Something Shiny!

Seasonal woot woot

emily — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 16:41:02 +0000

I have a confession to make: I am loving this winter. While nearly everyone around me is bemoaning this winter (the snow! and the ice! and then a couple of sunny days followed by more snow!), I am reveling in it. In Florida, we didn’t really have seasons. We had a long, long, long stretch of summer (we’d turn on the AC in April and leave it on through November, people) and a few weeks on either end of “spring” and “fall” (quotation marks indicating the near-ludicrousness of using those terms), but mostly we had summer. Clear blue skies, bright and sunny, 80+ degrees. Which, yes, I can see how that sounds divine. But, wow, did I miss the seasons. True and proper seasons, each lasting approximately three months, coming at particular and predictable times of year, in which you can purchase and wear the right clothes for the right time of year. I can’t tell you how maddening it was to be looking for shorts in October when every merchant (both brick-and-mortar and online) was offering only chunky wool sweaters and fleece-lined jeans. Nor can I adequately explain the mindf*ck of picking out a Christmas tree in shorts and flip flops. So, shake your fist at winter and bemoan it all you want. I’ll be over here giving it a big hug and inviting it to stay for awhile.

Sentimental fool

emily — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 22:07:55 +0000

I have a (bad) habit of becoming mired in the past, rather than living in the now, or whatever it is the kids say these days. I over sentimentalize, I mourn the past, I focus more on what was than on what will be. It’s always been this way– even when I was very little, I mourned the passage of time with each birthday. And now that we have Henry, well, let’s just say that it hasn’t gotten any easier. I’m trying so hard to remind myself that the best is yet to come, that we’ll have many, many milestones to mark with Henry, but sometimes I’m blindsided with sentimentality. Most recently, I read this post by Natalie, on weaning her own son and how sad she was (is) about it. Now, Henry and I haven’t weaned. The very sight of solid food practically sends him scurrying into the other room. (There’s a whole other post: how is a child of mine so averse to applesauce?) But, oh my goodness, the thought of not having that special time with Henry, him nursing quietly, eyelids fluttering, and me breathing in his scent… Well, it’s enough to make me feel like we’re packing him off to college. It’s odd how certain things trigger my nostalgia, while others don’t. Recently, I went through all of Henry’s baby clothes and sorted them out, setting aside a huge boxful to get rid of and keeping ones we might use again, for another down-the-road child. Nary a tear in sight while I undertook that project, gleefully chucking things into the ‘donate’ pile. But Natalie’s post? Enough to send me into a tailspin of wistful reminiscence. So, I keep forcibly reminding myself to enjoy what I have while I have it and to focus on the present rather than on the past. All the while, though, that other side of me is lying in wait with a box of Kleenex.

On babies and life

emily — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 17:42:04 +0000

I’m slowly, slooooowwwwwlllllyyyyy, regaining portions of my old life back. Henry is 13 months old, folks, and this is how long it has taken me to scrabble back to some semblance of “my” life. I’m still not back to doing yoga every day and I still don’t have a paying job, but I’m finding some space for myself in all this Henry-ness. Lest I sound bitter, let me clarify: I’m not. I love Henry. Period. He is fun and funny and full of laughter and moxie and all things wonderful and delightful. If time travel were possible, I’d totally go have a talk with my twenty-something self and tell her how awesome Henry is. But I digress. Henry was not an easy baby. I’d hear these stories about mythical babies who would sleep in their car seats while their parents ran errands, or babies who would take four-hour naps in the middle of the day. Ha. Haaaaa. Henry was never that baby. He wouldn’t let anybody but me hold him for several months of his early life, and he barely let me put him down, the result of which was that I wound up with De Quervain’s syndrome in both thumbs. He slept in my arms much of the time, for that was the only way he’d actually, you know, nap. When I was teaching, John would hold Henry while he (the baby, that is, not John) screamed and screamed and screamed, the result of which was that I did my teaching prep each night in about half an hour for the next day. It’s amazing my students and I made it through that semester. So, yes, it’s been a long journey, but I’m beginning to find myself again, even as I trip over wooden blocks and giant Legos and plastic toys that go bee baaa baaa baaa beee baa baaa braack. It’s not exactly the life I envisioned. (Obviously because, you know, the academic job market done tanked and all.) But it’s a good life and, in any case, is life ever exactly what we envisioned it would be? And it’s nice to have reached this point, even if it took awhile, because in my darkest hours– when I was grumbling bitterly about how I used to have a life instead of diaper duty and effed-up thumbs– it seemed like I’d never get here. And I find great comfort in that.

In Memoriam

emily — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 23:49:23 +0000

I was holding the baby on Friday when I saw the news: a gunman in an elementary school. The reports were confused and rushed at that time. Eighteen children dead. Then twenty. Then reports of fallen teachers. I held Henry tighter. The news coming out of Connecticut was incomprehensible. Children targeted– babies, really, not that many years older than Henry. I held onto my own baby, tighter still, and I wept as my mind reeled. How does this happen? What kind of society is this, in which unspeakable things like this can happen? An acquaintance on Facebook pointed out that on the same day, a number of children in China were stabbed. I held my tongue, but the mother in me wanted to scream. Stabbed, yes. Hurt, yes. Wounded, yes. But fundamentally still alive. Those babies will physically recover, and then the mental and emotional recovery can begin. Even on the day that the shooting took place, people held up the Second Amendment as a defense against cries for gun control. And the historian in me wanted to lash out. The Constitution allows room for a well regulated militia. These were men and women who had fought the British Empire, at the time the most powerful in the world. Written into the Bill of Rights, you can see the historical fingerprints that gave rise to those amendments. They had been forced to house Redcoats in their homes, hence the Third Amendment prohibiting the quartering of soldiers in private homes. They themselves weren’t trained soldiers. These were farmers with pitchforks and teenagers with muskets and when, against all odds, they prevailed, they aimed to protect themselves and their fledgling nation against foreign incursion. “Being necessary to the security of a free state,” they sought to better prepare themselves, should Spain or even Britain again get any ideas. A well regulated militia. Not someone with an assault rifle taking aim at five-year-olds. It’s difficult to see how we’ve strayed so far from where we began, but it’s far too easy to see the results. Twenty children dead. Twenty children who didn’t return home from school on Friday. Twenty children whose families are heartbroken. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain those families are feeling. Anne Lamott once wrote that, before she had her son, she felt she could handle anything, that nothing could absolutely crush her. After she had Sam, that changed. When I think about something like this happening to Henry, I can barely breathe. These families will never be the same again, will never be whole again. Adding insult to injury, some cannot afford the cost of a funeral, and have had to turn to public appeals for donations. My heart goes out to the families and friends of those who were lost. I desperately hope something like this will never happen again. The sad reality is, it will.

If you are so inclined, please consider donating to the Brady Campaign to End Gun Violence.

Apple of my pie

emily — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 18:38:52 +0000

My friend Sally emailed the other day to say that, in a stroke of genius, she decided to have Thanksgiving catered, except not the pies because (in her words) “I want my own damn pies.” I think “I want my own damn pies” is officially my favorite sentence ever. I, too, want my own damn pies. When we bought our house (we, uh, bought a house, by the way), our realtor bought us a pie (well, bought us a woman to bake us a pie…? bought us a one-time-pie service? it’s complicated) and while we debated what kind of pie to order, I suggested an apple pie. You could have cut the ensuing silence with a knife. John looked at me out of the corner of one eye and shook his head. “Bad idea.” “Why???” “Because it isn’t going to be as good as your apple pie and I know how you are about apple pies.” Okay, yes, so I’m particular about apple pie. Whatever, dude. But I remain convinced that it’s possible to order a really, really great apple pie. And I promised John not to openly mock the pie or the baker if it sucked. We ordered the apple pie. (It wasn’t as good as mine. I kept my mouth shut.)

On politics and the preciousness of life

emily — Thu, 25 Oct 2012 17:34:20 +0000

I’ve been thinking a lot about politics lately (hard not to, I guess) and specifically about what I will broadly term ‘the abortion thing.’ Abortion is a touchy subject, rife with fierce opinions and no easy answers. My own (fiercely held) opinion is that a woman ought to have the right to choose what to do with her own body, that old men in suits (many of whom, it seems, need to go back to Biology 101) shouldn’t legislate reproductive health, and that if a woman finds herself pregnant and doesn’t want to be, she should be able to get a safe abortion. And I understand that plenty of people disagree with me and I respect their opinions, I really do. But here’s where I get stuck. If, as many pro-life supporters argue, every life is precious and if, again as many pro-life supporters argue, life begins at conception and therefore cannot be terminated, what kind of life will that look like? Doesn’t that matter? What kind of life are we condemning a child to, who was born as a result of a rape? What kind of social or psychological problems will that child have? “Who’s your dad?” “Oh, my dad is an ex-con who raped my mom and left her for dead in a ditch on the side of a road.” What kind of physiological problems will a child born of incest have? Can we have those kinds of discussions, please? Especially in the context of current economic arguments that rush to de-fund social programs (like CHIP and others) aimed at helping children with health problems? If life is so precious that every life conceived must be lived, shouldn’t we protect those lives? And if we’re not going to, how precious can we really declare life to be? Why is it that those who claim the loudest to be the defenders of life do so little to protect that life once it exits the womb?

Things that go bump in the night

emily — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 22:16:12 +0000

My nightmares and night terrors are the stuff of legend in our household. There was the time I bloodied my knees while trying to army-crawl my way out of the bedroom. And the time(s) I nearly called 911, prompting us to remove the phone in the bedroom. Oh, and the time I tried to jump, ninja-like, out of bed, only to fall flat on the floor. But I’d never broken anything (notice the use of past perfect tense). The other night, as I slept, I dreamed that bad guys came after me and Henry. I knew that my one chance for getting away was a diversion and I also knew that, in reality, there was something on my nightstand that could be shattered to produce such a distraction. In my dream, and in reality, I groped around on my nightstand until I found it. Then, without hesitation, I sent it flying to the floor. The resulting crash woke me up and, in a split second, I realized what I’d done. A lovely ceramic lamp, a birthday present from John’s mother several years ago, lay smashed in a million pieces on the floor. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so stupid in my life.

Sixth Sense

emily — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 22:57:48 +0000

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural or anything like that. But every now and again, something happens that makes me wonder whether something else is going on, something that we can’t explain otherwise. Two recent-ish examples. When we lived in Gainesville, I was out on a dog walk one morning and a thought shoved its way into my head. There’s no other way to describe it. I was thinking about something completely different and then, wham!, clear as day, this thought wedged everything else out. That thought was “I’m going to find some money today.” It was completely bizarre. I may have even stopped dead in my tracks, so strange was this feeling. And then, no kidding, later that evening I found a wad of money (it was around $20) at the dog park. Weird, right? Fast forward a little bit, to May 1st of last year. It was in the middle of the night and, all of a sudden, a thought forced its way into my head. “Oh! I’m pregnant.” I didn’t know then that I was pregnant. But two days later, much earlier than I should have, I took a pregnancy test that turned up positive. So, what is UP, universe? Is this some weird sixth sense that I’ve got? Or something else?

Of Craigslist and Good Taste

emily — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 23:51:26 +0000

I’ve been trolling Craigslist for awhile now, primarily because I’m looking for a few key pieces of furniture, but also because, let’s be honest, it’s awesome. Have you been out to Craigslist? It’s like the most delicious people-watching, but from the comfort of your laptop. The things people put out there slay me, but the descriptions are even better. A “GORGEOUS microfiber loveseat” that makes you wince when you click on the photo. A “VINTAGE” couch that sags so much, the middle cushion nearly reaches the floor. An armchair, in “EXCELLENT CONDITION,” with a patterned fabric so busy it makes your eyes water. And the prices! Hoo boy, are people proud of their junk. Things that really should have been consigned to the dump a generation ago find new life as “RETRO” and “VINTAGE” pieces and are listed for several hundreds of dollars, despite being patently unfit for, well, most things. If you can look past the spelling errors (the variations on the word ‘armoire’ are pretty spectacular), it’s a great way to invest some time online.

Woe to me

emily — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 13:37:59 +0000

Fair warning: this is a post about sickness. If you’re not in the mood to read all about me being a whiny baby, please to go read about Beyoncé the metal chicken. Still with me? Good. So. I’m sick. And I’d just like to point out that this is at least the second July in a row in which I’ve been massively sick. That said, this is much, much worse. Why?

OH HAI. I CAN HAZ ATTENTION? A LITTLE PARENTING, PLZ? So, yeah. Whereas last July, I was able to lay about in bed, sniffing and hacking and sleeping my way through being sick, not so much this time around. And yeah, okay, nobody likes being sick. But why do I keep getting sick over the summer??? On second thought, maybe we should all go read about Beyoncé the metal chicken.