cranky pixels

I was all set to write a nice, pleasing post about our new place (short version: I LOVE IT OMG) but was derailed, as always, by my reflection. My belly, specifically. Belly: what did I ever do to you? I feed you. I bathe you. I sneak you treats every once in a while. So why all the hate? Why do you protrude, gelatinously, from my midsection, rather than laying flat like you used to? Remember how fond we were of each other when you were small? What happened to that, huh?

I know what happened. First, I stopped being 19. Funny thing: just because you had the metabolism of a hyperactive finch in high school does not mean that you can go through your life eating brownies and not exercising, no matter how many times you had to argue with people about whether or not you were anorexic. (Which, so not. I ate then exactly the same way I eat now, only in high school? I weighed 107 pounds. I could almost fit two of me in my skin right now. So. Creepy.)  And then, secondly, I gave birth to my lovely son. And ate brownies. And did not exercise. Except that I did! I do, I mean. Exercise. I run after a toddler all day, and I lift things, and I walk everywhere. (Ponderously, sure. But it counts.)

The hot weather is bringing my reflection-hatred to a head (as it were), since I find myself leaving the house in things like skirts and tank tops. Don’t get me started on the tank tops, either – I used to be able to wear one without looking like a low-rent porn star, and now? Let’s just agree never to speak of it. (Except I totally will.)

On the other hand, we have a full-length mirror in our home for the first time in two years, and that’s pretty keen. Assuming what’s being reflected isn’t me.

technorati tags:self-image, weight, belly

Moving sucks.

I can speak with some authority on this topic, seeing as I have moved roughly 5000 times in my life. The longest I’ve ever lived in one place was a little over three years (the entirety of my high school tenure, thank god – switching schools would have been the icing on my unpopularity cake). As a child, I rarely went to the same school for an entire year. The average is a year per abode, with a few exceptions. I’m, what, 33 now? I’ve moved a lot.

So maybe I have some relocation issues. I do not like moving. Stacks of packed boxes fill me with despair. I’m tired of it. Tired of packing, unpacking, settling in and then moving out. Is a little permanence too much to ask?

That said…I love our new apartment. Love it. I would totally date it, and let it make me breakfast the next morning. I would even kiss it without brushing its teeth first. That’s how much I love it. I love the scarred wooden floors that creak, the kitchen with its barely-there counter space, the living room with the iffy built-ins. I know, you’re thinking that none of that sounds entirely fab, but you’re missing the point: it feels like home.

Most of all, though, I love the bathroom. Specifically the bath tub, which is claw-foot and deep and full of bathlike goodness. I could live in that tub. The room’s not too bad either. We painted over the dingy gray with a bright, sunny yellow and the transformation was incredible.

I hope this place is a keeper. Shackling myself to the radiator is just so much effort, not to mention difficult to explain to the neighbors.

Yesterday, out at dinner:

Happy Fun Baby: (Pokes finger into ketchup and pulls out big dollop, which he then squishes in his other hand, regarding it thoughtfully)

Me: Please don’t dip your finger in the ketchup. Dip your french fry in the ketchup. Okay?

Happy Fun Baby: (Dips french fry in ketchup)

Us: Good job!

Happy Fun Baby: (pulls out big dollop of ketchup on french fry, which he then squishes in his other hand, regarding it thoughtfully)

Me: (Headtable)

I started this post with the words “I’m a good mom” and then spent the next ten minutes qualifying that. I’m a good mom, except for the letting the kid stay up too late. And I let him eat french fries and now they’re all he’ll eat. My child is entirely composed of potato and oil. And I can’t be bothered to craft his meals out of organic, unprocessed foodstuffs, obviously. He has consumed both “meat product” and “cheese product,” as well as the unspeakable contents of the humble McDonald’s Happy Meal (mostly the french fries, but still). I completely failed at sleep training; he still wakes up five or six times every night, demanding to be nursed. And have I mentioned that I’m still nursing? Don’t know whether to file that under “good mom” or “bad mom” but I do know that I do not dig nursing, no I do not. I don’t mind it, but I’m not all bliss and bonding. It’s a chore, and I wish that when he reached for me it was because he wanted a snuggle, not because he’s hungry. And I shout. I do. I’m a shouting mom. I swear, and I make inappropriate comments which are sure to bite me in the ass once he starts talking, and he’s not talking yet, and clearly this is because I am failing to adequately stimulate and nurture him. I spend way too much time working and not nearly enough time hanging out on the floor with my kid or taking him for walks or reading to him. We do not do enriching things like Music Together or story time at the library or baby yoga. I am a terrible mother.

Do we all do this? Is our sense of self so skewed by our (real or perceived) ideal of the “perfect mother” that our imperfections are all we see? I didn’t do this in my professional life (although, truth be told, I do now – I’m constantly worrying that I’m not working hard enough/networking enough/knowledgable enough to impress my clients, even though I’m putting in something like 16 hours of work every day including weekends – since it’s interspersed with childcare and housework I feel like it’s clearly not enough, because at any given moment I’m not devoting my full attention to work, but that’s a whole different rant). I’m insanely proud of my kid, but I feel like all his positive traits are a result of his innate self-being, while the negative ones are so obviously mirror images of my negative traits that it’s kind of spooky. He’s impatient, and he shouts, and if something isn’t going his way it is THE END OF THE WORLD OMG. Which, if you’ve ever met me? Is pretty much my modus operandi.

How do you decide what makes a good mother? Is it a matter of fitting into a certain mold? Because I don’t fit. I’m not crunchy, but I wear my kid pretty often and I do own a pair of Danskos. I’m not a hipster parent, but I do dress my kid in all black whenever I can, and he never, ever wears things involving teddy bears and/or sports motifs. We listen to Dan Zanes, but we also rock out to the Fratellis and Christina Aguilera. I’m not completely AP but I’m not not AP. We all sleep in the same bed, but he’s a bed hog. Also, he kicks.

But, you know, if the measure of a good mother is how happy her kid is? I totally win the Mama of the Year award. He wakes up every morning and literally tackles us with his affection. He spends at least ten minutes hugging us and snuggling before he’ll even consider getting out of bed. He smiles more than any kid I know. He wanders around singing all the time, runs over for hugs, runs off by himself. He’s fearless and strong and self-assured. He’s curious about everything, and strongly believes that if he can figure out a way to get at something, he must be allowed to have it. He wants to do everything himself, but he also wants to be snuggled and held. When he falls down, he gets right back up. He’s very serious about dancing. He loves the hell out of us.

I’m a good mom because I love my kid. I’m a good mom because my kid loves me. Everything else is just window dressing.

technorati tags:mothers day, motherhood, good mom, bad mom

Where to begin. Should we be linear, and start where we left off? Where did we leave off? Let’s see…ah, yes, the customer service debacle, i.e. “ten reasons to send hate mail to JourneyEd” (subtitled “I *heart* Adobe and want to have its fat little babies”). Shall I end your suspense? Lightroom came. You’re welcome.

I’m just going to skip over the last couple of weeks, since nothing exciting…oh, well, if you consider finding out we need to move to be exciting, then I guess maybe there’s something in there. Our landlord, who was all rah-rah go long-term when we moved in last year, apparently had a change of heart. We went to renew our lease, and he was all “Great! You’re great tenants! Say, how’s about we go month-to-month, wanna?” We were all “Whaaaa?” and he was like “Well, I have no concrete plans to sell, but…”

This turned out well (spoiler!) since we found the most ass-kickingest apartment anywhere, ever and (more spoilers!) got approved. Signed the lease today. Wanna know where we will be living? RIGHT IN THE FREAKING MIDDLE OF DOWNTOWN. Seriously. We will be right between our two offices, and those offices? Not too far apart as it is.

Graphical representation:

That wee blue line? The distance between our new home (at the “far” left: hello, new home!) and my office. I can practically throw spitballs at myself. This will undoubtedly be put to the test at some point.

So, yeah. Sorry for the lack of updates, readership. I will make it up to you in spitballs.