I am constantly in a state of wonder over how highly my daughter thinks of herself. I waffle between being thoroughly pleased with her inner strength and somewhat concerned that the Big Bad World will someday knock it out of her. I don't remember having her fortitude at age 8. I was full of self-doubt and concern with larger issues. Not her. The other day we were walking through the forest and she wanted to talk about who she will marry. This is rare, as she finds romantic love "dis-GUS-ting." I was trying to impart upon her the importance of choosing a life-long partner, not just falling for the first fool who winks at her. So I told her that she is so smart, strong, and beautiful, that there will be a lot of boys who want to date her. "I know," she states. Duh, Mom. Then today I sneaked a peek at her spelling sentences. My two favorites:
"I am a wild girl."
"I bring delight to the world."
Please, God, may this attitude last!
In a completely unrelated topic: I just saw James Lipton in a Geico commercial! I love it!
Monday, November 26, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Interview Part III
I was stumped for a good long time with this question. It's darn difficult to come up with deep thoughts at a moment's notice. In my case, it has proven difficult to come up with deep thoughts over a period of weeks! Draw whatever conclusions you must. Finally, last night, it occured to me. Here is the question:
If you could give the twenty-year old you a piece of advice, what would it be?
Dear 20-year-old Amy,
Relax. Be yourself, which is a fun, smart, somewhat quiet person, and that's ok. It's enough. You don't need to prove anything.
Also, don't become a teacher. Avoid it like the plague. It will only bring you heartache.
Finally, you have so much to look forward to! You are going to have the cutest, sweetest, most wonderful children even born on this great, green-and-blue earth. You will have a loving husband who will hold your hand through the ups and downs. You are so lucky! Enjoy the ride.
With love,
35-year-old Amy
If you could give the twenty-year old you a piece of advice, what would it be?
Dear 20-year-old Amy,
Relax. Be yourself, which is a fun, smart, somewhat quiet person, and that's ok. It's enough. You don't need to prove anything.
Also, don't become a teacher. Avoid it like the plague. It will only bring you heartache.
Finally, you have so much to look forward to! You are going to have the cutest, sweetest, most wonderful children even born on this great, green-and-blue earth. You will have a loving husband who will hold your hand through the ups and downs. You are so lucky! Enjoy the ride.
With love,
35-year-old Amy
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Writing for the sake of Writing
Writers block, thy name is Amy. I blame Nutmeg: The next question in the interview has me TOTALLY stumped.
Last night was ugly. Steve and I went to bed pretty early, but the baby woke up teething at midnight, and I went to him to re-Tylenol him. Then I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed. I turned. I watched The Real Housewives of Orange County (and may my children never grow up to act like their children). I finally fell asleep on the couch at 4 am. I am tired.
Last night was ugly. Steve and I went to bed pretty early, but the baby woke up teething at midnight, and I went to him to re-Tylenol him. Then I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed. I turned. I watched The Real Housewives of Orange County (and may my children never grow up to act like their children). I finally fell asleep on the couch at 4 am. I am tired.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Obsessing about Daycare
Happy Monday. This is the day I like to think of as my ramp-up to high anxiety. On the weekends, I wouldn't be working anyway, so I get to immerse myself in joyful family life (another post, another day) and ignore my impending status as "unemployed." Now it's the start of the "work week," and I am in my jammies still (brand new from Costco! so warm and fuzzy!), serving as someone virtual assistant until the company kicks me off its payroll. This self-imposed dress code serves as a reminder that I am not at an office, Regis and Kelly on TV remind me that I am not working very hard, and the pit in my stomach reminds me that that soon I will not be making any money or have health insurance. All this leaves me with lots of time to obsess. The object of my obsession right now is my son's day care situation.
Baby Boy has some bad-ass reflux, poor kid. We really have to stay on top of it all, what with his meds, when he eats, how he is positioned, and now what he eats. He has an allergy to dairy (including cheese and yogurt) and soy. He started day care on his first birthday, September 24th, and of course, we told them all about these issues. We provide his rice milk, and normally they are very careful with him. We are grateful. However, something seems to happen around 3 pm. That is when the children are consolidated into a different room, the new shift comes to the day care and the regular and well-trained classroom teachers go home.
Friday I arrived a few minutes after 3 to pick him up. He was seated at the little table, having a grand old time pouring his dixie cup of milk on his screaming friend, then taking his friend's cup and pouring his all over himself. I was amused, and a little concerned that someone thought it was a good idea to give toddlers dixie cups instead of the easier-to-contain sippie cups.
Then I went home, slept and woke up still thinking about the incident. It occurred to me that the milk in his dixie cup was regular cow's milk, not his watery-looking rice milk. That's when it hits me: Baby's been waking up at night in pain for the past month because his afternoon snack includes cow's milk! Sure enough, Friday when he dumped his milk instead of drinking it, he slept great all night through. Same thing Saturday. Same thing Sunday. Not a coincidence, methinks. I hope this problem is solved.
So this is me with too much time on my hands. Is my laundry done? No. Is my house clean? No. Have I decided what we're having for dinner? No. I spend my time worrying instead.
Baby Boy has some bad-ass reflux, poor kid. We really have to stay on top of it all, what with his meds, when he eats, how he is positioned, and now what he eats. He has an allergy to dairy (including cheese and yogurt) and soy. He started day care on his first birthday, September 24th, and of course, we told them all about these issues. We provide his rice milk, and normally they are very careful with him. We are grateful. However, something seems to happen around 3 pm. That is when the children are consolidated into a different room, the new shift comes to the day care and the regular and well-trained classroom teachers go home.
Friday I arrived a few minutes after 3 to pick him up. He was seated at the little table, having a grand old time pouring his dixie cup of milk on his screaming friend, then taking his friend's cup and pouring his all over himself. I was amused, and a little concerned that someone thought it was a good idea to give toddlers dixie cups instead of the easier-to-contain sippie cups.
Then I went home, slept and woke up still thinking about the incident. It occurred to me that the milk in his dixie cup was regular cow's milk, not his watery-looking rice milk. That's when it hits me: Baby's been waking up at night in pain for the past month because his afternoon snack includes cow's milk! Sure enough, Friday when he dumped his milk instead of drinking it, he slept great all night through. Same thing Saturday. Same thing Sunday. Not a coincidence, methinks. I hope this problem is solved.
So this is me with too much time on my hands. Is my laundry done? No. Is my house clean? No. Have I decided what we're having for dinner? No. I spend my time worrying instead.
Friday, November 02, 2007
The Interview Part II
Clearly, when I said I would answer question #2 tomorrow, I was speaking metaphorically. I think when I posted the answer to question #1, it was the week of baby's pneumonia. That's my excuse.
You picked a card from the pile of life that says, “Do not pass go. Move directly to another country.” Where would you move?
This is a TOTAL no-brainer. France. Anyone who knows me could have written this for me, actually, and the answer would be the same. France in a heartbeat. I don't even need a card to tell me to go! I just need a willing husband to go with me.
For those who don't know me, I will now explain why I would move to France. I started studying French in 7th grade. In 11th grade, I was a Rotary exchange student to Nogent-le-Rotrou, France, for 10 months. It was a very difficult year for me. I was young, both emotionally and chronologically, and was terribly homesick. I gained a lot of weight. However, I made some very good friends, became fluent in the language (to the point where people actually thought I was French), and loved the culture. Later, I became a French teacher, led student trips to France, and took my honeymoon in France. I am currently reading a book on the origins of the French language. In a nutshell, then, I am folle for France and all things French.
For those who do know me, I will now explain where in France I would go. Paris is fun, but fun for visiting, not living. It's a lot like New York City for me in that way. The South of France is where I would go, preferably to a village in the suburbs of Nice. I much prefer small-town life with easy access to big city restaurants and theatre. The people in the South are pretty laid-back and friendly. I love lavender, which is grown primarily in Provence. The history all over France is fascinating, but I really like the evidence of Roman influence along the Midi. Finally, as I now live in a coastal town, I am quite accustomed to living by the ocean. It suits me. My daughter declared last year, "We're beach people," and she's right. Finally, it would be lovely to live someplace warm for a change.
Believe me, if there were any way to a) convince my deeply here-rooted husband, and b) find a good job there, I would move to France in an instant. No passing go.
You picked a card from the pile of life that says, “Do not pass go. Move directly to another country.” Where would you move?
This is a TOTAL no-brainer. France. Anyone who knows me could have written this for me, actually, and the answer would be the same. France in a heartbeat. I don't even need a card to tell me to go! I just need a willing husband to go with me.
For those who don't know me, I will now explain why I would move to France. I started studying French in 7th grade. In 11th grade, I was a Rotary exchange student to Nogent-le-Rotrou, France, for 10 months. It was a very difficult year for me. I was young, both emotionally and chronologically, and was terribly homesick. I gained a lot of weight. However, I made some very good friends, became fluent in the language (to the point where people actually thought I was French), and loved the culture. Later, I became a French teacher, led student trips to France, and took my honeymoon in France. I am currently reading a book on the origins of the French language. In a nutshell, then, I am folle for France and all things French.
For those who do know me, I will now explain where in France I would go. Paris is fun, but fun for visiting, not living. It's a lot like New York City for me in that way. The South of France is where I would go, preferably to a village in the suburbs of Nice. I much prefer small-town life with easy access to big city restaurants and theatre. The people in the South are pretty laid-back and friendly. I love lavender, which is grown primarily in Provence. The history all over France is fascinating, but I really like the evidence of Roman influence along the Midi. Finally, as I now live in a coastal town, I am quite accustomed to living by the ocean. It suits me. My daughter declared last year, "We're beach people," and she's right. Finally, it would be lovely to live someplace warm for a change.
Believe me, if there were any way to a) convince my deeply here-rooted husband, and b) find a good job there, I would move to France in an instant. No passing go.
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