It finally happened.
C. walked into our house last night to find both of us crying. Baby in his playpen. Me on the couch.
I finally hit that point, the one I kept thinking that I was tough enough to overcome, to hold myself together, to not give into the desire to just fall apart.
But I'm not.
Poor C. wasn't sure what to do. I tried to explain it, but didn't do a very good job, in between the sniffling and whimpering. It's a combination of things, really, some within my control, some not.
It's an overload of stories at work that I'm doing neither well nor on time and have nothing to be proud of there. It's anxiety about stories, which is something that comes with the job and can often be controlled, but sometimes, you get a big helping that you have to just get through. It's missing my friends there who have left, and not feeling bonds with those who have stayed. It's needing a big heap of inspiration and not knowing where to find it.
It's feeling like I have absolutely no idea what to do with this now one year old, other than feed, change and try to keep from whacking his head on everything. I'm not a mother, I'm a goalie. And I just don't know what to do with this kid right now. I'm not a very good entertainer. I'm at a loss for games to play or things to do.
It's feeling out of touch with friends, and like life if just a series of short, difficult sprints, with some time to sleep in between before you have to get up and do it all again the next day.
And maybe most difficult, it's this dull, emotional ache that seems to have invaded everything I do. Some of it is people related, but much of it is just there. I try to fight and put it in its place, but sometimes, it's too fast for me. It's not painful enough to do anything about, but it's always there, like a nasty hangover headache that just won't finally subside.
I try to power through, and tell myself I'm tougher than this, I can keep it together, that I don't have the luxury of letting myself fall apart. I need to keep going, that I can do this. But sometimes, just sometimes, I want to just give into the sadness and cry. I know I need to be the one to make it better, but sometimes, I just wish someone else could do it for me. Just for a moment, the mother becomes the child again. I know I'll summon up the strength, but right now, the demons sank a few three-pointers when I wasn't looking.
Who's more fun to be around than me?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Seriously... ?
The trampoline is an Olympic sport? The trampoline?
I've probably seen nearly a dozen sets of Olympics in my lifetime. How can I not know this?
And which camera guys draw the short straw to get this event? "Oh, sorry, Bob, we're all full up over at swimming and track. Let's see ... oh, have we got an assignment for you! It'll pull a real, ha ha, bounce in your step..."
My particular good thoughts go out to the low angle camera guy, who spends his entire night earning himself a one-way ticket to Whiplash Street.
Must. Stop. Watching. Camera. Motions. Making. Me. Nauseous. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
There must be some synchronized diving on somewhere?
I've probably seen nearly a dozen sets of Olympics in my lifetime. How can I not know this?
And which camera guys draw the short straw to get this event? "Oh, sorry, Bob, we're all full up over at swimming and track. Let's see ... oh, have we got an assignment for you! It'll pull a real, ha ha, bounce in your step..."
My particular good thoughts go out to the low angle camera guy, who spends his entire night earning himself a one-way ticket to Whiplash Street.
Must. Stop. Watching. Camera. Motions. Making. Me. Nauseous. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
There must be some synchronized diving on somewhere?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
You never know who you'll run into
I went to hear Dan Pink speak tonight. For those of you who aren't avid geeky business book readers (ahem), Pink is the former chief speechwriter for Al Gore (the vice president version, not the"A Convenient Truth" version) and the author of books such as "Free Agent Nation."
I also used to run with him.
Whaaaaa?, you say?
Back in 1999, I trained with the AIDS Marathon Training Group, where I raised money to fight AIDS and ran the Marine Corps Marathon. We had a very cool training group of 15 or so, one of whom is a very dear friend to this day. But I've lost touch with most, unfortunately, and Dan was one of them.
Dan and I ran together a few times, and we talked about work a bit during those five and six hours, 105 percent humidity in July early Saturday mornings on the trail. I remember thinking what a cool job he had - writing speeches and books.
Even with the subsequent success, he still seems like a normal, interesting guy with smart things to say, the kind you'd talk shop with or who would be good to brainstorm ideas with. He pleasantly endured lots of people wanting to talk with him and/or sign books, me being one of them.
The longer I live in Washington, the more I'm convinced that it really is a small town on steroids. It's a small business world out there.
I also used to run with him.
Whaaaaa?, you say?
Back in 1999, I trained with the AIDS Marathon Training Group, where I raised money to fight AIDS and ran the Marine Corps Marathon. We had a very cool training group of 15 or so, one of whom is a very dear friend to this day. But I've lost touch with most, unfortunately, and Dan was one of them.
Dan and I ran together a few times, and we talked about work a bit during those five and six hours, 105 percent humidity in July early Saturday mornings on the trail. I remember thinking what a cool job he had - writing speeches and books.
Even with the subsequent success, he still seems like a normal, interesting guy with smart things to say, the kind you'd talk shop with or who would be good to brainstorm ideas with. He pleasantly endured lots of people wanting to talk with him and/or sign books, me being one of them.
The longer I live in Washington, the more I'm convinced that it really is a small town on steroids. It's a small business world out there.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Workout Work Over
Anyone who thinks that pyramid schemes have gone the way of the parachute pant hasn't tried to join a gym lately.
A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.
Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?
Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.
Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."
A friend recommended a trainer who helped her get back into shape after the birth of her second child. Excellent, I thought. I talked to the trainer, a crazy Australian lady who seems like she could give me the exact ass-kicking I require to get moving again.
Then she realized I wasn't a member of the gym where she trains, and broke the news that I'd have to join. OK, I thought. I'm sure they have some sort of three month membership, even if it's a little more expensive.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
How is it, in this Internet-information-everywhere day and age, that they still don't have published prices and can still fish in new members with teaser rates that only apply to one- or two-year memberships (including the bogus "initiation fee" which is waived if you sign on for a year, but costs you $150 (for nothing!) if you want to pay their higher month-to-month rate), all before even getting to the trainer's fees?
Even in spite of the crazy costs, I'll admit I was tempted to try and figure out how to pay for it all, because I'm totally sucked into the idea that if she helped my friend look as great as she does, then it HAS to work for me, right? (Right?? Sure, there's the little matter of the hard work, and physical endurance, but hey, how hard could it be... ). But for now, it's probably not the best option for the family budget.
Goodbye for now, awesome trainer and swanky gym. Hello, late-night infomercial order of "The Firm."
Friday, July 11, 2008
Before I knew you
Baby's moving on up. To a bigger car seat.
Our little tiny baby has neared that line where he's almost outgrown his infant car seat - those buckets o' baby you always see new parents proudly toting around - and is ready for a convertible.
For the uninitiated (you know, those people who aren't sitting on their couches blogging about car seats at 11 p.m. on a Friday night while the post-college group house next door plays beer pong outside your windows), a "convertible" car seat is stage two, the kind that start out rear-facing and then can be swapped around toddlerhood to forward-facing.
What does this mean? Well, a turn once again to the bible of mothers-to-be and new mothers everywhere, that indispensible guide known as "Baby Bargains." Never read it? Just look around the next time you're in Babies 'R' Us buying a shower gift. I'll give you five bucks if you don't spot at least three pregnant women toting them around the store.
In flipping through my very dog-eared, written-all-over copy in the quest for the Ultimate Convertible Car Seat, I happened to be going through the index. There I spotted a listing for Dreft.
Again, for the uninitiated, this is specialty baby-friendly clothes detergent that new parents can't fight the compulsion to use on baby clothes.
But tonight, in seeing the word Dreft, I was suddenly transported to sitting in my living room, just a little more than a year ago, very pregnant. We had just put the final finishing touches on Baby's room, from setting up all his stuffed animals in his crib, to lining up the diapers in the new lined wicker baskets I'd purchased to set on top of his dresser/changing table, to hanging the shelves holding the classic children's books and stuffed versions of their characters that my sister-in-law had purchased for him, from the Cat-in-the-Hat to Babar to Rainbow Fish.
And yes, we had just washed his very first sets of clothes, in Dreft, and I had just folded them and spent time trying to figure out how to best organize these tiny little garments. I was partially caught up in the organizing, but mostly marveling and overwhelmed at the very idea that there would soon be a little person who would be wearing them.
For some reason, the mere mention of the word Dreft tonight sent me back, and had me feeling incredibly nostalgic for those last few weeks of our pregnancy. Standing in that quiet, perfectly neat and pretty little room that seemed so ready to receive its new owner close to a year ago, I remember anticipating all that was to come, and feeling excited, afraid, overwhelmed, terrified, prayerful and hopeful all at the same time. In a way, I still miss that strange and wonderful time. I still cherish those moments of anticipation, of hope of a person I did not yet know.
And I cherish the person I know now even more.
Our little tiny baby has neared that line where he's almost outgrown his infant car seat - those buckets o' baby you always see new parents proudly toting around - and is ready for a convertible.
For the uninitiated (you know, those people who aren't sitting on their couches blogging about car seats at 11 p.m. on a Friday night while the post-college group house next door plays beer pong outside your windows), a "convertible" car seat is stage two, the kind that start out rear-facing and then can be swapped around toddlerhood to forward-facing.
What does this mean? Well, a turn once again to the bible of mothers-to-be and new mothers everywhere, that indispensible guide known as "Baby Bargains." Never read it? Just look around the next time you're in Babies 'R' Us buying a shower gift. I'll give you five bucks if you don't spot at least three pregnant women toting them around the store.
In flipping through my very dog-eared, written-all-over copy in the quest for the Ultimate Convertible Car Seat, I happened to be going through the index. There I spotted a listing for Dreft.
Again, for the uninitiated, this is specialty baby-friendly clothes detergent that new parents can't fight the compulsion to use on baby clothes.
But tonight, in seeing the word Dreft, I was suddenly transported to sitting in my living room, just a little more than a year ago, very pregnant. We had just put the final finishing touches on Baby's room, from setting up all his stuffed animals in his crib, to lining up the diapers in the new lined wicker baskets I'd purchased to set on top of his dresser/changing table, to hanging the shelves holding the classic children's books and stuffed versions of their characters that my sister-in-law had purchased for him, from the Cat-in-the-Hat to Babar to Rainbow Fish.
And yes, we had just washed his very first sets of clothes, in Dreft, and I had just folded them and spent time trying to figure out how to best organize these tiny little garments. I was partially caught up in the organizing, but mostly marveling and overwhelmed at the very idea that there would soon be a little person who would be wearing them.
For some reason, the mere mention of the word Dreft tonight sent me back, and had me feeling incredibly nostalgic for those last few weeks of our pregnancy. Standing in that quiet, perfectly neat and pretty little room that seemed so ready to receive its new owner close to a year ago, I remember anticipating all that was to come, and feeling excited, afraid, overwhelmed, terrified, prayerful and hopeful all at the same time. In a way, I still miss that strange and wonderful time. I still cherish those moments of anticipation, of hope of a person I did not yet know.
And I cherish the person I know now even more.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
It Takes a Village to Fly a Child
I've been bad about posting lately. I'm sorry.
(Random recovering nonprofit executive tip: You will use the phrase "thank you," "please," or "I'm sorry" in every single conversation you have. And sometimes all three. Saidreallyfasttogetherallatonetime. Apparently, this may hold true in blogging. And life.)
That said, I do have a good tale to tell of Baby's first plane ride, and Mommy's first threat to take recreational valium. Baby and I took a Mommy-Son trip to Boston this weekend to see dear friends whom we miss a lot, which included ridiculouschick, with whom we were able to join for an engagement celebration.
However, it involves detail to be told correctly, so I will be taking a play out of City Mouse's handbook and her mini-series-esque tale of her move from Washington to the Great White North. Very soon. I promise.
To whet your appetite, highlights included the discovery of an expired driver's license at check in, and having to try and brace the college age dude with the unfortunate luck of sitting in the middle seat next to me for the wonders of breastfeeding.
Excellent.
(Random recovering nonprofit executive tip: You will use the phrase "thank you," "please," or "I'm sorry" in every single conversation you have. And sometimes all three. Saidreallyfasttogetherallatonetime. Apparently, this may hold true in blogging. And life.)
That said, I do have a good tale to tell of Baby's first plane ride, and Mommy's first threat to take recreational valium. Baby and I took a Mommy-Son trip to Boston this weekend to see dear friends whom we miss a lot, which included ridiculouschick, with whom we were able to join for an engagement celebration.
However, it involves detail to be told correctly, so I will be taking a play out of City Mouse's handbook and her mini-series-esque tale of her move from Washington to the Great White North. Very soon. I promise.
To whet your appetite, highlights included the discovery of an expired driver's license at check in, and having to try and brace the college age dude with the unfortunate luck of sitting in the middle seat next to me for the wonders of breastfeeding.
Excellent.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Jane, stop this crazy thing!
That image of George Jetson running on the ridiculously accelerating treadmill has been a metaphor for my life in the past (you know, like when I lived in space) but never so much as lately.
I have no idea how parents with more than one kid do it.
We have a very good baby, with a good temperment and generally all-around sunny disposition (thank you, C.). He's sleeping - mostly, save for a few teeth waging war with his gums.
But we are exhausted. Absolutely, totally exhausted. Like can't get out of bed in the morning, and drag ourselves into it again at night. Everything in between? Great big blur.
Will one of you parents out there please assure me that there will be a day, even if it's in the distant future, that we won't feel like we're in this fog? That there will be a time when we return to some semblance of normal that isn't restricted to get up, go to work, feed/eat dinner, go to bed, with the occasional load of laundry thrown in for the occasional giggle?
I know, I know, I'm supposed to find those special moments in life in the process, as part of the journey, blah blah blah. But people, I sleep on planes. Almost always. I'm not so good on the journey part of things.
And for treadmills, I'm more of an outdoor runner, where I can easily vary my speed and surroundings.
OK, the metaphors are now out of control, and this is starting to sound like the whiny ramblings of a crazy person. Or at least a really, really tired one.
Parents, feel free to chime in with advice, quityerbitching remarks, or just general tomfoolery to remind me that there is plenty of humor in simply watching the dog await manna-like Cheerios falling from above. I promise I will appreciate it all, just as soon as I come to.
I have no idea how parents with more than one kid do it.
We have a very good baby, with a good temperment and generally all-around sunny disposition (thank you, C.). He's sleeping - mostly, save for a few teeth waging war with his gums.
But we are exhausted. Absolutely, totally exhausted. Like can't get out of bed in the morning, and drag ourselves into it again at night. Everything in between? Great big blur.
Will one of you parents out there please assure me that there will be a day, even if it's in the distant future, that we won't feel like we're in this fog? That there will be a time when we return to some semblance of normal that isn't restricted to get up, go to work, feed/eat dinner, go to bed, with the occasional load of laundry thrown in for the occasional giggle?
I know, I know, I'm supposed to find those special moments in life in the process, as part of the journey, blah blah blah. But people, I sleep on planes. Almost always. I'm not so good on the journey part of things.
And for treadmills, I'm more of an outdoor runner, where I can easily vary my speed and surroundings.
OK, the metaphors are now out of control, and this is starting to sound like the whiny ramblings of a crazy person. Or at least a really, really tired one.
Parents, feel free to chime in with advice, quityerbitching remarks, or just general tomfoolery to remind me that there is plenty of humor in simply watching the dog await manna-like Cheerios falling from above. I promise I will appreciate it all, just as soon as I come to.
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