One part of this whole pregnancy experience that has been kind of interesting is the time between 3:45AM and 5AM. I inevitably wake up around this time every morning and have a tough time getting back to sleep. My mind leads me around, sometimes into the future, but mostly, it takes me back to seemingly-random points in my life and really lets me take a good look at them. The thoughts are rarely unpleasant, so they're not stressful or anything like that. They're just thoughts about things I've done in my life, free and clear of any judgment.
This morning, my mind settled in with thoughts of the year before I moved out to Glasgow. It was a weird time--I was in this new-ish relationship with someone I rarely had a chance to spend time with, and was mentally preparing to leave the country, but not for a year. I was working a job at a hospital with weird hours, and had a part-time job as a mental health worker that was quickly becoming like a full-time job. I was living in a little apartment in uptown next to a chronic alcoholic who was both sweet and concerning. It was a kind of stressful time, but I remember also feeling like it was sort of fun to be young and poor and living on my own.
Anyway, I had decided to move out of the apartment and into some kind of other living situation that would allow me to get rid of the majority of my personal possessions so that when the time came for me to make my way across the ocean, I'd be unencumbered. I found an ad on Craigslist for a couple who was looking to rent out one of the bedrooms in their apartment. They lived only blocks away from my old place. The ad said the room would be furnished. It sounded fine. And yes, I understand finding a living arrangement on Craigslist is sketchy. I wouldn't do it now, obviously.
I alerted one of my friends that I was going to look at this place, and told her to call the police if I didn't call back in an hour. When I arrived, I was greeted by what I would now call a 'late 30s hipster couple', but who at the time, I referred to as 'the old hippies'. The woman was wearing some kind of caftan and had disheveled, maroon hair that hadn't seen Pantene or a brush in a long time, and wore manic, red lipstick. The man was equally disheveled with long hair and a longer beard. There was a sweet dog with matted hair who jumped immediately into my lap. The apartment was crammed full of dusty piles of books, mason jars with plants and dirt, and smelled strongly of incense. The part of me raised by my parents felt immediately dubious, but another part of me really liked it. We, the hippies and I, talked for over an hour about politics, community gardens, and people from the suburbs getting mugged in their neighborhood. I ended up going to their neighborhood block party, drinking wine and biking the few blocks home a little tipsy.
The short story is that I was thisclose to moving in with them until my school in Glasgow told me I might be able to enroll a year earlier than I had anticipated (this ultimately fell through). Mary and I ended up moving in together, and it was the best possible way to spend my "last year in America", which turned out not to be my last at all. The hippies ended up keeping my deposit because I bailed on them at the last minute, which sort of irked me at the time, but really, nothing came of it and I never saw them again.
So, this morning, my mind brought me there. I don't know why. Maybe it was saying, "Hey, look again at this odd decision you almost made." Or maybe it was a warning not to lose that open-minded part of myself. Or maybe it was just a random thought my mind was trying to get rid of in order to make space for all the parenting advice I'm about to be given. Who knows?
xo
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Is This It?
Something has changed in the last week or so, and I'm not really sure where to start. To begin with, my awesome in-laws were here for a week and just left on Tuesday (it's Thursday now). While they were here, we did a lot of things, ate out a lot, went to the orchestra, went to Duluth, and generally spent a lot of time together. It was really nice to have them come stay with us and it felt very good to have them so close, even if just for a little bit of time. There was also a lot of tea and biscuits--so, so many biscuits!
During that time, my best friend Mary threw me an amazing baby shower. It was perfect. It was so fun and perfectly low-key and I got to invite all the women in my life I like the most. It was incredible to have my mom, Chris's mom, Mary's mom, and a bunch of friends in the same room, and all to celebrate this little baby who we've decided to bring into the world. People wrote little pieces of advice for me, and my own mom wrote, "It takes a village to raise a baby, and you've got one." And I believe it now. Maybe that's what baby showers are really all about--a reminder that people are happy for you, happy about the baby, and just there for you if you need them. And it's a reminder that comes at the perfect time--when you are beginning to get anxious about your ability to do this.
So, after the shower, I had more things for the baby--really important things, like a place for her to sleep, a health and safety kit (complete with one of those little nose suction things and a thermometer)--and more love (and leftover pasta salad) than I could have imagined having. I also had time with both sets of Sophie's grandparents, and the realization that holy crap, this kid is lucky. Our parents are all incredible, loving, generous, supportive people. They are ready to love this baby.
So, we have the baby stuff, and the support. Our daycare is in place. The baby will have insurance. We have money squirreled away. Chris has thoughts and plans of starting a college fund in his head. We've researched all the applicable tax credits and childcare savings plans through our employers. We know where to go to have the baby. I'm wondering now, is this it? Are these the exact moments in which we've become ready to have this baby arrive?
A week or so ago, I felt completely unprepared. But lately, life has quickly pushed me towards readiness, and I can feel my body preparing for what's to come. It's so crazy, and so awesome.
So, that's what's been going on over here. How have you all been?
xo
During that time, my best friend Mary threw me an amazing baby shower. It was perfect. It was so fun and perfectly low-key and I got to invite all the women in my life I like the most. It was incredible to have my mom, Chris's mom, Mary's mom, and a bunch of friends in the same room, and all to celebrate this little baby who we've decided to bring into the world. People wrote little pieces of advice for me, and my own mom wrote, "It takes a village to raise a baby, and you've got one." And I believe it now. Maybe that's what baby showers are really all about--a reminder that people are happy for you, happy about the baby, and just there for you if you need them. And it's a reminder that comes at the perfect time--when you are beginning to get anxious about your ability to do this.
So, after the shower, I had more things for the baby--really important things, like a place for her to sleep, a health and safety kit (complete with one of those little nose suction things and a thermometer)--and more love (and leftover pasta salad) than I could have imagined having. I also had time with both sets of Sophie's grandparents, and the realization that holy crap, this kid is lucky. Our parents are all incredible, loving, generous, supportive people. They are ready to love this baby.
So, we have the baby stuff, and the support. Our daycare is in place. The baby will have insurance. We have money squirreled away. Chris has thoughts and plans of starting a college fund in his head. We've researched all the applicable tax credits and childcare savings plans through our employers. We know where to go to have the baby. I'm wondering now, is this it? Are these the exact moments in which we've become ready to have this baby arrive?
A week or so ago, I felt completely unprepared. But lately, life has quickly pushed me towards readiness, and I can feel my body preparing for what's to come. It's so crazy, and so awesome.
So, that's what's been going on over here. How have you all been?
xo
Monday, October 3, 2011
Christina vs Christopherson
So, Chris and I moved to a new apartment back in February. We had gone to look at our new place with a delightful half-wit I will not name here. Actually, what the hell--her name is Heidi.
Heidi showed us around the apartment, which was several steps above our dingy basement apartment in Uptown. This evaluation is based on the fact that the new apartment was not in the basement, did not have non-ornamental exposed piping, and was larger than a refrigerator box. We really liked the apartment, except for one tiny thing: It did not have a dishwasher. We brought this up to Heidi, who immediately said that she could get us a dishwasher, and that management would never let something like a dishwasher get in the way of having us sign a new lease. So, we were optimistic. Who wouldn't have been?
How foolish we were.
We went in to sign the lease a few days later after again being reassured that they'd be able to put in a dishwasher, "no problem". Before we put pen to paper, I asked about the dishwasher. Heidi rolled her eyes and said, "Oh! I forgot to ask! But seriously, it won't be a problem."
I hesitated. "This is a pretty big deal. We are thinking this is the apartment we'll be in for a few years and we really, really need a dishwasher. It's really important to us."
Heidi reassured us again, this time even going as far as to say, "Here, let me call my manager so you'll be hearing it from someone else, too." She got on the phone, put it on speaker, and called her manager, who said it shouldn't be a problem. At this point, what would you have assumed about this? We assumed we were getting a dishwasher. We signed the lease.
On the way back to our old place, I commented that I thought maybe we should have had them put something about the dishwasher in writing. Chris, being British and less jaded than I, said he thought it would all work out. I felt comforted. We were getting our dishwasher!
A few days later, after we'd planned for the movers to come, changed out address, and told everyone about the move, Heidi called me at work. She asked if we were excited to get moved in. I said, "Yes, very!" There was a pause on the other end. "...even if you don't have a dishwasher?" she asked, verbally cowering in the corner.
It turns out that, actually, management decided that, actually, they 'couldn't sacrifice cabinet space for a dishwasher'. So, no dishwasher. No dishwasher at all. No chance.
Fast forward through a not-so-polite conversation between Heidi and I, and then one between Chris and Heidi, and then a few months. Mary, my best friend of 23 years, and her boyfriend, Nate, ended up moving into the apartment across the hall. As they were moving in, Chris and I came over to marvel in the fact that their apartment is an exact replica of ours...except for one thing. THEY HAD A DISHWASHER! Their kitchen was exactly the same, except that they had half the cabinet space and 100% MORE DISHWASHER!
Chris and I made an attempt to talk to Christopherson management about this, but were again denied. We lived with it and considered a lack of dishwasher a kind of bourgeoisie problem. But now, we're having a kid. A sticky, messy, lovely kid who will enter this world as a baby, and will sometimes need bottles. And yes, I'm aware that people washed bottles by hand before dishwashers were invented. People also got small pox and washed their petticoats on rocks in the river before we figured out we didn't have to do that stuff.
In any case, I decided to wait until I was really pregnant to go in and talk to them about getting a dishwasher. And now is that time. I went in to drop of my rent and asked to speak with a manager about getting a dishwasher. Then I was told that I had to set up an appointment to do that. So...I will be meeting toe to toe with Bonnie from Christopherson properties tomorrow. Wish me luck. Actually, wish her luck. I'm a hormonal pregnant person. She's going to need it!
xo
Heidi showed us around the apartment, which was several steps above our dingy basement apartment in Uptown. This evaluation is based on the fact that the new apartment was not in the basement, did not have non-ornamental exposed piping, and was larger than a refrigerator box. We really liked the apartment, except for one tiny thing: It did not have a dishwasher. We brought this up to Heidi, who immediately said that she could get us a dishwasher, and that management would never let something like a dishwasher get in the way of having us sign a new lease. So, we were optimistic. Who wouldn't have been?
How foolish we were.
We went in to sign the lease a few days later after again being reassured that they'd be able to put in a dishwasher, "no problem". Before we put pen to paper, I asked about the dishwasher. Heidi rolled her eyes and said, "Oh! I forgot to ask! But seriously, it won't be a problem."
I hesitated. "This is a pretty big deal. We are thinking this is the apartment we'll be in for a few years and we really, really need a dishwasher. It's really important to us."
Heidi reassured us again, this time even going as far as to say, "Here, let me call my manager so you'll be hearing it from someone else, too." She got on the phone, put it on speaker, and called her manager, who said it shouldn't be a problem. At this point, what would you have assumed about this? We assumed we were getting a dishwasher. We signed the lease.
On the way back to our old place, I commented that I thought maybe we should have had them put something about the dishwasher in writing. Chris, being British and less jaded than I, said he thought it would all work out. I felt comforted. We were getting our dishwasher!
A few days later, after we'd planned for the movers to come, changed out address, and told everyone about the move, Heidi called me at work. She asked if we were excited to get moved in. I said, "Yes, very!" There was a pause on the other end. "...even if you don't have a dishwasher?" she asked, verbally cowering in the corner.
It turns out that, actually, management decided that, actually, they 'couldn't sacrifice cabinet space for a dishwasher'. So, no dishwasher. No dishwasher at all. No chance.
Fast forward through a not-so-polite conversation between Heidi and I, and then one between Chris and Heidi, and then a few months. Mary, my best friend of 23 years, and her boyfriend, Nate, ended up moving into the apartment across the hall. As they were moving in, Chris and I came over to marvel in the fact that their apartment is an exact replica of ours...except for one thing. THEY HAD A DISHWASHER! Their kitchen was exactly the same, except that they had half the cabinet space and 100% MORE DISHWASHER!
Chris and I made an attempt to talk to Christopherson management about this, but were again denied. We lived with it and considered a lack of dishwasher a kind of bourgeoisie problem. But now, we're having a kid. A sticky, messy, lovely kid who will enter this world as a baby, and will sometimes need bottles. And yes, I'm aware that people washed bottles by hand before dishwashers were invented. People also got small pox and washed their petticoats on rocks in the river before we figured out we didn't have to do that stuff.
In any case, I decided to wait until I was really pregnant to go in and talk to them about getting a dishwasher. And now is that time. I went in to drop of my rent and asked to speak with a manager about getting a dishwasher. Then I was told that I had to set up an appointment to do that. So...I will be meeting toe to toe with Bonnie from Christopherson properties tomorrow. Wish me luck. Actually, wish her luck. I'm a hormonal pregnant person. She's going to need it!
xo
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Top Five Things I Didn't Know About Being "With Child"
5. How wild and free other people get when talking about pregnant women. Yeah, comment about my size. Go ahead, ask me if I'm about to pop. Sure, make a weird comment about my body, even though it's doing something pretty difficult and amazing. No, that's totally fine. Yeah, that's normal. It's allll normal.
4. How amazing I'd find it all. I'm not one of those 'life is a miracle' people (yet), because we don't really say that about any other animal. No one is saying, "Wow, look at all those baby snakes. What a miracle." Or, "Wow, look at all those tadpoles. It's a miracle!" We usually just say that about ourselves. But the other day, Chris and I were just kind of marvelling at how, right now, there is a little person living inside me that is made up of both of us. She used to be the size of a period on a page, and now she's the size of a cabbage, and I really didn't have to do much except wait for it to happen. That's just...that's just crazy!
3. How absolutely crazy and protective I am becoming already. I looked at 12 daycare centers before finally choosing one. And even though the one we decided on seems like a safe, nurturing environment, the thought of leaving my baby there makes me want to throw up. I tested myself by imagining leaving her at any of the centers and had the same result. Also, I am not-so-secretly hoping that our elderly pet rat, Winston, kicks it before the baby comes. The thought of a smelly, dirty rat in our apartment with our fresh, sweet newborn is not one I want to have. If he's still around, it's OK, I'm just saying that I'm not going to be too shaken up if he happens to pass away peacefully in his sleep. Sorry, Chris. I love him, but...gross.
2. How much it would make me think about my own parents. I imagine them going through all of the things that Chris and I are--all the uncertainty, all the excitement, and the throwing up (my god, the throwing up!)--and I think that someone felt the way I feel about Sophie about me, and someone got just as excited about me kicking them in the ribs, and someone worried about how I was doing 'on the inside' like I worry about my baby. It makes me appreciate even more that life is a cycle, and I was, and am, very lucky to be loved like that.
1. How ready/not ready I am to be a mom. I know that for the time being, my responsibilities as a mom are to eat well, continue to not drink/smoke/do drugs/eat deli meat and predatory fish, but soon, that list will expand. The first year or two is basically about keeping the kid alive, warm, dry, fed, and watered, and I think I can do that stuff. Yes, I'll be tired. Yes, I'll be cranky. Yes, I'll probably write insomniac blog postings that make little sense while breastfeeding at 3AM. But I think I can do that. It's the stuff that comes afterwards that makes me nervous. Stuff like if my kid asks questions I don't know the answer to, or asks about what happens when you die, or why bad things happen to good people, or if she can't make friends at her new school, or if she is bad at math, or if she gets rejected by someone/a school/a job that is important to her. I can tell her what I think about those things, but I don't want that to automatically become what she thinks. That's really important to me, and I don't know how to do that yet.
I have a lot to learn. My hope is that when this kid comes out, I'll get to know her and be able to be what she needs whenever she needs it. And if I can't, she'll have to talk to her dad. And if he doesn't know, she'll probably be asking some of you for help. Just a warning.
xo
4. How amazing I'd find it all. I'm not one of those 'life is a miracle' people (yet), because we don't really say that about any other animal. No one is saying, "Wow, look at all those baby snakes. What a miracle." Or, "Wow, look at all those tadpoles. It's a miracle!" We usually just say that about ourselves. But the other day, Chris and I were just kind of marvelling at how, right now, there is a little person living inside me that is made up of both of us. She used to be the size of a period on a page, and now she's the size of a cabbage, and I really didn't have to do much except wait for it to happen. That's just...that's just crazy!
3. How absolutely crazy and protective I am becoming already. I looked at 12 daycare centers before finally choosing one. And even though the one we decided on seems like a safe, nurturing environment, the thought of leaving my baby there makes me want to throw up. I tested myself by imagining leaving her at any of the centers and had the same result. Also, I am not-so-secretly hoping that our elderly pet rat, Winston, kicks it before the baby comes. The thought of a smelly, dirty rat in our apartment with our fresh, sweet newborn is not one I want to have. If he's still around, it's OK, I'm just saying that I'm not going to be too shaken up if he happens to pass away peacefully in his sleep. Sorry, Chris. I love him, but...gross.
2. How much it would make me think about my own parents. I imagine them going through all of the things that Chris and I are--all the uncertainty, all the excitement, and the throwing up (my god, the throwing up!)--and I think that someone felt the way I feel about Sophie about me, and someone got just as excited about me kicking them in the ribs, and someone worried about how I was doing 'on the inside' like I worry about my baby. It makes me appreciate even more that life is a cycle, and I was, and am, very lucky to be loved like that.
1. How ready/not ready I am to be a mom. I know that for the time being, my responsibilities as a mom are to eat well, continue to not drink/smoke/do drugs/eat deli meat and predatory fish, but soon, that list will expand. The first year or two is basically about keeping the kid alive, warm, dry, fed, and watered, and I think I can do that stuff. Yes, I'll be tired. Yes, I'll be cranky. Yes, I'll probably write insomniac blog postings that make little sense while breastfeeding at 3AM. But I think I can do that. It's the stuff that comes afterwards that makes me nervous. Stuff like if my kid asks questions I don't know the answer to, or asks about what happens when you die, or why bad things happen to good people, or if she can't make friends at her new school, or if she is bad at math, or if she gets rejected by someone/a school/a job that is important to her. I can tell her what I think about those things, but I don't want that to automatically become what she thinks. That's really important to me, and I don't know how to do that yet.
I have a lot to learn. My hope is that when this kid comes out, I'll get to know her and be able to be what she needs whenever she needs it. And if I can't, she'll have to talk to her dad. And if he doesn't know, she'll probably be asking some of you for help. Just a warning.
xo
Monday, September 19, 2011
Holy Sheets
In about two weeks, Chris's lovely parents are coming to stay with us for a week. I'm really excited about it because it's been over a year since we've seen them (other than our weekly Skype dates), and because I am one of the lucky people in the world who has great in-laws. And no, I'm not just saying that because they read this blog. They're just nice people to be around and it's always great to see them.
In any case, Chris and I have been putting off setting up their room because that's also going to be the baby's room, and we've been sort of in denial that everything is happening so soon. But when we were reminded that they will be arriving in a little more than two weeks, we (OK, I) became suddenly energized (and a little panicked) and decided we cannot put this off any longer.
So we went to Target with the goal to buy sheets. We're both college-educated, mostly-sane adults, and at least Chris is fairly reasonable and calm under pressure. But something happened in that bedding aisle at Target. Something terrible. We were reduced to confused, sweaty toddlers by the number of choices, the expense of things, and the narrow cultural divide between us.
It went something like this:
Chris: Here are some mattress covers.
Me: Those are just to protect the mattress, not to make it more comfortable. See? It's crinkly plastic. Your parents can't sleep on that.
Chris: What would make it more comfortable?
Me: These ones! These ones right here! (pointing to large, foam mattress toppers)
Chris: Those are like $150! What about these ones over here?
Me: No! Those ones are just soft, but they don't have padding! They just keep the mattress from getting dirty.
Chris: But how can you tell how thick they are?!
Me: You just open the package and feel it!
Chris: But how do you know how thick it is? It could just be folded a million times, so it would feel really thick!
Me: I don't know. You just...just open the box more!
Chris: This is a nightmare.
And:
Me: OK, if we buy this down comforter we'll need to get a cover for it.
Chris: What? Why?
Me: Because that's what real adults in America do!
Chris: Fine. I found one cover here. It's for a Twin bed, though. And it's the only one they have.
Me: Here are some over here. They're $50!
Chris: Why is this so terrible?
Me: Because this bedding aisle is clearly our personal version of hell.
And:
Me: What about these t-shirt sheets?
Chris: My parents don't want to sleep on t-shirt sheets.
Me: Why not? They're so soft! These other ones are like 225 thread count and feel like crap.
Chris: Not everyone wants to sleep on a t-shirt like you do.
Me: Fine. Let's get the other ones.
(Long pause.)
Chris: ...well, actually, in the long term, the t-shirt ones might be better. These other ones will probably just get worse the more you use and wash them.
Me: AUUUUGHH!!! (followed by the sound of me overturning a decorative pillow display)
In the end, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a great set of sheets and pillows and a nice feather bed without too much hassle. We hugged in the store when we found the sheet set.
And that was our weekend, in a nutshell.
Hope you're well!
xo
In any case, Chris and I have been putting off setting up their room because that's also going to be the baby's room, and we've been sort of in denial that everything is happening so soon. But when we were reminded that they will be arriving in a little more than two weeks, we (OK, I) became suddenly energized (and a little panicked) and decided we cannot put this off any longer.
So we went to Target with the goal to buy sheets. We're both college-educated, mostly-sane adults, and at least Chris is fairly reasonable and calm under pressure. But something happened in that bedding aisle at Target. Something terrible. We were reduced to confused, sweaty toddlers by the number of choices, the expense of things, and the narrow cultural divide between us.
It went something like this:
Chris: Here are some mattress covers.
Me: Those are just to protect the mattress, not to make it more comfortable. See? It's crinkly plastic. Your parents can't sleep on that.
Chris: What would make it more comfortable?
Me: These ones! These ones right here! (pointing to large, foam mattress toppers)
Chris: Those are like $150! What about these ones over here?
Me: No! Those ones are just soft, but they don't have padding! They just keep the mattress from getting dirty.
Chris: But how can you tell how thick they are?!
Me: You just open the package and feel it!
Chris: But how do you know how thick it is? It could just be folded a million times, so it would feel really thick!
Me: I don't know. You just...just open the box more!
Chris: This is a nightmare.
And:
Me: OK, if we buy this down comforter we'll need to get a cover for it.
Chris: What? Why?
Me: Because that's what real adults in America do!
Chris: Fine. I found one cover here. It's for a Twin bed, though. And it's the only one they have.
Me: Here are some over here. They're $50!
Chris: Why is this so terrible?
Me: Because this bedding aisle is clearly our personal version of hell.
And:
Me: What about these t-shirt sheets?
Chris: My parents don't want to sleep on t-shirt sheets.
Me: Why not? They're so soft! These other ones are like 225 thread count and feel like crap.
Chris: Not everyone wants to sleep on a t-shirt like you do.
Me: Fine. Let's get the other ones.
(Long pause.)
Chris: ...well, actually, in the long term, the t-shirt ones might be better. These other ones will probably just get worse the more you use and wash them.
Me: AUUUUGHH!!! (followed by the sound of me overturning a decorative pillow display)
In the end, we went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a great set of sheets and pillows and a nice feather bed without too much hassle. We hugged in the store when we found the sheet set.
And that was our weekend, in a nutshell.
Hope you're well!
xo
Friday, September 9, 2011
50 "First Dates"
Since my real dating days are (thankfully) behind me, I've had to find a substitute for the awkward, disappointing, and sometimes hilarious process of meeting people for the first time in the hope that they will someday become an important part of my future. My substitute has recently come in the form of looking for our future daycare.
Thinking of myself as a kind of laid-back person, I went into this process thinking, "I just need to find someplace close to work or home that will keep my baby alive all day." There was no thought about philosophy, curriculum, or methods as I set up "first dates" with these centers.
The first center I went to made me cry. Not then, but later on, at home, to a very patient Chris. There was a baby lying on the floor, crying sadly, and no one went over to even look at him. The entire time I was there, my attention was divided between the crying baby and whatever the center director was saying. I thought, "Dude, if you want to impress me into bringing my baby here, go pick up that one." But no one did. And then I imagined them not picking up my crying baby for that amount of time. DATE OVER.
I went to a center with such rigid standards about feeding, diapering, days off, and payments, that I left already feeling like a bad mother. I had a real first date with a guy who was so meticulous about his eating habits that I ended up feeling like I was ruining myself, nutritionally, when I used a little soy sauce on my sushi. Same feeling, same result--I will never see either of them again.
But yesterday was the worst daycare first date of my life. I was hesitant to even go on this one because it was located in a church, and we've decided that we want to raise our baby with a mind that is open to all cultures and religions. A religious daycare, especially one that is in a church that neither Chris nor I were raised in, is not what we'd like to give our little sponge-minded Sophie.
In any case, I went into the daycare date with an open mind. Like the time I met the painfully-skinny, socially-inept future lawyer at a wine bar, my expectations were low, but it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. The director showed me around the standard infant room, then asked if I had questions. I always ask the same three questions: Is there availability for March, can I come breastfeed on my lunch hour, and will you use the cloth diapers I provide?
The director literally scrunched up her nose. "You know, the short answer to the cloth diaper question is 'no'. And what with water being a resource, too...well, why would you want to use cloth diapers?" Not to be made ashamed of my crunchy, granola center, I looked straight at her and said, "Well, I could go into a long thing here, but disposable diapers make up a considerable percentage of all waste in our landfills." She still shook her head. "We just can't. It would require too many extra steps."
I pressed on. "You know, we're going with a cloth-diaper service. All you'd have to do is put the dirty diapers into a plastic bag and then hand it to us at the end of the day." She stood her ground, still refusing to even try it. One of the glassy-eyed teachers spoke up, oh-so-helpfully. "We had a family who sent in these...biodegradable diapers. I think they used cloth at home." Her disdain was almost palpable.
"Right," I said, with the same feeling in my gut as when the skinny future lawyer began to tell me about how he wanted his future children to have a French au pair. The date was over in my head before the check arrived.
Then the director led me to the toddler room, where all the kids were sleeping. The teacher, a disheveled lunatic, was crouched down over a stack of construction paper leaves and was making a big deal out of writing each of the toddlers names on them. The director pointed into a room where the toddlers were taking their naps. "They all sleep together, but when they're awake, we keep them separated by personality."
"Oh, really?" I said. "I took a lot of personality psychology in college--how do you determine the personality of 18-33 month olds? Like, Type A and B? Or extroverts and introverts?"
The teacher peered up at me. "No, like the ones who pick on other kids and the ones who act like little victims. I mean, they're all young in here right now, so they're all annoying. And all of them are Type A because they're mostly only children. You know how only children are." The center director nodded. "Yes, they don't have to share anything, and they get too much attention."
I wanted to remind them that when Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me," he didn't follow that up with, "except for all those bratty, only-child toddlers." But I didn't. Just like I didn't tell that malnourished future-lawyer that I thought telling me how much money he was someday going to make was arrogant, and a huge turn-off. I just got the hell out of there and never went back.
It hasn't been all-bad, though. Last week, I think we found The One. I had the same feeling walking into it as when I met Chris for the first time. It just felt right. It felt like somewhere I could leave my baby and not cry (after the first few weeks, of course). The clientele and staff was diverse. They have families come in to do presentations of various cultural cooking and customs. They love cloth diapers and have a private room for moms to breastfeed on their lunch hours. It is licensed. Their teachers have education, and look happy to be there.
I'm still going on these daycare first dates, mostly because I want to say I've seen them all. In my dating days, I saw it all, too--the rich guy who didn't respect women, the short, shy engineering student, the British mechanic, the hippie teacher. But when it came to my future, I picked the one who felt the most natural, the most comfortable, and it was the best decision I could have ever made. And when it comes to picking a place for our little baby Sophie, I'll do the same. My gut says that it will be right, and it hasn't led me astray yet.
xo
Thinking of myself as a kind of laid-back person, I went into this process thinking, "I just need to find someplace close to work or home that will keep my baby alive all day." There was no thought about philosophy, curriculum, or methods as I set up "first dates" with these centers.
The first center I went to made me cry. Not then, but later on, at home, to a very patient Chris. There was a baby lying on the floor, crying sadly, and no one went over to even look at him. The entire time I was there, my attention was divided between the crying baby and whatever the center director was saying. I thought, "Dude, if you want to impress me into bringing my baby here, go pick up that one." But no one did. And then I imagined them not picking up my crying baby for that amount of time. DATE OVER.
I went to a center with such rigid standards about feeding, diapering, days off, and payments, that I left already feeling like a bad mother. I had a real first date with a guy who was so meticulous about his eating habits that I ended up feeling like I was ruining myself, nutritionally, when I used a little soy sauce on my sushi. Same feeling, same result--I will never see either of them again.
But yesterday was the worst daycare first date of my life. I was hesitant to even go on this one because it was located in a church, and we've decided that we want to raise our baby with a mind that is open to all cultures and religions. A religious daycare, especially one that is in a church that neither Chris nor I were raised in, is not what we'd like to give our little sponge-minded Sophie.
In any case, I went into the daycare date with an open mind. Like the time I met the painfully-skinny, socially-inept future lawyer at a wine bar, my expectations were low, but it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. The director showed me around the standard infant room, then asked if I had questions. I always ask the same three questions: Is there availability for March, can I come breastfeed on my lunch hour, and will you use the cloth diapers I provide?
The director literally scrunched up her nose. "You know, the short answer to the cloth diaper question is 'no'. And what with water being a resource, too...well, why would you want to use cloth diapers?" Not to be made ashamed of my crunchy, granola center, I looked straight at her and said, "Well, I could go into a long thing here, but disposable diapers make up a considerable percentage of all waste in our landfills." She still shook her head. "We just can't. It would require too many extra steps."
I pressed on. "You know, we're going with a cloth-diaper service. All you'd have to do is put the dirty diapers into a plastic bag and then hand it to us at the end of the day." She stood her ground, still refusing to even try it. One of the glassy-eyed teachers spoke up, oh-so-helpfully. "We had a family who sent in these...biodegradable diapers. I think they used cloth at home." Her disdain was almost palpable.
"Right," I said, with the same feeling in my gut as when the skinny future lawyer began to tell me about how he wanted his future children to have a French au pair. The date was over in my head before the check arrived.
Then the director led me to the toddler room, where all the kids were sleeping. The teacher, a disheveled lunatic, was crouched down over a stack of construction paper leaves and was making a big deal out of writing each of the toddlers names on them. The director pointed into a room where the toddlers were taking their naps. "They all sleep together, but when they're awake, we keep them separated by personality."
"Oh, really?" I said. "I took a lot of personality psychology in college--how do you determine the personality of 18-33 month olds? Like, Type A and B? Or extroverts and introverts?"
The teacher peered up at me. "No, like the ones who pick on other kids and the ones who act like little victims. I mean, they're all young in here right now, so they're all annoying. And all of them are Type A because they're mostly only children. You know how only children are." The center director nodded. "Yes, they don't have to share anything, and they get too much attention."
I wanted to remind them that when Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me," he didn't follow that up with, "except for all those bratty, only-child toddlers." But I didn't. Just like I didn't tell that malnourished future-lawyer that I thought telling me how much money he was someday going to make was arrogant, and a huge turn-off. I just got the hell out of there and never went back.
It hasn't been all-bad, though. Last week, I think we found The One. I had the same feeling walking into it as when I met Chris for the first time. It just felt right. It felt like somewhere I could leave my baby and not cry (after the first few weeks, of course). The clientele and staff was diverse. They have families come in to do presentations of various cultural cooking and customs. They love cloth diapers and have a private room for moms to breastfeed on their lunch hours. It is licensed. Their teachers have education, and look happy to be there.
I'm still going on these daycare first dates, mostly because I want to say I've seen them all. In my dating days, I saw it all, too--the rich guy who didn't respect women, the short, shy engineering student, the British mechanic, the hippie teacher. But when it came to my future, I picked the one who felt the most natural, the most comfortable, and it was the best decision I could have ever made. And when it comes to picking a place for our little baby Sophie, I'll do the same. My gut says that it will be right, and it hasn't led me astray yet.
xo
Friday, September 2, 2011
Jerk Store
I had my first encounter with a rude pregnancy commenter last night. Chris and I were buying concessions at the Vikings game, and a woman looked me up and down and said, "Wow, you must be almost ready to pop." I told her that, in fact, I had about 13 weeks left. She looked shocked. "Is this your first?" she asked incredulously. "Yup," I replied, praying for this conversation to be over. She continued. "Really?! Are you maybe having twins?" At this point, phrases that I can't type were swimming through my mind. Because I was born and raised in Minnesota, I didn't say any of them out loud (to her, at least). I just laughed and shook my head and said, "No, just one." She shook her head in amazement. I grabbed my bison burger, sans fries, mind you, and got the hell out of there.
Then, for the next 14 hours, I both privately and publicly stewed about it. I am like Seinfeld's George Costanza after being told, "Hey, the ocean called and they're running out of shrimp!" The responses I could have said, should have said, have been piling up, and they're not nearly as polite as, "The jerk store called, and they're running out of you!"
I don't consider myself to be necessarily vain, but I don't enjoy being told that I look enormous. I also don't like the thought that maybe I look too pregnant, because that makes me think that maybe I'm doing something wrong, pregnancy-wise, and maybe my baby will be unhealthy because of it. I'm happy to gain this weight, happy to get round, happy to get stretch marks if that means I'll produce a nice, healthy baby. But the fact that what I eat, what I do, how big I get could mean trouble, well, that's something I'm sensitive about.
So, while I could have said something to the effect of "My doctor, who went to med school, says I'm measuring perfectly. Did you have to go to med school to get this job?" or "No, I'm not expecting twins. When are yours due?", I didn't. I also didn't spew off the string of profanities I believe this exchange deserved. Because I was raised in Minnesota, where we're taught to nod and smile while being insulted. And because there were children present.
xo
Then, for the next 14 hours, I both privately and publicly stewed about it. I am like Seinfeld's George Costanza after being told, "Hey, the ocean called and they're running out of shrimp!" The responses I could have said, should have said, have been piling up, and they're not nearly as polite as, "The jerk store called, and they're running out of you!"
I don't consider myself to be necessarily vain, but I don't enjoy being told that I look enormous. I also don't like the thought that maybe I look too pregnant, because that makes me think that maybe I'm doing something wrong, pregnancy-wise, and maybe my baby will be unhealthy because of it. I'm happy to gain this weight, happy to get round, happy to get stretch marks if that means I'll produce a nice, healthy baby. But the fact that what I eat, what I do, how big I get could mean trouble, well, that's something I'm sensitive about.
So, while I could have said something to the effect of "My doctor, who went to med school, says I'm measuring perfectly. Did you have to go to med school to get this job?" or "No, I'm not expecting twins. When are yours due?", I didn't. I also didn't spew off the string of profanities I believe this exchange deserved. Because I was raised in Minnesota, where we're taught to nod and smile while being insulted. And because there were children present.
xo
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