Holy brush with stardom, internet! I've been mentioned in this post by our favorite blogger Bike Snob NYC! Under the distinguished honor of people who will not be winning a bike this week. I'll take it!
UPDATE: In the comments wishiwasmerckx said:
As for Leah Archibald, I watched that whole video waiting for that baby to give me stock tips like in that Super Bowl commercial, but...nothing. What a slacker that tyke is.
Also, the crackhead took everything except the damn dog, who kept parading through the shot.
wishiwasmerckx my friend, the damn dog is a feature, not a bug :)
Video embedded for those too lazy to visit the other blog:
So we were spurned by the Bloggies, if not by notice from one of the finalists. Now that voting is safely over and my opinions won't unfairly sway the competition, I feel that I can comment on the finalist selection (which you may view, at least until the winners are announced, at 2010.bloggies.com). First of all, horizontal scrolling?! Come on, guys! I've done it, but not for a list of things that's like 20 times wider than the viewport. Lame. Oh, the blogs?
As I read through, I was at first startled by how many of the finalists I knew about. Well, not in the "Best Australian/New Zealand Weblog" category, or crap like that, but in the humor and sports blogs. Sports?! Who knew that I read three-fifths of the best sports blogs on the internet?! The answer is, I do not. The contest turned up two blogs about cycling, one about cycling and doing things in the cold (two guesses), one about soccer, and another about swimming. So you know, the big-time American sports. Maybe the set of folks who follow real sports doesn't overlap with the set that nominates blogs for awards.
I have also seen three of the five allegedly "most humorous weblogs". Suffice it to say that, were I voting man, I know three blogs that wouldn't have my vote.
Anyways, once I got over my initial startlement I was reassured to realize I had actually never heard of most of the finalists. Phew! I'm not a total blog-dork. Although maybe I should be paying more attention, to know what Confessions of a Young Married Couple has that we don't. Are we not young enough?! So the campaign for 2011 has officially begun. Whether it's the Bloggies or the Webbies or the Netties or whatever else they're giving out, we need some love. Combining humor, whimsy, and gripping true-life stories, we present an irresistible package for any awards voters. If only we could get anyone other than friends and family to read our stuff...
(We love you guys! Um, how many unique email addresses do each of you have access to?)
Dan and I have called each other a lot of names over the years. No, not that way! I mean, good names. Pet names, if you will. When we lived in California it was all "Bunny" this and "Baby" that. Then we got lazy and started calling each other "Babe" all the time. "Hey babe, are you getting a beer?" "Whaddaya want babe?" I know right? Classy.
These days Dan mostly addresses me as "Lovey" while I use the more familiar form of his prenom and screech from the top of the stairs "Daaaaaannnnnnnyyyyy? Could you put the diapers in for their second cycle? And check that the dryer's not on fire?"
Rascal is alternately referred to as Rassy, Bassy, Bass-Bass, Boosicle, Puppy, Pups, and "The Dog" as in "Daaaaaannnnnnnyyyyy? I'm lying in bed, can you take out the Dog?"
The jury is still out on the most appropriate nick-name for our child, or as we like to call him, Harvester, Harveysons, H-sons, or "The Baby." Grandma mostly calls him Harvey, or sometimes Harve, the latter of which always gives me a chill because Harve was what everyone called my grandfather. I mean it makes sense since we did name the baby after that guy, but still. I hear "Harve, don't touch the poop!" and I imagine that it's Mr. Bernstein up there getting his diaper changed. Which by the way he would have loved if the changer was cute enough.
All this name calling makes me think about my own nom-de-mom, and what I'll be called in the coming years. Will it be Mom? Mother? Momma? Mommy? Ma?
Me, I prefer momma, but these days I'll take anything that isn't "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Riding to work this morning through a dusting of new powder, I amused myself by identifying the various tracks I noticed on the bike path (especially since my eyes were mostly forced downward—look up too long and I risked getting bopped in the eyeball by an icy snowflake). There were the footprints of an early walker, a road bike, a bird hopping across the path, ooh! a rabbit! There's a dog being walked, and... what on earth?! What is that winding, dragging trail, with two parallel lines of scurrying footprints along its center? A giant caterpillar? Some sort of segmented worm?!
A little ways along, the answer was revealed: a little long-haired shi-tzu dog, with dragging toenails and fur sweeping the ground. Who would have thought. A segmented worm would have been more interesting.
I really wished that I'd had the camera along: I would have photographed the tracks to present any skilled native trackers in the audience a chance to prove their skills. I also would have photographed the spot where I swerved wildly on the snow-covered ice, careening back and forth across the path for a dozen yards before being forced to put my foot down (and it slipped too, of course). I didn't go down, but the tracks were certainly messy. In embarrassment, I wrote "oops" in the snow; oh I hope that someone goes be and sees it before it's covered with snow!
All in all, though, I was amazed by how well I was able to keep the bike under me this morning. If I had tried these conditions a few months ago I would have been completely destroyed. Isn't visible improvement wonderful! I can't wait for spring, when I can try out my awesome new balancing skills on the trails!
So earlier this week Harvey and I got 15-minutes of fame by appearing in a video on Bike Snob NYC. In the blogging world Bike Snob is kind of a big deal. He's up for two Bloggies this year, he's giving away free bikes, and he's finagled his blogging into a column in Bicycling Magazine. But most of all, he's got the traffic. Oh man does he got the traffic.
My vimeo dashboard lets me monitor the play numbers of my videos. Most of these are pretty expected for our limited range of family and friends. Harvey feeds Rascal - 56 views. Harvey makes baby noises - 63 views. How did your bike get stolen, after being featured on Bike Snob NYC?
That's right. Over three thousand people this week listened to me whine out the words "Hi bikesnob! This is Leah at squibix dot net, and Harvey at squibix dot net..."
You'd think that would turn into some traffic for our blog, wouldn't you?
Well you might, and you may still think that. I have no idea. I've been long mentioning to Dan that we should set up google analytics for our site, and we finally did it this week! A day after the Bike Snob Nod. Can someone please shut the barn door? it's freezing in here!
In other words, we have no historical comparison to say whether we're doing better this week than last week. But even so, the numbers aren't... well... let's just say they're a jumping off platform if we hope to get nominated for a Bloggy ourselves next year. Yesterday we had a whole 59 visits to our site. 48 from direct traffic, 8 from vimeo, 1 from facebook, and 1 from factinis and factomelettes (hi guys! We love you!), and one from google. And that person was searching for "squibix." I can has SEO please?
So in conclusion, our state the union may not be catastrof***ed, but there's a ways to go. But we'll make it one of these days. The internet is the new Broadway! And I want to be a part of it!
My mom calls up after a weekend with her buddies. "I showed my friends your video where Harvey feeds Rascal," she says, "and they thought it was great! They all said you should put it on YouTube!"
"Put it on YouTube?"
"Yeah! It's really funny! It should go on YouTube!"
"But it's already on a video hosting channel," I say. "We use Vimeo."
"Yeah but people would see it if it were on YouTube."
"Mom, it's not like releasing a product launch to MSNBC. It's a baby - pet video. There are a hundred million of them on YouTube. Besides, Vimeo is classier."
"Whatever. They all said it's good enough to be on YouTube..."
Can someone please print her out a bumper sticker that reads "My child got three thousand hits on Vimeo"? I think that would make her feel a lot better.
ADVISORY WARNING: Some people find the stories of other people's children's sleeping habits incredibly boring. If this is you, please don't read the rest of this post. Instead click here to listen to a hilarious interview with comedian Aziz Ansari on NPR's Fresh Air. Not got 20 minutes to kill? Then what are you doing reading blogs, anyway?
Anyway, as I was saying, Harvey has been sleeping poorly as of late. A few months ago, which in sleep deprivation time reads like several hundred million years, Harvey was doing great with an eight-hour stretch followed by two quick wake-ups two hours apart. Life was good.
But then Harvey started pushing his bedtime later and later, and his first wake-up earlier and earlier, and before we knew it we were up every two hours every night as if we had a two-month-old.
We put him to bet at seven and he's up at nine. Then eleven. Then at one, three, five... any hour that isn't divisible by two. Every time he wants milk, and every other time I make him endure a diaper change. To save any semblance of parental functionality in the household, Dan has been sleeping on the couch downstairs. He still wakes up when the baby cries, so the situation is far from ideal, but the alternative is worse. If Dan and I are both in the bed with divergent opinions about what to do with a screaming baby, then it quickly dissolves into fisticuffs.
Before you offer your suggestions, here's what we've tried. We nailed down our evening routine so that every night we feed him, bathe him, have quiet down-time and then nursing. After that, Dan rocks Harvey to sleep while he screams at the top of his lungs. Harvey that is, not Dan. Dan is patiently singing in the face of the harshest critic he has ever seen.
So Harvey's got a belly-full of food, he's clean and relaxed, and he's at the break-down point of tired. He finally falls asleep, but it still won't carry him through to the am. What gives? People have suggested tooth troubles, but he's not fussy during the day! Today grandma suggested that it might be constipation, because the only time in a month that he slept six hours straight was when he did so in a pile of his own feces. I say terrible coincidence, not causality. After all, it's not like he wakes up and poops a storm. In fact, he doesn't usually make number two at all until the afternoon. And he's a happy boy all morning. He should be - he gets to be awake!
So I open it up to your wisdom, internet. Any ideas on saving our marriage and getting the little guy to sleep? Other than the classic T&T concoction? Time and Tylenol? I'll hear your suggestions in the comments.
Every weekend (if all goes well) I make two loaves of bread. That usually lasts us through the week, but not always: it's awful tasty when its fresh. Certainly, it's not often that we make it to the following weekend with much left. Thanks to some extra baking (corn bread, pumpkin bread, and biscuits) this week, we managed to end the week with a whole loaf to spare. That means, of course, that we got a treat for breakfast!
It's a good thing that we don't often have extra bread; if we did, we'd go through a whole lot more eggs.
In the absence of meaningful feedback from babies about their specifics desires, (Does my snookiewookums want sweet potatoes or carrots? I don't know mom - I want you to pick one and shove it in my mouth already!) I would be willing to bet that any mom or child-care provider naturally projects his or her own hierarchy of needs onto their child. Never is this more apparent than in the "I think the baby's cold" syndrome. And here, let's just cut to the chase. The baby isn't cold - you are. Why don't you just say what you really mean which is "I'm cold." "Can you please turn up the heat for me?"
But this is not what I want to write about.
A certain childcare provider in our stable of helpful baby watchers has a real "thing" about the cold issue, especially as it pertains to the little space between the baby's socks and his pants when he moves around. You see, as he moves sometimes the pants ride up and SKIN IS EXPOSED!!! (As if were were in the arctic tundra and that skin might instantly frost-bight in the 63 degree air inside our house.) So to save the baby from certain amputation this childcare provider pulls up his socks as far as they can go, up onto his calfs, and then the crisis is averted. No frost-bight praise God.
I, on the other hand, am a person who HATES the feel of constricting socks. Why don't you just pour cement around my feet and drop me in the river?!!! So when this childcare provider does the thing with the socks, I point out that the top of the socks make a line on his skin, and clearly this is an indication that they are cutting off his circulation, and this will positively kill his potential for future success in the Russian Ballet.
They need those calf muscles. Look at Barishnakov.
Suffice it to say there there have been spats over this issue the sock height issue. Still, I was surprised the other day to hear my reasons reinterpreted in the following fashion:
"Your mother doesn't like it when I pull up your socks" I heard her say to the baby, "because she thinks it looks faggoty."
WOAH WOAH WOAH!
SAYS WHAT NOW???
"How could you possibly ever think that was even close to anything I ever said in my life ever???" I stammered out, my head spinning into another dimension.
"What? I don't want his legs to be cold, but you said it looked bad!"
"Cuts. Off. Circulation. Not.... Looks.... F-Word." (here I was hyperventilating, so I couldn't get the words out so well.)
Not to say that I'm an immaculately non-judgmental human being. I have made one or two or several hundred thousand off-color remarks in my day. But here was a clear example of this woman I trust NOT LISTENING WHILE I GIVE SPECIFIC INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING THE HEALTH OF MY BABY! No, just kidding, I was mad because I'm not a bigot.
I do hope that in the new millennia certain words slip our of use from our collective vocabulary entirely. I'm thinking of you, N-word. And you, C-word. And you, faggoty. Not even for knee socks.
Our friends all know that we are no longer in contact with the outside world via television, and most of the time it doesn't bother them. So we didn't catch the latest episode of Gray's or Biggest Loser: no big deal. This first tv-less Superbowl, though, was another matter. Several people very kindly contacted us to make sure that we had a place to watch the proceedings, quite rightly realizing the huge cultural importance of the game, or at least of the advertisements. So we didn't miss a thing, thank goodness! Although why the NFL (or CBS) isn't streaming the whole affair, free with commercials, I have no idea.
And of course the experience was all the sweeter since the Saints won, making it the first happy-ending Superbowl in three years. The food and the company wasn't bad, either.
Thank you everyone for the gobs of advice on little Harvester's aversion to slumber. This week I have heard lots of folks (mostly of the "greater" generation - did I handle that tactfully?) describe their techniques for drill-sergeanting their little ones through the nightime hours. It may have worked for some tougher ladies, but this mom? This one who gained fifty pounds over nine months because she couldn't put down the bagels? This mom is not a paragon of discipline.
So I've been much heartened by Theresa's comments which somewhat support my own budding child-rearing philosophy. It goes something like this: "Meh! He'll figure it out. He can't be a baby forever!"
Wait for my new book on the subject, titled "Typing is hard - 40 doodles on laissez-faire parenting."
In keeping with that do-nothing-and-see-results vein, there have been some good developments over the weekend. On Friday we all slept in the bed together and Harvey slumbered beautifully with only two wake-ups! On Saturday night he did the same! The key may have been in the good advice, or in the prayer of some friends (Thanks Bridget!) or in the fact that we got him exponentially more stimulation on Friday and Saturday than he normally gets. Oh, so you're saying that you want to engage with other humans on a regular basis? Who don't share your genetic material? We just might have to go out with friends more then Harvey. It's a price I'm willing to pay.
So now the baby is asleep in the middle of the bed, and we'll see how the night goes. Although Dan has just informed me he'll be sleeping downstairs because the baby has passed his OVERstimulation limit from superbowl with grandma, and is on a wake-up hair trigger. Well, I didn't say the system was perfect, but we're working on it. I'm summarizing the results for you in my next article titled, "A year of birth-control: how to give your child the attention he needs for 365 nights." Coming soon to Parenting Magazine whenever I stay awake long enough to type it.
As Dan mentioned, we recently cancelled our subscription to television. This is not because we hate TV. On the contrary. I LOOOOVE tv. I love tv like a crack addict loves smokable cocaine. I love Hugh Heffner's girlfriends. I love befores and afters on plastic surgery. I love parents with a thousand million kids. And (this last one bordering on a sinful obsession) I love Joel McHale.
And I hate to admit it, but I love the commercials. Well, some commercials. I wrote about one here. And I think I also wrote about "bobo," my favorite commercial ever from Petsmart, but I can't find it because google search is broken for our archives. Ironic, because I'm about to talk about how much I love a google commercial I saw last night. (And Thank you Katie and Tim for sharing your ginormous television for the occasion!)
For those of you too busy to watch a 30-second spot (what are you doing reading our blog, anyway?) this ad is the story of a budding cross-cultural relationship told from the point of view of the young man's search strings. He studies abroad in Paris, he tries to impress a cute girl, things work out, and soon he's googling jobs in Paris. Then churches. Then the empty search box comes up, and there's a beat-long pause, and then he googles "How to assemble a crib."
Yes, I got misty-eyed. At a commercial. Something that hasn't happened since bobo.*
Okay, so I did get an MBA in marketing, so I can readily imagine the meeting between the brand managers and the ad agency. "Show them how Google enables your life. No! How Google IS your life! Google knows what you're thinking! Google's like God! You can't live without Google! We want people's DNA to shit Google!"
But I can't go down this road (even though I think it's completely hilarious to imagine someone saying "We want people's DNA to shit Google!") I simply love this ad. It sums up everything I love about the internet. That it's like real life but in the future. The future is awesome, people. It's awesome living in the future.
*Sniff! He got a new bobo!!!!
Speaking of clips that tug on your heart strings, this weekend Dan gave Harvey a bit of a music lesson on the recorder. Oh my precious boys. It doesn't get much better than this :)
So I stumbled across a blog this morning called FIGHTING AND OTHERWISE. It's about the American author's adventures in Bangkok at a Thai fighting gym. The writing is awesome (in a post-modern sensibility, moms be warned) and you should totally go read it if your up for something completely different from this blog. Like other-side of the world different. Yes, it might be a jump, from baby videos to broken jaws and prostitutes, but it's well worth it. And me and the author do have something in common after all. We used to be high-school lab partners.
For those of you who didn't grow up in Lexington, lemme just tell you that Dan and I attended a very weird public high school. It might be the high school itself (built above an Indian burial ground?) or the breed of rich intellectuals who tend to inhabit our hometown. Either way, this school has produced a generation of very extraordinary individuals. I am rather the anomaly, me, sitting here writing about how much I enjoy normal parenthood. Look through the aggregate of my friends' facebook pages and you'll see more photos of Indian or African children than you will of the sort of bouncing white babies that fill my photostream. My former classmates (if they failed to become doctors or laywers or captains of industry) are all off somewhere in the nether regions of the globe shaming me with their impossibly good/interesting/uncomfortable lives.
So I scraped my intended post about appliqued bags for electronic chargers. You'll have to wait till tomorrow for that.
Look. I'm not cut out for the kind of interesting greatness that sells subscriptions to Wired Magazine. All those genes got distributed to other members of my family. My brother spent a summer in China learning to become a Ninja. Dan's brother did four years in the Peace Corps and came back with a Gabonese bride. Me, I sit at home and think to myself "Thank God SOMEONE ELSE is doing that stuff. That really frees up my schedule for knitting and surfing the web."
Back in 1995, whoever would have guessed that my lab partner assigned by alphabetical order of our last names would be one day writing sentences like this one:
He asked me how many women Iíd slept with, and I gave him a rough number, and then he asked me if I really hadnít paid for any of them....
Anyway, it's a good read. Go to it if you're interested. And alls I've got to say is: Thank God I turned in my half of the homework.
"Oh Man!" I exclaim from the bedroom.
"I thought picked out two white socks for Harvey, but now I see that one of them is white and the other one is cream."
"Oh." Dan pauses. "So?"
"So it doesn't match!"
"Um," says Dan, "I don't think he'll care."
"It doesn't matter if he cares. I care. I want Harvey to be stylish."
"Mismatching socks is stylish. It's baby style."
"More like Punky Brewster style."
"I don't think Punky Brewster ever rocked one sock that was white and one sock that was off-white. That's too outlandish even for her."
"Oh crap! I just put his shoes on the opposite feet!"
"I'll be waiting outside."
Dear administrators of Boston-area schools,
While I do thank you for your kindness in providing your employees with a mid-week day off, I would like to offer some suggestions for future snow-based panics. First, if you are planning to lose your heads based solely on the forecast, you might consider beginning earlier. That way you could let people know before they went to bed that they wouldn't have to get up and go to work; at the same time, you yourselves would be saved from having to anxiously refresh weather.com every five minutes between the hours of 3:00 and 5:00 am (though it could be that you like that sort of thing). Also, in future I suggest remaining open to the possibility of early dismissal, rather than outright cancellation, for storms that are predicted to begin mid-morning at the earliest. That way, we hourly workers get paid for a full day, and nobody has to spend another pointless day in school in June!
You have to admit, it's a little embarrassing for all of us when we've spent the day at home and there's barely any snow on the ground at 5:00 pm. Better luck next time!
(Hey, maybe it'll snow all night and we'll need another snow day tomorrow!)
One of my resolutions for 2010 is to share on this blog more of the things that I make, along with their little stories of trial, error, extreme disappointment, and after a mourning period, acceptance. Sharing my projects one by one, I think, should be much more satisfying than posting large image dumps like this one which screams CHECK IT OUT I AM A PROLIFIC CRAFTER when really it represents six months worth of sewing and knitting and hurling half-finished wreckterpieces into the garbage. And really, one image of a sheep puppet isn't really enough to satisfy your craving, is it? You want a front image, a side image, and a long synopsis of how I had to rethread my machine four times to get you to that vicarious crafting high. So without further ado, here's what I made last weekend.
Five bags to organize the chargers and cords that hang around my desk, only get used once a week, and serve as choking/strangulation hazards for the extra six days. I sewed the felt bags out of leftover material from Harvey's Christmas stocking, and appliqued little images on top to tell me which chargers go where.
I played around with how I wanted the top hem to go, so you'll see they're all different. In the end, I think I like the front-ways sheered hem the best, but perfection is fleeting in life as in art, donchathink?
The iPod fabric is a cut-out from 2 yards I bought in Ithaca the month before I got pregnant. I'd been saving it for a baby dress in the event that Harvey was a girl, but he wasn't, and I'm still hoarding that fabric miserly, cherishing it for little B whenever she decides to show up in our lives. (Earth to Leah: sex is required for conception of a second child. This perhaps is the subject of another post.) On the other hand, it's wasteful to keep so much inventory clogging up the shelves, and I should just make that dress already and use the rest to sew Harvey some pants. Maybe that'll be the subject for next weekend. After all, he does love orange.
So that's what I made over the weekend. Two hours tops, which makes me think I should spend less time talking about what I'm going to sew and more time just sewing it. Oh, and bragging about it. Did I mention I sewed something? You can leave your amazement in the comments.
Dan says to me, "I was checking our google analytics today and we have one reader from Fiji and one from Thailand!"
"Fiji is Molly. And Thailand is Neil."
"Well, Molly read for a long time. About ten minutes."
"That's nice! I should say something nice about her on the blog." (Ed note: Molly has a winning personality and an uncanny resemblance to Katherine Heigl.)
"It said that Thailand read for zero minutes."
"Zero minutes??? That jerk! After I go and write a whole post about how awesome his blog is? He comes here and doesn't even click on anything???"
"He could have read everything on the front page. We don't know."
"Well I wouldn't want to steal away his precious time from brooding and getting punched in the face."
"Maybe he was surfing from an internet cafe."
"That's true. You gotta prioritize your web surfing time when the clock is running. Then again, I can't imagine how expensive internet cafes are in Thailand if you can get a BJ there for a ten-spot."
"Agreed. He's a jerk."
"All those times I handed in joint lab reports..."
"You should blog about it and then he'll be forced to comment."
"Yes. I'll force his bandage-wrapped hand."
I was very much looking forward to biking to work today, after a full week stuck in the car due to an inability to coordinate my schedule with that of the bike shop. The snow day gave me a way around that problem, so it was with a happy heart and a new tube that I set out into the sunshine this morning.
Things did seem a little harder than usual in the early part of the ride, but I wrote that off as a result of my time off, plus maybe the half-inch or so of frozen snow on the ground. The extra work (not to mention the awesome February sun) warmed me up, so I stopped to adjust some layers—a mistake, as it turns out. When I got back on the bike I noticed the tell-tale squishyness that indicates a completely flat tire. My response cannot be printed here.
Even though this was the first time I flatted when I had in my possession both a new tube and a pump, I didn't want to go through all the bother of changing the tube when it was clear something was very wrong with either my tire or my rim. The dead tube barely made it three miles; I wasn't going to throw away another eight bucks in hopes of finishing off the next three. $2.67 a mile compares poorly even with the mileage of a full-sized SUV, I believe. Nor was I going to surrender and call Leah for a ride, especially since I knew she was walking the dog and wouldn't be able to help.
No, what I did was to push forward on the very squishy tire, stopping to re-inflate every half-mile or so when I started to feel the bumps through the rim. It was not fun, and when the pumping started to show diminishing returns (diminishing almost to nothing, in fact) I gave it up and rode the last mile or so standing up, to take as much weight as I could off the back wheel. I hope I didn't do any damage to the rim, but I just had to get to work!
In the end I made it in a little under an hour, compared to the half-hour or so it usually takes me. I expected the folks at work to be a little annoyed, since I was after all about 15 minutes late, but they were actually very solicitous. They were concerned, apparently, that I had had an accident and was lying in a ditch somewhere. Don't worry, even in the winter biking isn't any more dangerous than driving; it's just sometimes a little inconvenient.
Yesterday we introduced Harvey to rice cakes. He was pleased to make the acquaintance.
The event has been edited and scored for your amusement. Happy Friday!
I fell in love with dan in 1993. I was twelve years old. Dan was the cutest boy on our block, if not in the whole entire universe. He had long silky blond bangs that flopped in his face in a fashion that was mesmerizing.
To my credit, I was also stunningly attractive.
(Visual proof that 1993 was actually in the '80s.)
It was a time of great bangitude (of the hair variety). I twirled around my bedroom singing "Leah Archibald... Leah Archibald..."
I guess this is not so cute sounding now... now that it's written on my business cards.
On March 5th 1993 Dan and I we went on a date to Chadwicks WITH HIS PARENTS. At Dan's prompting I ordered a Turkey club, even though I had absolutely no idea what that was. Honestly, I expected something out of the Flintstones to arrive on the dinner table. Instead came a sandwich with so many layers of bread that I could have broken my jaw putting my mouth around it.
That was the first of many exciting things that Dan would introduce me to. Like mountain biking. And fried eggs. And the internet.
Ten years and one month later, Dan and I sat in my college dorm room, trying to figure out what to do in the face of my obstinate plans to move to LA. "I don't want to go through all the trouble dating you," Dan said, "If we don't plan on getting married."
"Okay," I said. "So let's get married."
Dan said, "I'll see if the church is free next weekend."
Our parents said, "NOT UNTIL YOU LIVE TOGETHER FIRST!!!"
So Dan moved out to LA and started this blog.
On September 4th 2005 we were married. I weighed 115 pounds. I just wanted to slip that in here because it will never happen again. A month later our lives changed irreperably forever. We visited the animal shelter in Sterling MA and spotted a mangey looking pup cowering in the corner. "That's ours!" Dan said. We took him home and became a family.
Then in June 2009 we got made an even bigger family with the addition of Harvey Douglas.
Harvey Douglas Archibald. A name I hadn't thought to fantasize about 17 years ago. He brings on all sorts of new dreams for the future. Primary among them, is that he grows up to look like my Danny.
And lets his bangs fly in the breeze.
Happy Valentine's day.
Let's talk poop.
Before Harvey was even born we knew we would be committed to cloth diapers. One reason - the reason we say out loud - is that disposable diapers (or as pick-a-fight momma likes to say "plastic diapers") don't decompose in the environment for something like a hundred billion years. Or I don't know - it's a long time. For a family who heavy-heartedly chucks out a tiny half bag every week, that's a big poopy landfill to swallow (to mix metaphors into a disgusting visual image). The other reason - the one we don't say out loud - is that I'm colossally lazy. Well, lazy in one particular way, which is any way that involves leaving the house. Household items like toothpaste stay on the fridge-top list for so long that I'll be brushing with the dentist sample of kids-flavored fruit-smacks-gum for two weeks before I get my butt to the CVS. So to prevent diapering our child with paper towels wrapped in plastic bags, we invested up front in the cloth kind and never looked back.
Well, actually, now we're looking back to blog about it. Lucky you!
The main kind of diapers we looked into were diety-service diapers, flushable diapers, and pocket diapers. If there is any other category of cloth diapers I will be amazed, but you never know. Leaky poop all over your bed is the mother of invention, after all. (If you want a whole website of helpful cloth diaper comparison information, go there and stop reading this post!)
We decided on a pocket-type diaper because 1) there's no diaty service in our area, and 2) flushable diapers require walking from the changing table to the toilet, and like I said before, lazy. There are a bunch of different pocket-type diapers to choose from, but from my extensive research (okay, two friends and one website) the best is the Bum Genius 3.0. And how can you not be with a name like that?
WHAT IT TAKES:
We have about 30 diapers in various fun colors. When Harvey soils one we take the insert out and throw both diaper and insert into a big Simple Human pail lined with a cloth bag. (Each diaper comes with two different size inserts so that they fit him better as a newborn but absorb better when he's a heavy pee-er. Which Harvey is. A pee-er of the realm you could even say.)
Every other day we take out the bag (and put in a clean bag - you need two) and throw the diapers in the washer. You can't wash the diapers in the bag, but you can sort of press the bottom of the bag up to push all the diapers into the washer without touching them. Whatever - when you're a parent you touch a lot of gross things - you get over it. We wash the diapers for 30 minutes on cold with mountain green soap, and then 30 minutes on cold/hot again with soap. Then we put them in the dryer for an hour and they're done!
Well, not quite done. What you have then is a big laundry basket filled with diaper tops and diaper inserts. It takes about half an hour to put them all together and back into the baskets. But I wouldn't say that's a deterrent to the process. When you're watching a baby all day, there's A LOT of sitting around time.
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE HIPPY!
We also use cloth wipes, which I highly recommend. We have about 50 of them. Half of them (actually 21 - I've counted) go in our wipes warmer (thanks Matt!) with a mixture of baby soap and water. The other stay in a basket by the changing pad, because sometimes you need both wet and dry wipes to do a job, if you know what I'm saying. If you're a parent, you know what I'm saying.
We didn't start cloth diapers for about two weeks were when Harvey was first born. This is mostly because I wanted to oversee the whole process vis a vis the washing machine, and didn't realize I wasn't going to get out of bed for that long. So other people put him in plastic diapers, and the world didn't implode. And I'll even say that for the first couple days where black tar-like liquid is coming out of your baby it's not a bad idea to throw away a few diapers. Mother nature won't fine you, and also the hundred grandparents in your house won't come in every five minutes while you're sleeping to say HOW DO I SNAP THIS THING ON, AGAIN???
Which is actually a big benefit of the bum genius that I forgot to mention - they go on like regular diapers, which is to say with the same general shape, so that even babysitters can do it. If you ever leave your child with a baby sitter that is. That's another issue.
Another time we took a break from bum genius was when we went camping at H=5-weeks-old. Then we brought along plastic diapers due to the lack of washing machine at the camp site. Our hippy identity was only saved by the fact that we were TAKING A 5-WEEK-OLD CAMPING!
Even so, I'm glad we had that brief experiment with plastic diapers, because it reaffirmed our belief that cloth diapers are actually neater. In the plastic ones Harvey's poop got all spread around and smushed to his butt causing more rash, whereas it absorbs better into the cloth ones. Also? Plastic diapers are really expensive! Sure the cloth ones are a big investment up front, but then we're done buying diapers until he's potty trained.
MORE S—- TO BUY!
The other things I found helpful with diapering on the go are a big diaper bag, since packing cloth diapers takes a bit more room, and two wet bags for the road (two so that one can be in the wash sometimes - although a plastic bag from CVS will work just as well if you happened to forget your canvas bags at home one time you horrible hippy race traitor.)
And if you want more resources on washing cloth diapers, like I said I've found this site helpful. You can even print out their washing instructions and tape them to the front of the washing machine.
Beats paper towels any day.
Long-time readers of this blog will remember when I wrote about my half-assed diagnosis of vaginismus. After that post I didn't blog about the issue very much, not because it magically resolved itself, but because whenever I make a joke in public about our sex life my husband's eyes pop out of his head and roll across the floor. And I don't want to put him through that sort of trauma for nothing. Not unless the humor content of the post exceeds the grossness content by a factor of 2:1. I believe I have finally reached that level.
So for anyone who's had trouble getting back to sex after childbirth, or was wary about sex after pregnancy, or even outright dreaded intercourse after childbirth * let me be the first to tell you that you're not alone. Even though your friends and neighbors seem to keep getting pregnant mere days after they deliver... Even though your hair dresser reams you out for being cruel to your husband, and all the ladies in the salon chime in, and then you can never go back to get your hair cut ever again... Even though you think all the world except you is having fantastic mind-blowing sex every time their babies take a nap, while and all you and your husband do is go into separate rooms and surf the internet... Even so, it's okay. It's normal!
It's even expected! What to Expect says that most moms aren't up for sex during the post-partum period. Scanning their article, it appears that the factors are stacked against us: Lack of sleep, hormones for breast-feeding, soreness after delivery... wait what? How long are they talking about waiting here? Oh... SIX WEEKS??? Where's the entry for "I haven't had sex in seven months and there are climbing vines growing over the entrance to my secret garden?"
I typed that string into google, but it came back with zero results. So okay, I haven't had sex in eight months. I guess I am totally alone.
What happened is this. First the midwife suggested that my complaint of unbearable pain with intercourse was a symptom of vaginismus, a disease that may or may not be made up, with the only symptom being pain with intercourse. Which actually makes the picture seem more rosy than it is. After all, I had pain with childbirth but the kid still got out into the air okay. Sex, on the other hand, is completely non-starter for us these days. Dan so much as looks at me lustily and I start sobbing in anticipation. But I'm getting ahead of the story, because it turns out that this possibly made up frigidity disease? I don't actually have it.
You see, after going to the gynecologist for an exam, the doctor decided that I don't actually have vaginismus, but a lack of estrogen due to breast-feeding. She proscribed a topical estrogen cream (which didn't work) and also said the situation might improve when the baby started solid foods (it didn't). Then she said to come back in a month if the matter didn't "clear up," but she cancelled that follow-up appointment because her son was sick that day. Really I think she was so jazzed up with her estrogen cream that she called in sick so her husband and her could do it all afternoon in the car. But that's just my opinion.
If I was the kind of person who liked doctors (or at least didn't harbor a pathological fear of them) I would have called to reschedule the appointment, and I even dialed half the number a few times, but I couldn't think of what to say to the receptionist.
"Hi I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Jones."
"Okay, what's the appointment about."
"Um, er, I haven't had sex in eight months."
I don't know whether the receptionist would gasp and say "egads!" or roll her eyes and say "so?" Maybe depends on the last time she had a little date time with her husband in the car.
For the record, I wasn't always so frigid. See this post about the full-page spread I got in my high school yearbook.** Plus, I know people who are frigid, and they don't make scarves embroidered with porn (NSFW, unless you work for ETSY's underground cousin SKETCHSY). So when the doctor told me in that first appointment that "it could be you just don't want to have sex right now" I was all, whaaaa? Meeee? I'm all about the liking sex. Insert dirty joke here!
But then secretly in my brain I'm all, sex makes owies and yelling things. Let's just lie in bed and read separate issues of the Economist.
So here I am at a standstill. Do I wait until the baby is weaned to see if my normal hormones kick in again? Do I visit a (gasp) therapist to talk about my newfound feelings of complete and absolute terror of intimacy? Do I start the search process for a second wife for our marriage? (Note: must have income and be willing to sleep in the basement.) Or do I just act like it doesn't matter, many people have sexless marriages, look at the Clintons. I don't know folks. I don't know.
*Hi google searchers! This blog is funny! Please stay!
** But that was the ONLY sort of spread I did in High School! Don't get to thinking otherwise.
Harvey has a snowsuit. That's what we call it, anyways, but it to this point has not seen any contact with the snow—at least not the snow on the ground, at any rate. When he goes outside, it's either in the stroller or—far more common—in the Ergo Baby carrier, and he doesn't have to worry about such pedestrian concerns as touching the ground. That all changed today!
While it's still coldish, it's nowhere near as bitter as it has been for most of the last month. Since we three squibix family boys were hanging out by ourselves for most of the afternoon, we decided to take advantage of the warmer temps and play outside. Rascal was very appreciative, since it's been ages since he got to run on the lawn. Harvey was nonplussed for the same reason; and in his case the indoor period was a significantly longer fraction of his life. Not since early November has he been able to move around outside under his own power—a full one-fourth of his life! He hardly knew what to do with himself.
In his defense, the design of his snowsuit may have had something to do with his immobility. Whenever I put it on him I can't help but think of the 'hardsuit' of science fiction (and, I suppose, deep-sea diving fact). Like space marines in their larger-than-life armored suits, Harvey's snowsuit-encased limbs are extended several inches beyond his actual hands and feet. Unlike the space marines, though, Harvey doesn't have neurofeedback powered servo-motors to help him move his gigantic outfit around. Also he was disappointed he couldn't get his hands out to eat the grass. Oh well; it was still nice sitting outside.
(Note our lack of snow. Unlike Washington DC and, I don't know, Florida, we have not been seeing a great many snowstorms this winter. Just cold cold weather. Why aren't we ice skating?!)
We're getting Harvey started early on the bible, in the fashion of very responsible parents. Which is to say, we leave a copy lying around on the floor. Cue the tape.
As I said last night at Bible study, I am not disciplined. If something is hard I stop doing it, or else find a better way to do it. It's Lent now though, so if I'm ever going to stick to something now's the time.
Just as with New Year's resolutions, though, it can be tempting to take on too much. There's always so much we want to change about our lives, and it's nice having an artificial reason to turn things around; but, of course, the more we add the less likely we are to be able to follow through.
Leah and I aren't fasting this year, and we aren't giving up church for Lent like we did last year. We are going to try (no try, only do!) reading the Bible daily. We'll see what we get from that. So far we're not doing so well: past bedtime, and no Bible has been read. So I'd better go do that now.