Briefly breaking blog silence to scream at you about sleep.
The baby, Newt, still won't sleep more than a couple of hours in a stretch. Like, ever. We are up every night. We are incoherent zombie freakpeople every day. We could teach a seminar course on comparative sleep training methods. It would be called "Here Are All The Things That Work for Other People." It would include all the old faves: good old Elizabeth Pantley, with her mothereffing "Pantley Pull Off" that sounds more like some kind of Catholic family planning method than a sleep training trick. The unfortunately named "Sleepeasy solution," which delivers neither sleep, ease, nor solutions.
We shh'd and patted with the Baby Whisperer. We went in and out of the bedroom like a couple of indecisive tools with Dr. Ferber. We even, in spite of ourselves, put the baby in our bed and pretended that we didn't get the idea from Dr. Sears. The only thing we refuse to try is letting the baby scream in his crib until he pukes.
Hey! Which, incidentally, is the only thing that has ever helped or will ever help babies learn to sleep, according to the women at my work who start every day by asking "So. Sleeping through the night yet, hon?" and then clucking bemusedly when I answer. Cause, see, if you're not willing to let your baby wail all night in a puddle of his own vomit, then you don't really want to sleep, now do you?
The baby is healthy. The baby is eating fine. The baby does not have reflux. The baby is happy and crawling and developing just fine. Coincidentally, the husband and I are also crawling. For the husband, this is more of a problem, since he has to deliver coherent lectures to entitled college students every day. I just have to show anime DVDs to 15-year-old boys. If I go down to the basement bathroom for an early morning cry, then crush and snort a handful of coffee beans, I can usually manage to at least stay upright for a significant portion of the day.
Please don't leave me advice. If you leave me advice, I will just die. I can't hear any more advice. I don't KNOW if he's really hungry at night or just looking for attention. Sometimes he drains the bottle; sometimes he chews it and then drops a load in his PJs. I don't KNOW if he needs it to be darker, lighter, warmer, colder. Believe me when I say there is NO pattern to this madness.
I love this baby. They just don't make them any cuter than this baby.
And if this baby doesn't start sleeping soon, his mama's going to sew herself a dress made from the torn pages of "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child" and wear it to sell imaginary produce on the corner.
It's been five years since I started writing here, and for five years this space has pretty much served two purposes: 1) to keep me writing, and 2) to give me community. Lately, though, I'm hardly writing, and the posts that I do belch out onto the screen are hardly conversation-starters. I don't look forward to blogging because I know I'm just phoning it in, and that just feels dishonest and lame.
I have this new job, and I love it. Like, really, really love it. I'm there from 8 to 5 every day, which is long but awesome, and then I come home and wrangle my nutjob children, which is also awesome. And then I'm up all night every night with the baby, which is less awesome but still ok. And in between all this activity are about a million bloggable stories -- funny things the kids do and say, criminal activity perpetrated by library patrons, small town back-ass-wardness -- but by the time I find fifteen minutes to sit down and write, sweet God on a stick, rehashing is the official LAST thing I feel up to doing.
So. I know it's all the rage these days to take a blog hiatus. I don't know if that's what this is. But I do know that I don't want to dread what used to be a beloved hobby, so I'm going to try and figure out a way to use this space that fits a little better. If I have something worth saying tomorrow, I'll say it. But otherwise, I'll just blog-stalk all of you guys until I find my own voice again.
On the weekends, we like to listen to a children's radio program broadcast from Emerson College in Boston. The show is called "The Playground," and the husband and I have enjoyed it for years, since long before we had children. They play all kinds of music, from fun, folky kids' artists to tunes from classic Disney movies, from Weird Al to old cartoon theme songs. They even rock random crap like the Hampster Dance, and that "Fish Heads" song from Dr. Demento.
This afternoon we had the show on as we were going about our Sunday business. Cletus and I were hanging out in the dining room while the husband walked His Royal Teethingness around the living room in endless circles. All of a sudden my ears perked up at the sound of Queen -- as in, Freddie Mercury's Queen -- coming from the radio.
Now, playing music not traditionally thought of as belonging to the children's canon is nothing new on The Playground. The DJs will often throw in some Bob Marley or some Beatles or something else relatively benign and child-friendly that somebody's parents, sick to death of Muppets and Sponge Bob, called up and requested. A number of Queen tracks could fall quite comfortably within this category. Like, say, "You're My Best Friend." Or even "We Are The Champions."
The song they played today was "Don't Stop Me Now:"
Go ahead. Take a listen. You'll remember this one; it's a classic. It moves quickly, though, so you may not recall all the words. Pay close attention. It clips along, all catchy and fun, and you'll probably find yourself humming, maybe even chiming in with a few remembered lyrics, singing them out loud to your head-bopping preschooler until, like my husband, you stop.
And, also like my husband, you furrow your brow, walk over to where your spouse is sitting, lower your voice so your four-year-old can't hear, and ask "Did he just say 'I'm a sex machine ready to reload'?"
I got a Kindle for my birthday, friends. I'm making out with it as we speak. The first e-book I purchased to grace its screen happens to be the very book that is pretty much changing my life right now, an insane YA novel called The Knife of Never Letting Go. There's a talking dog and a world where you can hear everyone's thoughts and I totally blew off all of my lunchtime errands today because I actually physically couldn't stop reading.
2. "Breaking Bad" on DVD
When the babies are in bed, the husband and I like to watch DVDs about drugs and murder. We finished "The Wire" ages ago and we're all caught up on "Weeds," so now we're working our way through "Breaking Bad," which is about a high school chemistry teacher who gets lung cancer and decides to cook meth. It is not quite as awesome as the former two shows, but still enjoyable in that so-uncomfortable-it-makes-you-cringe way.
3. Movies! Like, in the theater!
Over Thanksgiving, we visited my parents in Indiana and took advantage of the free babysitting to go on a date that involved dinner and a double feature at the dollar theater. We saw "Easy A" and "The Town," both of which were fabulous. "Easy A" stars Emma Stone, who is A) the redhead from "Superbad," and B) my new Hollywood girlfriend. She replaces Rachel McAdams, who I fictionally dated strictly on account of her fresh-faced gorgeousness, overlooking things like "The Notebook" and "Red Eye." But now Emma and I are in love, so I don't even have to try to justify "Morning Glory."
4. Awesome children's music
Speaking of new relationships, Cletus the Former Fetus has fallen deeply in love with Laurie Berkner. Laurie, for those of you who don't spend your weekends rocking Nick Jr., heads up a trio of musicians called, aptly, The Laurie Berkner Band. They play ridiculously catchy tunes about animals and numbers and letters and body parts. Our entire family is OBSESSED. We have a DVD and most of the CDs and we have them on constant rotation. The husband and I have done significant googling to learn personal details about the band members (newish member Adam is sadly inferior to former bassist Brian, who is also Laurie's husband but left the band so that they could keep their private and professional lives separate, and now he's pursuing a master's degree in psychology. i mean... whatever, i totally don't care.)
Here's my current fave (beware the earworm):
Did you see Brian's badass dance moves? LOVE.
Here's another favorite. This one makes me want to hug a puppy or something. The husband is singing along right now.
On the drive to my parents' place for Thanksgiving, we discovered the XM Radio Station "Kids Place Live," which was so much more entertaining than anything else we heard on the trip. There was a Top Ten Countdown (a countdown! of childrens' music!) and a call-in show where the DJ invited children to call the station with their Thanksgiving plans and then confused them by joking around about, like, how they should hide something gross in their grandparents' mashed potatoes. The kid on the phone would be all "um... i don't know..." and the DJ would be all "YES. DO IT. It will be FUNNY" and then you could hear the kid's parent muffled in the background and then the line would just go silent. Awesome.
Anyway, we heard all kinds of great independent children's music on this station and have been googling and downloading ever since. I really love entertainers that know how to reach children, sincerely and respectfully, without pandering or selling a tie-in product. This is one of the tracks we've been rocking the most since last week:
Pathology came back from Surgery #2 yesterday, and finally it was good news. Not a single bit of cancer crawling around in there! I have to go back for the ovarian cancer blood test every three months for the next couple of years, but hopefully that will be smooth sailing. I would even settle for just smooth-ISH sailing.
Our household had acquired some kind of snot-nosed plague which, coupled with the fact that one of us is actively sprouting teeth, means that everyone tosses around coughing instead of sleeping. I am not at my most patient when it comes to open-ended kiddie ailments. I like to have some kind of idea about when my life is likely to improve. To that end, I am an unabashed advocate of my twin friends: Infant Ibuprofin and Children's Benadryl. When I am without a fresh bottle of one or the other, I get a little twitchy.
For myself, I've been tossing back glassfuls of vile EmergenC, wrapping up my throat at bedtime, washing my hands and whining.
My birthday was this past Sunday, and for a gift I requested a copy of the "30-Day Shred" DVD. This year has kicked the shit out of my body, and between Newt's birth, two abdominal surgeries, and the 6-week no-exercise policy that followed each one, I'm ending the year looking just about as pregnant as I did at the start of it. I feel heavy and frumpy and haggard. Technically I have another month before I'm supposed to do any abdominal exercises, but I've heard such great things about this workout that I can't wait to start.
Yesterday at work, I was trying to help a patron figure out how to transfer songs from a CD onto her weird off-brand MP3 player. Nothing we tried seemed to work; her device kept crashing our computers and I was ready to tell her it was a no-go, and then the patron saw our new reference librarian -- a peppy 26-year-old -- come in to the building to start her shift. The patron exclaimed, "Hey, have that young one come over and help me -- she'll know how to do it!"
Nothing says "Woman! Get back in shape and buy some new clothes and maybe wash your hair once in awhile!" like being a 34-year-old who is lumped together with the techno-challenged, embroidered-Santa-sweater-wearing, 60-and-over masses that surround her.
Thanks for the interweb love! I'm home from the hospital, considerably more sliced than I had anticipated but so ridiculously glad to have the surgery behind me. I had naively assumed that this procedure would be of the "one or two wee l'il cuts deep down in your belly button" variety, but alas, the powers that be had their hearts set on something a bit more "giant robot machine with multiple arms that will cut you up five times across the center of your abdomen." So. My days of hitting up the reference desk in my halter top are apparently over. At least they were good while they lasted.
Recovering now, back to work tomorrow. As you do.
I'll be back later to demand answers from all my nurse friends about the fable of "Yes It Is Imperative That We Wake You Up at 4:00 AM to Draw Blood, Then Again at 4:25 to Take Your Vitals, and Then Again at 5:00 To Announce That We Are Giving You A Fresh Glass of Water."
7:25 PM: Ahhhh, life! Is there anything better than listening to your two children fussing upstairs while you go downstairs to purposely give yourself diarrhea?
7:30 PM: I carefully measure out 8 ounces of Golytely and toss it back like so much cheap beer. Let's get this party started. Only 112 ounces to go!
7:31 PM: Golytely tastes like salted puke. The lemon flavoring packet was filled with lies and false promises. I swish my mouth out with soda between glasses and wait ten minutes for the next dose.
8:15 PM: This isn't so bad! Yes, the medicine is disgusting, but so far I only feel mild discomfort and a bit of stomach gurgling. Let's settle in and watch some classic Buffy.
8:30 PM: As I down my seventh dose, my mother-in-law -- mercifully and gloriously in town to help out with the children -- cuts herself a slice of delicious shepherd's cheese and makes audible sounds of pleasure while munching it. Upon remembering my plight, she immediately feels badly and claims that her "mmmmm" had in actuality been a "Hmm!" of surprise as a bit of cheese fell to the floor. I inform her that she has just assured herself a mention on the blog for the first time in its storied six-year history.
8:45 PM: Wow. Still nothing coming out the other e--
8:46 PM: Oh my.
8:50 PM: I appreciate that I have invested in high-quality moisturizing handsoap and soft toilet paper.
9:15 PM: It is difficult to enjoy an episode of Buffy when it is broken up into 3-minute portions.
9:25 PM: There is no way in hell I am finishing that bottle. There is, like, an OCEAN of it left. I long for actual salted puke. Actual salted puke would be an improvement on this facsimile.
9:45 PM: I wish I had thought to put better magazines in the bathroom for the occasion. An old Bust, the husband's National Geographic, and a Hanna Andersson catalog. These are not enough to take my mind off the fear that I am turning our septic system into a toxic wasteland.
9:47 PM: This is like peeing out of the other side.
10:10 PM: Ok, one more glass.
10:20 PM: A quandary: there are at least 3 more glasses' worth in the bottle, but if I ingest one more drop the angels will throw down their halos and cry.
10:21 PM: I take one more for the team. The team, of course, being me, my remaining ovary, and Buffy.
10: 22 PM: FIN. And now, to starve myself until surgery for no logical reason other than my doctor requires it of all her patients, regardless of the procedure. Because why provide kind, gentle, and individualized care when you can just make everyone shit their brains out and then deny them food for 24 hours?
See you all in a few, hopefully with tiny scars, minimal discomfort, and a serious cheeseburger in my hand.
And if this baby doesn't start sleeping soon, his mama's going to sew herself a dress made from the torn pages of "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child" and wear it to sell imaginary produce on the corner.
