told him to sleep. Which he did, lucky bastard.<br /><br />The technician that came out told us all the side effects of sleep apnea, and wow! I think we both now believe that the problems of the world could be solved if everyone just had a CPAP machine on every night. Depression, heart disease, diabetes, heart problems, insomnia. You name it and sleep apnea can cause it. So anyway, The Lovely Beausband slept with his "buddy" and we will see in a few weeks what his "buddy" reports about his sleep apnea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/IMG_3842-757877.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/IMG_3842-753424.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1158551942683069422006-09-17T20:55:00.000-07:002006-09-17T20:59:25.190-07:00Joy:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/246138986_1840b9413f_o-715629.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/246138986_1840b9413f_o-712223.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Olive enjoyed her first swing experience this weekend. I don't have the words to express the joy on her face, so let the picture speak for itself.posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5041874.post-1158355907656132832006-09-15T14:28:00.000-07:002006-09-15T14:40:40.056-07:00She was not as into<a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2006/08/punishment-sandwiches#more-37"> the cookie</a> as I was into giving it to her:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/IMG_3812-725211.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://posthipchick.blogspot.com/uploaded_images/IMG_3812-721054.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a>posthipchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03366385926724145637noreply@blogger.com