December 7, 2009
In theory it sounded awesome, but to be quite honest with you, this work-at-home-mom thing isn't really coming together so well for me.
Now, instead of sitting in my office, not doing much work and feeling semi-guilty about it, I'm sitting in my den, not doing any professional work (because old habits die hard) or housework (because I'm on the clock) and feeling just about as useful as one of those infomercial 'set it and forget it' rotisserie ovens--you know...not nearly as efficient as the salesman said it would be, and dude, it takes up way too much counter space.
I sit around all morning, with my boob hanging out of my shirt, pretending (key word there) to sound useful during conference calls, all the while wondering, "Can't she just stop crying for a second???" Consequently, my self-esteem is lying somewhere in the depths of my very uncleaned toilet.
Crappy employee? Check!
Crappy housekeeper? Double check!
Crappy friend? Would be if I had any! (Didn't that sound dramatic?)
Wallowing in self pity? You bet your big, fat bottom I am!
Objectively speaking, I have precisely nothing to show for my first two weeks back at work, and honestly, it makes me want to hurl. But worst of all, I sound like a nasty little, self-entitled whiner (e.g. "Working from home and getting paid well for it is sooooo hard!" and "Why is my beautiful, healthy baby just a little bit fussy every once in a while?")--and that makes me want to hurl all over again.
I have a work contract through April, so I'll give myself at least that long to adjust to the new circumstances--so that's good.
But I have even better news. This ridiculous need to vent and complain? I'll recover from that momentarily.
An Update on My Condition
December 1, 2009
I've read the parenting books, and believe-you-me, I know that it's never okay to compare your children against one another. After all, they're individuals, with their own strengths, weaknesses, personalities, and interests. Comparison is pointless, unfair, and nothing but harmful.
But wait, hold the phone. I'm Amy Lawson, so watch me do it anyway.
James was a fantastic sleeper. At six weeks old, that boy started sleeping through the night from 10pm to 5am without so much as a whisper or a grunt. By the time he was 18 months, James was sleeping from 8pm to 8am and taking a four hour nap every single day. The kid slept so much that I barely even knew him. And that was cool with me, because sometimes strangers can have a very special and unexplainable connection to one another.
James was fat, James was happy, and James was tired. Very, very tired.
And me? Well I felt like a fresh little flower who sneezed out sunshine and farted out fairy dust.
Then there's Maggie. Miss Cutie-Cuteness-Crappy-Dappy-Sorry-Excuse-for-a-Sleeper Maggie. Thank goodness that girl is adorable, because if it weren't for those perfect, little facial features, that child would be headed to an obscure Swiss boarding school at the sweet, young age of seven weeks.
I'm sure, that in the grand scheme of things, Maggie is a pretty normal baby. But compared to her brother, this child is a straight-up insomniac.
Maggie eats at 10.
Maggie eats at midnight.
Maggie eats at 2:15.
Maggie eats at 4:45ish.
Maggie eats at 7.
Maggie is hungry.
And then, when the sun peeks up over the horizon, I wander around town looking remarkably similar to this:
Remember her? I'll give you a clue: Tell 'em Large Marge sent ya.
That's right, it's the very same truck driver who scared the pants off of Pee Wee Herman when he was on his cross country adventure, trying like heck to find his bike. If you were born in the 70's or 80's then you definitely remember how shaken Pee Wee became when Large Marge made her eyes bulge out of her head--now take a minute to think about how you'd feel if you bumped into Marge in the stacks at your local library and she gave you that same whacked out look.
And that is why I'd like to apologize to all of my fellow community members. I look like hell. I am a spitting image of Large Marge. Someone have mercy upon my weak and wretched soul.
So there you have it. My son left me looking all airy and bright, and Maggie? Well Maggie just leaves me looking like really sh!%%y 80's claymation.
I wonder how long this will last.
I've read the parenting books, and believe-you-me, I know that it's never okay to compare your children against one another. After all, they're individuals, with their own strengths, weaknesses, personalities, and interests. Comparison is pointless, unfair, and nothing but harmful.
But wait, hold the phone. I'm Amy Lawson, so watch me do it anyway.
James was a fantastic sleeper. At six weeks old, that boy started sleeping through the night from 10pm to 5am without so much as a whisper or a grunt. By the time he was 18 months, James was sleeping from 8pm to 8am and taking a four hour nap every single day. The kid slept so much that I barely even knew him. And that was cool with me, because sometimes strangers can have a very special and unexplainable connection to one another.
James was fat, James was happy, and James was tired. Very, very tired.
And me? Well I felt like a fresh little flower who sneezed out sunshine and farted out fairy dust.
Then there's Maggie. Miss Cutie-Cuteness-Crappy-Dappy-Sorry-Excuse-for-a-Sleeper Maggie. Thank goodness that girl is adorable, because if it weren't for those perfect, little facial features, that child would be headed to an obscure Swiss boarding school at the sweet, young age of seven weeks.
I'm sure, that in the grand scheme of things, Maggie is a pretty normal baby. But compared to her brother, this child is a straight-up insomniac.
Maggie eats at 10.
Maggie eats at midnight.
Maggie eats at 2:15.
Maggie eats at 4:45ish.
Maggie eats at 7.
Maggie is hungry.
And then, when the sun peeks up over the horizon, I wander around town looking remarkably similar to this:
Remember her? I'll give you a clue: Tell 'em Large Marge sent ya.
That's right, it's the very same truck driver who scared the pants off of Pee Wee Herman when he was on his cross country adventure, trying like heck to find his bike. If you were born in the 70's or 80's then you definitely remember how shaken Pee Wee became when Large Marge made her eyes bulge out of her head--now take a minute to think about how you'd feel if you bumped into Marge in the stacks at your local library and she gave you that same whacked out look.
And that is why I'd like to apologize to all of my fellow community members. I look like hell. I am a spitting image of Large Marge. Someone have mercy upon my weak and wretched soul.
So there you have it. My son left me looking all airy and bright, and Maggie? Well Maggie just leaves me looking like really sh!%%y 80's claymation.
I wonder how long this will last.
Turkey Trot Recap
November 30, 2009
Well guys, I'm proud to say that I stuck with my original plan and I ran the 5K Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. It was a microscopic race with no mile markers, no clocks, no race numbers, no age groups, no real finish line to speak of, and no pressure for a woman who was six-and-a-half weeks post-partum. That would be me.
I went into the race with three different goal levels...
Level 1: Finish the 3.1 mile race without dropping any internal parts on the asphalt (uterus, bladder, etc).
Level 2: If all parts remained in tact, finish the race without walking.
Level 3: If I could do the course completely walk-free, finish the run in under 35 minutes.
I ran the race with my sister, who finished the Marine Corps Marathon in October. Mmm hmm, that's really fair, huh? Let me tell you, she was nothing but thrilled to have the chance to run with me, since she owed me a complete ass-whooping reminiscent to the one I dropped on her when her baby was four-months-old.
Fantastic.
I really knew I was in for it when she--the girl who flat out refuses to pay more than 14 cents for a jar of name brand pasta sauce--jumped at the chance to cover my entrance fee.
We lined up behind some schmuck wearing a turkey on his head, and when the race director said "go" (remember, this race was way low budget--no start guns), we went. I think the race went past some really nice houses, and some picturesque New England churches, and the open ocean, but I really can't recall. All I remember was looking down at my brand new shoes and thinking, "If I accidentally let loose and pee all over these, I swear I'll throw down a tantrum at the finish line."
I'm very happy to announce that my sister was beyond merciful to me during the race. Rather than slapping me into submission like she very well could have, she kept us at a relaxed but challenging pace--enough for me to think "Wow, this sucks," but not so fast that we couldn't chat the whole way.
When we got to the end of the course (honestly, there was no real finish chute to speak of, just a bunch of guys wearing tights, doing slightly offensive stretches), she looked at her watch and said, "Oh, you'll be happy...29:17!"
And I was. 29:17 is about 7 minutes slower than I usually clock for a 5K, but then again, I don't usually run 5Ks when I have a 9-pound newborn hanging out at home.
I know that my sister could have gone a mess of a lot faster. But me? Not so much. And for that, I'd like to give her the Sisterly Love Award. You might laugh, but that's no small deal, I've only ever bestowed that award upon one person in the entire universe.
So there. I did it, just like I said I would. And I'm happy to say that the entire experience was poop, pee, and tantrum free.
Well guys, I'm proud to say that I stuck with my original plan and I ran the 5K Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. It was a microscopic race with no mile markers, no clocks, no race numbers, no age groups, no real finish line to speak of, and no pressure for a woman who was six-and-a-half weeks post-partum. That would be me.
I went into the race with three different goal levels...
Level 1: Finish the 3.1 mile race without dropping any internal parts on the asphalt (uterus, bladder, etc).
Level 2: If all parts remained in tact, finish the race without walking.
Level 3: If I could do the course completely walk-free, finish the run in under 35 minutes.
I ran the race with my sister, who finished the Marine Corps Marathon in October. Mmm hmm, that's really fair, huh? Let me tell you, she was nothing but thrilled to have the chance to run with me, since she owed me a complete ass-whooping reminiscent to the one I dropped on her when her baby was four-months-old.
Fantastic.
I really knew I was in for it when she--the girl who flat out refuses to pay more than 14 cents for a jar of name brand pasta sauce--jumped at the chance to cover my entrance fee.
We lined up behind some schmuck wearing a turkey on his head, and when the race director said "go" (remember, this race was way low budget--no start guns), we went. I think the race went past some really nice houses, and some picturesque New England churches, and the open ocean, but I really can't recall. All I remember was looking down at my brand new shoes and thinking, "If I accidentally let loose and pee all over these, I swear I'll throw down a tantrum at the finish line."
I'm very happy to announce that my sister was beyond merciful to me during the race. Rather than slapping me into submission like she very well could have, she kept us at a relaxed but challenging pace--enough for me to think "Wow, this sucks," but not so fast that we couldn't chat the whole way.
When we got to the end of the course (honestly, there was no real finish chute to speak of, just a bunch of guys wearing tights, doing slightly offensive stretches), she looked at her watch and said, "Oh, you'll be happy...29:17!"
And I was. 29:17 is about 7 minutes slower than I usually clock for a 5K, but then again, I don't usually run 5Ks when I have a 9-pound newborn hanging out at home.
I know that my sister could have gone a mess of a lot faster. But me? Not so much. And for that, I'd like to give her the Sisterly Love Award. You might laugh, but that's no small deal, I've only ever bestowed that award upon one person in the entire universe.
So there. I did it, just like I said I would. And I'm happy to say that the entire experience was poop, pee, and tantrum free.
Old, Gold Friends
November 24, 2009The last week or so has been completely insane. So insane, that I was actually happy to see Monday roll around--and it was the Monday that I had to start working again. When I said to myself, "Ahhh, Monday! I get to start working again with a 6-week-old infant in tow. Finally, a break," I officially realized that I'd had too much.
It was just one of those weeks. You know the type--lots of late nights with the baby, a handful of nonsensical fights with the spouse, a few too many behavioral issues from the four-year-old, and a ridiculously expensive middle-of-the-night trip to the emergency vet with an almost dead dog.
And the almost dead dog thing? Totally not an exaggeration.
But she's alive, and she's back to her same old lazy, farting self--so that's good. But she owes me a ton of money for the vet bills. I know it sounds harsh, but when you almost do yourself in with a pork chop bone fished out of the trash, you obviously have a problem with self-control--and you'll never improve if you don't take responsibility. So she owes me money, and I don't care how she comes up with it. As far as I'm concerned, she can turn some tricks with pit-bulls when she's feeling up to it--as long as they have fat wallets.
Yesterday, around 11 in the morning, my good friend from high school called. She was like, "I'm thinking of coming up to see you and the baby."
And I was like, "Oh yeah? When?"
And she was all, "I'm on my way now. I'll be there in an hour. Is that okay?"
And it was. It was fine. My friend Megan is one of the only people on the planet who can show up on very little notice and it's totally, 100% okay. Usually, when someone pops in I apologize profusely for the condition of my house, pretend to be embarrassed about it, and fake-beg for their understanding.
But no no, not Megan. When I opened the front door I was like, "Oh thank goodness you're here. The Diaper Champ is overflowing and I really need someone to empty it. And then I need to run five errands that are all twenty miles away. I was hoping you could wait in the car while I do 'em, that way I don't have to heft the car seat in and out."
And she didn't even blink. She just stepped over my piles and jumped on the diaper situation.
I love her.
And then she walked over to Maggie and looked at her sleeping in her bassinet. This was the first time they'd met and Meg was all, "Ooooohhhh! I love the way her hair stands up like that! It's so cute!"
And I was like, "That's because I just washed her head with dish soap."
"You what?" she asked.
"I said I washed her head with dish soap. I wanted her to look clean when you got here, but I didn't have time to give her a bath, so I rubbed her head down with that dish rag over there."
And guess what Megan said. She said, "Oh Amy, you didn't have to do that just for me! You could have left her greasy and I wouldn't have cared! Don't bother next time."
Please note: She wasn't appalled that I had cleaned my baby with a dirty rag and WalMart brand dish soap, she was appalled that I'd gone through all that trouble just for her.
And that is precisely why she's one of my oldest, goldest friends.
In exchange for her unconditional friendship, I bought Megan an onion bagel with bacon cream cheese and a Diet Coke.
In my universe, that's how real friends show their love.
Running My Arse Off...Because That's What's Required After a Baby Comes
November 16, 2009
Believe it or not, way back in the day, this blog had a lot to do with running. I was thin, I was fast, I was rich and sexy. I chewed up marathons and spit 'em out for lunch, I had an ass you could easily bounce quarters off of, and obviously, I was my own best friend. My own hero on a good day.
Okay fine, maybe my life wasn't quite that fancy. But I was running thirty or forty miles a week, I had a membership to the YMCA, and I missed the cutoff for the Boston Marathon by seven minutes and some change. Let's just say that I was no stranger to a well-fitting pair of running tights.
These days? Not so much. These days I'm lucky if I can even wiggle a pair of prepregnancy sweatpants over my ham hocks. This new look of mine might be appetizing to a hungry lion, or the Big Bad Wolf, but to the average human eye I probably just seem lumpy.
I've tried and tried over the last two years to keep running as a big part of my life (now buckle your seat belt for a long list of excuses), but with pregnancy, and a cross country move, and a rude reintroduction to New England winters, it's moved to the edge of the map.
Now I've got to say, I commend myself for the things that I have done. For example, I bought a treadmill last winter and get this, I actually used it--for running! You know, as opposed to using it as a shoe rack or as a conveyor belt for home-canning.
I also ran (mmmm, trotted) through my pregnancy up until 30 weeks or so. If you're new to the blog, you can read about my experience of running while pregnant here. And then, if you enjoyed that little story, you can read about the reason I had to stop here. Two most excellent posts if I do say so myself (I know you can manage to make the time, so go and read them).
I really haven't done a bad job by any stretch of the imagination, I simply haven't soared to new heights--and with Jared as the wind beneath my wings (and a constant willingness to hurl me off a cliff), I have absolutely no reason not to. But seriously, my husband is super supportive of my running hobby--"I stand behind anything that gets you out of the house and gives you a bangin' bod," he likes to say. I guess that's probably the reason he sends me to fat camp every summer, too.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING, PEOPLE! He never makes me go, he only encourages it. By making the initial deposit. And buying me a bus ticket.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING AGAIN, PEOPLE! Settle down, settle down.
So, without further ado, I give you my tentative race schedule for the next year (which, I reserve the right to change, alter, and/or back out of at any time with no guilt and/or excuses):
11/26/2009: The Chatham Turkey Trot in Chatham, MA. It's a 5k, it costs $5, and I plan to scare precisely 5 five-year-old children when I stuff my 5-gallon ass into some pint-sized running pants (not my line, the 5-gallon ass thing is completely hijacked from Travis Cowing, a laugh out loud funny guy I went to college with).
2/28/2009: The Hyannis Marathon, Half Marathon, 10 km, and Marathon Team Relay in Hyannis, MA. I'd like to commend the race director for developing the very descriptive, accurate, and literal name of the race. I know I'm not confused, and I bet you're not either. Well done Mr(s). Practicality!
I plan to run the 10k, and I abso-fricking-loutely plan to win the female clydesdale division. Because hello!, if it translates into a trophy of any sort, I'll gladly subject myself to a public weigh-in.
5/8/2010: The Polar Bear Triathlon in Brunswick, ME. No no, don't get excited, I still require three lifeguards and a set of water wings when I swim, so I won't be doing the full tri. But sometimes a girl's gotta get her bike on, so I'll be doing the du. Duathlon that is. It's a two-mile run, a twelve-mile bike, and a three-mile run. Unlike the previous race I listed, I plan to come in last--but to come in last with tons of style, of course.
6/2010: The Friends of the Kennebec Rail Trail Half-Marathon in Augusta, ME. It's fairly close to home, it's cheap, and if I get tired of running, it goes right behind a really great diner. I'll definitely bring my wallet along.
And then, depending on how things go (like nursing a baby), maybe a marathon in the fall? Something easy to get to, like the Maine Marathon or the Mount Desert Island Marathon. Who knows? I could be far more interested in wearing velour and eating Snickers by that point., and that would be okay. We'll just have to see.
So anyway, that's that. Let's see how it happens in real life.
Believe it or not, way back in the day, this blog had a lot to do with running. I was thin, I was fast, I was rich and sexy. I chewed up marathons and spit 'em out for lunch, I had an ass you could easily bounce quarters off of, and obviously, I was my own best friend. My own hero on a good day.
Okay fine, maybe my life wasn't quite that fancy. But I was running thirty or forty miles a week, I had a membership to the YMCA, and I missed the cutoff for the Boston Marathon by seven minutes and some change. Let's just say that I was no stranger to a well-fitting pair of running tights.
These days? Not so much. These days I'm lucky if I can even wiggle a pair of prepregnancy sweatpants over my ham hocks. This new look of mine might be appetizing to a hungry lion, or the Big Bad Wolf, but to the average human eye I probably just seem lumpy.
I've tried and tried over the last two years to keep running as a big part of my life (now buckle your seat belt for a long list of excuses), but with pregnancy, and a cross country move, and a rude reintroduction to New England winters, it's moved to the edge of the map.
Now I've got to say, I commend myself for the things that I have done. For example, I bought a treadmill last winter and get this, I actually used it--for running! You know, as opposed to using it as a shoe rack or as a conveyor belt for home-canning.
I also ran (mmmm, trotted) through my pregnancy up until 30 weeks or so. If you're new to the blog, you can read about my experience of running while pregnant here. And then, if you enjoyed that little story, you can read about the reason I had to stop here. Two most excellent posts if I do say so myself (I know you can manage to make the time, so go and read them).
I really haven't done a bad job by any stretch of the imagination, I simply haven't soared to new heights--and with Jared as the wind beneath my wings (and a constant willingness to hurl me off a cliff), I have absolutely no reason not to. But seriously, my husband is super supportive of my running hobby--"I stand behind anything that gets you out of the house and gives you a bangin' bod," he likes to say. I guess that's probably the reason he sends me to fat camp every summer, too.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING, PEOPLE! He never makes me go, he only encourages it. By making the initial deposit. And buying me a bus ticket.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING AGAIN, PEOPLE! Settle down, settle down.
So, without further ado, I give you my tentative race schedule for the next year (which, I reserve the right to change, alter, and/or back out of at any time with no guilt and/or excuses):
11/26/2009: The Chatham Turkey Trot in Chatham, MA. It's a 5k, it costs $5, and I plan to scare precisely 5 five-year-old children when I stuff my 5-gallon ass into some pint-sized running pants (not my line, the 5-gallon ass thing is completely hijacked from Travis Cowing, a laugh out loud funny guy I went to college with).
2/28/2009: The Hyannis Marathon, Half Marathon, 10 km, and Marathon Team Relay in Hyannis, MA. I'd like to commend the race director for developing the very descriptive, accurate, and literal name of the race. I know I'm not confused, and I bet you're not either. Well done Mr(s). Practicality!
I plan to run the 10k, and I abso-fricking-loutely plan to win the female clydesdale division. Because hello!, if it translates into a trophy of any sort, I'll gladly subject myself to a public weigh-in.
5/8/2010: The Polar Bear Triathlon in Brunswick, ME. No no, don't get excited, I still require three lifeguards and a set of water wings when I swim, so I won't be doing the full tri. But sometimes a girl's gotta get her bike on, so I'll be doing the du. Duathlon that is. It's a two-mile run, a twelve-mile bike, and a three-mile run. Unlike the previous race I listed, I plan to come in last--but to come in last with tons of style, of course.
6/2010: The Friends of the Kennebec Rail Trail Half-Marathon in Augusta, ME. It's fairly close to home, it's cheap, and if I get tired of running, it goes right behind a really great diner. I'll definitely bring my wallet along.
And then, depending on how things go (like nursing a baby), maybe a marathon in the fall? Something easy to get to, like the Maine Marathon or the Mount Desert Island Marathon. Who knows? I could be far more interested in wearing velour and eating Snickers by that point., and that would be okay. We'll just have to see.
So anyway, that's that. Let's see how it happens in real life.
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