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.

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.

Baby training

I've often referred to having a dog as being really good training for having/raising a baby. And it is.

The only problem is when you hear your dear husband ask the baby if he wants to go out (a.k.a. for a walk in the stroller) or if he'd like a chew toy (a.k.a. a teething ring).

Perhaps the training (of us) is a little too good.

An explanation of the soul of a Jersey girl

Sometimes, you read something that just explains who you are, right down to your core.

Growing up on the Jersey shore, I have a passionate allegiance to my state, and particularly to the area in which I grew up. In that area, it's almost blasphemous not to have at least a basic appreciation for a certain Boss.

That said, there are those who have only experienced the "Born in the U.S.A." Springsteen (and yes, you know who you are). Or who only know the one that shows up on the cover of Rolling Stone.

Yes, I am a fan of his music. A huge fan. But I am even more of a fan of his ability to put pictures into words then into music, all at the same time, with such ease and authenticity.

But I just read Springsteen's N.J. Hall of Fame acceptance speech, and was overwhelmed by how much it describes what New Jersey means to me, and to my love for all things Jersey, good and bad.

What particularly sang to me was this:

"So anyway . . . you get a little older now, you get those crisp fall days that come in September and the beginning of October. My friends and I, we slip into that cold water of that Atlantic Ocean. These days, you take note that there's a few less of your friends swimming alongside of you as each year passes.

But something about being in one place your whole life, they're all still around you, in the water. And I look towards the shore, and I see my son and my daughter, pushing their way through the waves, and on the beach there's a whole batch of new little kids running away from the crashing surf. Like time itself.That's what New Jersey is for me. It's a repository, now, of just my time on earth. My memory, the music I've made, friendships, my life, it's all buried here, at this point, in a box, somewhere in the sand, down on the Jersey Shore. And I can't imagine having it any other way."

That is what New Jersey is to me.

If there's a "before"...

I chopped the bulk of my hair off recently.

Someone asked me why today, and I replied very matter-o'-factly, "I looked in the mirror, and realized I bore a striking resemblance to those "before" pictures you see in makeover stories."

The haircut was a good first step, but at a GW event I was at today, a "business attire" lecture by Stephen Hawking, I realized that the rest of the image - make-up (or lack thereof), yellowed teeth, frumpy shapeless sweater and too-big black pants (because I broke the zipper on the almost-fit-slightly-too-small-but comfortable other black pants I usually go for) - still needs a lot of work.

You know it's bad when you're the least stylish person in a room full of astrophysicists.

It's a lot

One of the funny things I've noticed about motherhood is just how overwhelming it can be. That's in both a good and bad way.

As I rocked Baby to sleep in the glider tonight, after reading "The Cat in the Hat," I found myself getting all choked up, and then crying. Part of it was because I can't believe he's almost eight months old already. The sight of the little stuffed "Special Delivery" stork in his room brought me to tears. How has it been so long already? And how did I get so lucky to be his mom? How did we get so lucky to be his parents? Talking to my pregnant friend/co-worker today, who has a due date just about a year after ours, I can't believe how much more intense and emotional I feel now, and how all that kicking and moving around I felt wasn't a separate, different being. It was Baby, the little person we're still getting to know, and getting to love more each minute. And I didn't think that was possible.

I so used to mock motherly sentiments like this, and always shook my head at friends who told me, "Oh, you'll understand some day." OK, you were right. All of you. I hereby rescind my mocking.

But on the flip side, it's hard. It's a constant treadmill, with very few, if any, breaks. There's always another place you're supposed to be, another bottle to wash, another pumping session to make sure there are enough bottles tomorrow, another pick up to desperately try not to be late to, another bag to pack and prep.

And then there's the emotion. Worries about family, and the job. Missing my friends, who I can't seem to even find a decent 15 minutes to make a quick phone call to, and suddenly six months has gone by. Wanting to reach out to everyone at once, and feeling like I'm not doing a good job for any.

As C. said tonight, as he very kindly prepared dinner as I fed and prepped Baby for bed, "It's a lot."

It is. I love it all, and struggle with it all. A lot.

Actually

C. recently came to the conclusion that he and I both overuse the word "Actually" an insane amount.

He pointed this out during our basement cleaning marathon Sunday. No, we don't, I protested.

And then proceeded to use "actually" in at least four instances in the next hour.

Actually, maybe he's right.