Friday, May 29, 2009
STOP THE PRESSES!
Brody took his first real steps yesterday! He'll be cruising before we know it. Brace yourselves!
Young mom's baby reminds her of youth, then and now
Here is my latest Daily Press column:
Recently, I caught myself clucking at the office printer.
My father-in-law has a few chickens in a coup at his South Carolina house, and we’ve decided that "cluck" is the first animal sound my 11-month-old son should imitate. That and "woof woof" so he can play with our Weimaraner, Lady.
It seems, though, that I’m taking away more from these lessons than Brody, since he hasn’t deemed it necessary to cluck like a chicken, yet.
But regurgitated farm animal sounds aren’t the only evidence of my backslide into babyhood.
Since Brody first scooted across the room on all fours, I’ve rediscovered the thrill of crawling through the house in search of the wild wonders of domestic life.
On our side-by-side adventures, Brody and I maneuver to the top of the stairs and slip our way past the spilled water from the dog’s bowl. The magic of a flickering hall light keeps us occupied for no less than 10 minutes and a bucket of fishing crickets is not something to shirk from, but to dive into.
Laying cheek-to-cheek on the floor, we browse our favorite book about a sad bumble bee who can’t understand why humans run away from him and giggle when I take his pacifier and put it in my mouth.
And when I collapsed with laughter after my signature waddle/crawl/bunny hop, all done with a pacifier in my mouth and eyes rolling around in my head, I realized I had turned into a baby.
It’s not exactly that I’ve recaptured my youth — I’m only 24 — it’s that Brody reminds me to cherish it.
While I’m playing with my son, I see the world from his vantage point. And it’s a goofy, strange world. The space underneath the pool table is the perfect setting for a fort and the feet of the kitchen table are not only shaped like lion’s paws, they’re as big.
At times, I become so absorbed in my baby’s world, I forget that there’s an adult land waiting for me when the games are over.
As a child, I was always ready for the next step. Like most kids, I thought that bigger was better, and I was ready to grow up. It still irks me a little bit when someone reminds me that I look like a teenager. (I know, that’s almost as bad as Jessica Biel complaining that she’s too beautiful. Boo hoo).
But I wanted to play with the big boys in a big boys’ world.
That meant instead of dolls and Barbies, I asked for gifts of office supplies so I could realistically play the part of a lawyer or real estate agent. Interior decorator was another favorite role.
I sat for hours arranging my desk, neatly placing date stamps on important documents and making phone calls to other very important, very busy pretend lawyers.
I even considered law school as a way to live out my childhood games, but the reality of adult land prompted me to change course.
Now, the childish games that once bored me are exactly the amusements I seek.
Maybe it’s the sparkle in Brody’s eyes when he laughs at our peek-a-boo games — a sparkle my husband says only I can see because I’m his mother — that draws me into a child’s pretend world.
Or maybe it’s the fact that our contorted faces and high-pitched baby babble makes me laugh even harder than Brody.
Whatever it is, it goads me into playtime when laundry is stacked halfway to the ceiling and I should be thinking about a well-rounded dinner instead of another frozen pizza.
I may not remember having this much fun playing peek-a-boo when I was a kid, but there’s nothing else I’d rather do now.
Recently, I caught myself clucking at the office printer.
My father-in-law has a few chickens in a coup at his South Carolina house, and we’ve decided that "cluck" is the first animal sound my 11-month-old son should imitate. That and "woof woof" so he can play with our Weimaraner, Lady.
It seems, though, that I’m taking away more from these lessons than Brody, since he hasn’t deemed it necessary to cluck like a chicken, yet.
But regurgitated farm animal sounds aren’t the only evidence of my backslide into babyhood.
Since Brody first scooted across the room on all fours, I’ve rediscovered the thrill of crawling through the house in search of the wild wonders of domestic life.
On our side-by-side adventures, Brody and I maneuver to the top of the stairs and slip our way past the spilled water from the dog’s bowl. The magic of a flickering hall light keeps us occupied for no less than 10 minutes and a bucket of fishing crickets is not something to shirk from, but to dive into.
Laying cheek-to-cheek on the floor, we browse our favorite book about a sad bumble bee who can’t understand why humans run away from him and giggle when I take his pacifier and put it in my mouth.
And when I collapsed with laughter after my signature waddle/crawl/bunny hop, all done with a pacifier in my mouth and eyes rolling around in my head, I realized I had turned into a baby.
It’s not exactly that I’ve recaptured my youth — I’m only 24 — it’s that Brody reminds me to cherish it.
While I’m playing with my son, I see the world from his vantage point. And it’s a goofy, strange world. The space underneath the pool table is the perfect setting for a fort and the feet of the kitchen table are not only shaped like lion’s paws, they’re as big.
At times, I become so absorbed in my baby’s world, I forget that there’s an adult land waiting for me when the games are over.
As a child, I was always ready for the next step. Like most kids, I thought that bigger was better, and I was ready to grow up. It still irks me a little bit when someone reminds me that I look like a teenager. (I know, that’s almost as bad as Jessica Biel complaining that she’s too beautiful. Boo hoo).
But I wanted to play with the big boys in a big boys’ world.
That meant instead of dolls and Barbies, I asked for gifts of office supplies so I could realistically play the part of a lawyer or real estate agent. Interior decorator was another favorite role.
I sat for hours arranging my desk, neatly placing date stamps on important documents and making phone calls to other very important, very busy pretend lawyers.
I even considered law school as a way to live out my childhood games, but the reality of adult land prompted me to change course.
Now, the childish games that once bored me are exactly the amusements I seek.
Maybe it’s the sparkle in Brody’s eyes when he laughs at our peek-a-boo games — a sparkle my husband says only I can see because I’m his mother — that draws me into a child’s pretend world.
Or maybe it’s the fact that our contorted faces and high-pitched baby babble makes me laugh even harder than Brody.
Whatever it is, it goads me into playtime when laundry is stacked halfway to the ceiling and I should be thinking about a well-rounded dinner instead of another frozen pizza.
I may not remember having this much fun playing peek-a-boo when I was a kid, but there’s nothing else I’d rather do now.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Duane caught a big one!
Here are the photos of the prized Large Mouth Bass Duane caught in the cove behind the house in Elizabeth City, N.C.
If you look closely, you'll see that we had to have Wesley tow us in because our john boat motor died. Yes, I am holding the tow rope by hand.
That's a 22-incher, and we're guessing it weighed around 6 pounds, at least.
And at 22 inches, that fish was just about Brody's size! He wasn't sure what to think about that.
If you look closely, you'll see that we had to have Wesley tow us in because our john boat motor died. Yes, I am holding the tow rope by hand.
That's a 22-incher, and we're guessing it weighed around 6 pounds, at least.
And at 22 inches, that fish was just about Brody's size! He wasn't sure what to think about that.Memorial Day Weekend fun
Here is a montage of pool pics from our fun weekend in Elizabeth City, N.C.
Papa and his little man in the pool.
This is Brody's way of shaking your hand. Once, he made my nose bleed.
Brody and momma (one of our few pics together).
Brody had a good time in the pool with cousins Stephanie, Chris, Tanner, Wesley and Rachel.
Papa and his little man in the pool.
This is Brody's way of shaking your hand. Once, he made my nose bleed.
Brody and momma (one of our few pics together).
Brody had a good time in the pool with cousins Stephanie, Chris, Tanner, Wesley and Rachel.Friday, May 22, 2009
Happy Memorial Day Weekend!
The Paitsel clan is heading to N.C., so look for lots of fun in-the-sun pics next week!
Monday, May 11, 2009
Chaos is worth it for first-time mom
Here's my latest Daily Press column:
I had a brilliant idea at 3 a.m. one Monday morning.
"Every teenager should spend one night of his high school career with a teething baby," I thought as my 10-month-old son wailed, and then whimpered, himself to sleep for the fourth time that night.
For the abstinence message to really stick, they should take a midnight field trip once a year for each of the four high school years. Then, the memory of an inconsolable baby would cling to them like the powdery garbage smell of a bursting Diaper Genie.
For a follow up assignment, these pretend teenage moms could take the baby shopping. He might not cry the whole time, but forget about wearing a cutesy outfit with the new shoes they just bought. He’ll be sure to vomit all over them.
And tell them not to worry if they didn’t bring any burp cloths. Just try to mop it up with a few diapers, and smile weakly at the glaring sales associate. She should understand.
But the assignment isn’t over, yet.
Dare them to steal a moment or two with that boyfriend (Remember him?). See if they can get past "hello" before scooping the mobile monster out of the fireplace.
Throw dinner into the mix and ask them to balance a barely-walking baby who is clinging to their pants and a pan of biscuits. Advise them that one, or both, of those items will fall onto the floor.
And here’s a multiple choice question: Which of these things will keep the baby occupied during dinner? (A) A baby Bach CD, (B) An assortment of rattles, (C) A cookie (D) Three cookies, a frozen strawberry, seven rattles, a dog and a few celery sticks (if you keep dinner to a 30 minute maximum).
Extra credit?
Send them over when the baby has a fever and won’t stop vomiting his sweet potato and chicken dinner. They’ll need to stand inside of the shower so the dripping spew doesn’t ruin the carpet. There are bonus points for finding the on-call doctor’s phone number and administering the correct dosage of medicine.
It took me about 30 minutes to create this curriculum (all based on recent memory), and in my brain-addled state, I thought it was a pretty clever idea.
By then, my 10-month-old was calm and sleeping again, gaining a moment’s respite from the ravages of a sharp tooth prying its way to the surface. And in my sleepy eyes, that little ogre transformed back into my "love bug" — a nickname I’m sure he’ll despise in a few years.
Sure, spending a day with a 10-month-old would probably keep a teen girl (or boy) firmly in the abstinence camp for a few days. But, if she spent a few hours observing the mother, she’d find that against all reason and logic, that mother deeply loves her smelly rascal.
On second thought, maybe it would be easier just to show those lust-driven teens a labor and delivery home movie.
I had a brilliant idea at 3 a.m. one Monday morning.
"Every teenager should spend one night of his high school career with a teething baby," I thought as my 10-month-old son wailed, and then whimpered, himself to sleep for the fourth time that night.
For the abstinence message to really stick, they should take a midnight field trip once a year for each of the four high school years. Then, the memory of an inconsolable baby would cling to them like the powdery garbage smell of a bursting Diaper Genie.
For a follow up assignment, these pretend teenage moms could take the baby shopping. He might not cry the whole time, but forget about wearing a cutesy outfit with the new shoes they just bought. He’ll be sure to vomit all over them.
And tell them not to worry if they didn’t bring any burp cloths. Just try to mop it up with a few diapers, and smile weakly at the glaring sales associate. She should understand.
But the assignment isn’t over, yet.
Dare them to steal a moment or two with that boyfriend (Remember him?). See if they can get past "hello" before scooping the mobile monster out of the fireplace.
Throw dinner into the mix and ask them to balance a barely-walking baby who is clinging to their pants and a pan of biscuits. Advise them that one, or both, of those items will fall onto the floor.
And here’s a multiple choice question: Which of these things will keep the baby occupied during dinner? (A) A baby Bach CD, (B) An assortment of rattles, (C) A cookie (D) Three cookies, a frozen strawberry, seven rattles, a dog and a few celery sticks (if you keep dinner to a 30 minute maximum).
Extra credit?
Send them over when the baby has a fever and won’t stop vomiting his sweet potato and chicken dinner. They’ll need to stand inside of the shower so the dripping spew doesn’t ruin the carpet. There are bonus points for finding the on-call doctor’s phone number and administering the correct dosage of medicine.
It took me about 30 minutes to create this curriculum (all based on recent memory), and in my brain-addled state, I thought it was a pretty clever idea.
By then, my 10-month-old was calm and sleeping again, gaining a moment’s respite from the ravages of a sharp tooth prying its way to the surface. And in my sleepy eyes, that little ogre transformed back into my "love bug" — a nickname I’m sure he’ll despise in a few years.
Sure, spending a day with a 10-month-old would probably keep a teen girl (or boy) firmly in the abstinence camp for a few days. But, if she spent a few hours observing the mother, she’d find that against all reason and logic, that mother deeply loves her smelly rascal.
On second thought, maybe it would be easier just to show those lust-driven teens a labor and delivery home movie.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Happy Mommy's Day!
Here is my pre-Mother's Day Daily Press column:Once he became mobile, it didn't take long for my 10-month-old son to get into a few messy situations.
Most recently, he darted into the pantry where we keep the trash can. Before I could shout "Bye!" to the person on the phone, his little hands were searching like an elephant trunk for garbage goodies, some of it sticking to the corners of his mouth as I snatched him from the dirty corner.
There's also the shoe-licking incident -- I can just see my mom cringe as she reads this -- and the times he's collected a mouthful of fur after tasting the dog's short-haired coat.
So far, I've forced myself to handle these situations with a calm "oh well" and, usually, a bath. Life is just going to get messier, after all.
That's what makes me nervous. If I can't keep my son out of the garbage can, how am I supposed to teach him to stay away from strangers or to choose the right friends?
Of course, that's a logical -- or, rather, illogical -- leap that only a new mother can make. But these daily messes, otherwise known as failures in a mother's mind, sucker punch the ego.
While some friends chat on Facebook about their 7-month-old's potty-training success, and others are busy teaching their infants multiple languages, I'm running like a maniac to keep my kid out of the grungy kitchen corner.
In my pregnant daydreams, I was the mom that would teach her baby sign language. We'd laugh and play -- only with educational toys -- and end the day snuggled up to a storybook, also educational.
That dream has played out on a few occasions, but most often I'm sprinting through life trying to fit everything into the schedule.
I'm saddened by that sometimes, but mostly I've gained a new level of appreciation and gratitude for my own mom.
At 24 years old, I haven’t been out from under my parent’s rule for very long. It was a traditional home, one where the parents ruled supreme and the kids worked subtly (we thought) to gain some ground.
As a bratty teenager, I made it a point to highlight my mom's flaws, but even then, I knew she was working day and night in my best interest.
Now, as I lie in bed evaluating parenting techniques and worrying about ear infections, I understand that parenting doesn't stop at car pools and ballet recitals. It never stops.
As an adult, I hang on my mom's reminder that I'm doing my best, and my best is just fine -- even if she does cringe at the possibility of a germy situation.
So, in honor of her, here's an early Mother's Day present to all moms: If your kid isn't surfing through garbage right now, you're doing better than I am. And, most of all, you're putting your whole heart into being a mom, and that's what your kids will remember.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Happy Birthday Michelle!
Duane and I had a wonderful time at Kings Dominion this weekend with my cousin Michelle (now a mature 22 years old) and her husband Brantley. We've always lived so far away from each other, I don't think we've ever spent our birthdays together - so I was VERY excited to celebrate with her this year.
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