Oct
27
I shouldn’t let this kind of shit bother me, but when you read a comment like “I question how much she really loves and nurtures her children. Why did she choose to have another, and heaven forbid she does it again. What will her boys think of her and how she feels about them when they are old enough to read what she says about them?”, it really sort of drops a wet turd on your morning. Not because I believe this to be true in any way shape or form, but because I feel unhappy that people like that have access to the stories I share about my life and my children’s lives.
I read a great quote recently that had to do with sanctimonious parents who say they feel bad for other people’s kids — kids whose parents make different choices than the person doing the judging — it was something like, “I won’t feel sorry for your kids if you won’t feel sorry for mine.” I admire that, because it’s a taking-the-high-road sort of response, and I wish I could feel that way.
But you know, I don’t. I DO feel sorry for kids whose parents act like the people who take the time out of their loving, nurturing lives to write cruel comments about parents they don’t even know, because those children are being raised in an environment of intolerance. They’re going to learn that it’s perfectly okay to call names and to treat each other like crap, all because someone’s lifestyle isn’t the same as their own.
It’s the same old story, we’ve heard this junk a million times before, I know. I’ll just never understand why we can’t disagree with each other without resorting to below-the-belt behavior.
(Portrait of a resentful, unloving family. If seen, please report to the nearest authority. Possibly a hairstylist, because WHOAH.)
Oct
25
My expectations for Dylan’s sleeping schedule have been dialed back considerably in the last week. At this point, here are my only goals:
• He stays down from bedtime until at least midnight or so before the first wakening
• He requires intervention only 2-3 times total
• He’s able to put himself to sleep, i.e. does not require a certain set of circumstances in order to fall asleep which will then change once he’s in bed (like rocking him into unconsciousness, then putting him in the crib, which one of those Ferber books amusingly compared to how you might feel if you fell asleep in your bed with your pillow, then woke up on the living room floor — which depending on your personal history with alcohol would probably either be highly upsetting or disturbingly familiar)
I had high hopes for him sleeping through the night with no interruptions but I’ll tell you, after the initial Great Crib Resistance (which included one entire night where nobody slept a single solitary wink, except Riley and the dog, and there was nothing that could soothe him, unless I wanted to head across town at 3 AM to my co-worker’s house, to whom I had given the swing, and beg to borrow it back for just one more night, which as far as I was concerned would have been a viable choice except for the inescapable feeling that it would have also been like taking Christine for just one more drive), the routine of getting up a couple times to offer some quick comfort is Totally Doable.
(By the way, if you’re wondering why I decided it was time to break the swing habit instead of letting him sleep in it forever, it’s not because my brain is full of angry self-destructive hornets. It’s because he was just too big for it, and could turn his body sidewise in the seat — despite the belt thingie — and get painfully stuck.)
If the above goals are happening without a lot of wee-hour fussing, I’m calling that Good Enough For Now. Yes, I’d like to sleep eight hours in a row at some point, but as long as Dylan and I are getting a decent amount of sleep each night (I happen to think this is a bit more important than my own comfort, by the way), I can deal with continuing to lurch out of bed a few times per night. It’s probably good practice for staying ever-vigilant against zombies: cuddle baby, put baby back in crib, check perimeter of house for uprising of undead, etc.
Oh! Speaking of zombie preparation, I’ve starting taking a real kickboxing class where we work on heavy bags and wear gloves and shit, and while we all know punches and kicks are ineffectual against the living dead, I do feel confident that this class will teach me valuable skills for defending my household from the hordes of survivors who will be after our stash of Chef Boyardee and Balance Bars. Thanks to fefferbee, who let me know about this awesome class that’s just ten minutes from my house, my Badass quotient is slowly increasing. I mean, can’t you TELL?
Uh, okay, maybe you can’t tell in this exact picture, and yes, that headband IS kind of dorky looking, and no, I don’t know what I’m doing with my face, and — listen, just . . . SHUT UP RIDE STOPS AT THE ELBOW.
Also, excuse me but my pain-in-the-ass children are so stinking CUTE:
Super-rad robot shirt courtesy of Kristin, and could you just die. Also, holy crap Dylan’s getting big. I mean, he’s a burly little chipmunk these days, and when he starts bouncing in the exersaucer it sounds like the whole thing’s going to fall apart. I suppose we won’t be using that toy for much longer, which, wow, I swear to god we just bought it.
A rare smiling photo of my boy Riley, who really isn’t always suspicious, I just never manage to capture the many grins with the camera. Especially since he tends to run from the Nikon now like he’s a tribal Papua New Guinean: HALP IT IS GOING TO STEAL MY SOUL.
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