Last night, I dreamed that I lived in a FEMA trailer. Actually two that were loosely connected. Spence slept in one, Dave and I in the other. In the middle of the night, I heard him stirring and went to him.
As I rocked him back to sleep, the FEMA custodian and his children walked through Spence's room.
"He's up again?" he asked me. Again? I'm thinking. Who is this guy? But, I nod as if this is normal that a random stranger with his children would be walking through my son's FEMA trailer after midnight.
"I usually do this" he says as he proceeds to rub his back in this new-fangled way. Spence immediately went to sleep. Great, he knows my son better than I do.
I was about to ask him just who exactly he was and how often he puts my son to sleep when the trailer started moving. Quickly. I ran to the window to look out and notice that this trailer and one other were hooked up to circus trucks.
We were being abducted by circus masters. I started to silently pray that Dave was in the other trailer. Maybe he'd know how to escape from the circus.
The FEMA trailer picked up steam as we were headed down these steep hills. I was bracing myself against the wall. Spence was still sleeping soundly.
Suddenly the trailer stopped and we were ushered out in the middle of San Francisco. Some faceless circus people threatened us and I felt like I was totally under their control. They informed us that we were to go shopping to get some winter clothes, as we would be leaving shortly for colder climates. I looked over and saw Spence shivering.
I hatched a plan to pretend that my credit card was having some issues (not so far fetched) and ask to use the phone to verify some information. It worked and I was able to get a hold of Dave.
He was there in a flash. We made brief eye-contact and knew our next move. I ran into a specialty swimming store and bought this suit for Spence for cold waters. I threw it on him. Dave and I joined hands and dove into the ocean as the circus people chased us.
Upon hitting the waves, Dave and I became mer-people. Yes, we grew tails. We carefully cradled Spence in his protective suit as we undulated further under water. I knew he would eventually grow a tail, as his parents were both mer-people. But, he had been reared on land and it would take some time. Hence, the special suit.
We were free.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
What do you do when you vomit on the street?
Seriously, what is the etiquette? Are you obligated to find a few spare napkins and attempt to sop it up? Or if you were able to aim mostly on the median grassy area, can you feel free to just keep walking?
Let me be clear...I didn't know that I was going to vomit until about 5 seconds before it happened. We were out in a walk in a potential neighborhood that we are scouting for future homeowning. (Great impression, I realize). Far from the car.
I chose to keep walking and prayed that the sullen couple approaching with two miniature poodles were not witnesses to my vomit. Dave supported me. Spence was in the stroller and hardly took note of the tell tale hacking cough.
No, I was not drunk. Just pregnant. Again. And with a vicious case of all day sickness that even medicine cannot totally keep at bay.
Let me be clear...I didn't know that I was going to vomit until about 5 seconds before it happened. We were out in a walk in a potential neighborhood that we are scouting for future homeowning. (Great impression, I realize). Far from the car.
I chose to keep walking and prayed that the sullen couple approaching with two miniature poodles were not witnesses to my vomit. Dave supported me. Spence was in the stroller and hardly took note of the tell tale hacking cough.
No, I was not drunk. Just pregnant. Again. And with a vicious case of all day sickness that even medicine cannot totally keep at bay.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Spence's Words
Truck (although it sounds more like "guk!"), bus, car.
Despite my best efforts, it appears that gender can flex in different ways. For Spence, perhaps its flexing more traditional "boy." For now.
Squirrel. Nice. Sometimes kitty.
Cook.
Ears, eyes, nose.
Milk.
He's also shaping up to be quite the listener. (Just like Papa.) When Eleanor started babbling at the pool, Spence turned to her to sign and say "more." She smilingly obliged. Multiple times.
Dave. (Clearly a sign that I need to cut back on my hollering after my husband for this or that...)
And yes, mama and papa.
Despite my best efforts, it appears that gender can flex in different ways. For Spence, perhaps its flexing more traditional "boy." For now.
Squirrel. Nice. Sometimes kitty.
Cook.
Ears, eyes, nose.
Milk.
He's also shaping up to be quite the listener. (Just like Papa.) When Eleanor started babbling at the pool, Spence turned to her to sign and say "more." She smilingly obliged. Multiple times.
Dave. (Clearly a sign that I need to cut back on my hollering after my husband for this or that...)
And yes, mama and papa.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Dipping.
Yesterday, I introduced BBQ sauce to the boy.
It's my #1 favorite condiment of all times. Truly, my only condiment of choice. Unless chocolate sauce counts. Any son of mine has got to dig the stuff. I have fantastic memories of my mom and I making ribs and drenching them in the heavenly sauce. We could replicate...except for the ribs part.
I carefully cut up his boiled tofu pup and squirted a bit of KC's Masterpiece into one portion of his plate. I then modeled how the tastiness is done. He looked skeptical.
I dipped for him and handed the pup part. Normally, it is deadly to make eye contact with the boy while eating or hand any food directly to him. It will promptly end up on the floor for later hoovering. This time, the novelty of the dipping won him over.
He crinkled his nose. Shook his head. Then tried it himself. The tofu pup was scarfed with ample BBQ sauce in a matter of minutes.
Soon he was pointing to the Craisins. Then the watermelon. He dipped them in the ambrosia like a champ.
Like mama, like son.
It's my #1 favorite condiment of all times. Truly, my only condiment of choice. Unless chocolate sauce counts. Any son of mine has got to dig the stuff. I have fantastic memories of my mom and I making ribs and drenching them in the heavenly sauce. We could replicate...except for the ribs part.
I carefully cut up his boiled tofu pup and squirted a bit of KC's Masterpiece into one portion of his plate. I then modeled how the tastiness is done. He looked skeptical.
I dipped for him and handed the pup part. Normally, it is deadly to make eye contact with the boy while eating or hand any food directly to him. It will promptly end up on the floor for later hoovering. This time, the novelty of the dipping won him over.
He crinkled his nose. Shook his head. Then tried it himself. The tofu pup was scarfed with ample BBQ sauce in a matter of minutes.
Soon he was pointing to the Craisins. Then the watermelon. He dipped them in the ambrosia like a champ.
Like mama, like son.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Before 9:30
In the pre-Spence days, I would not even have left my bed before 9:30 a.m. on a lazy Saturday morning. These days are quite different. So far this morn, I have...
- proclaimed, "I am too tired I cannot even form words."
- pretended that the boy was still asleep and not kicking my rib.
- consumed large quantities of iced toddy coffee. (Have you not all made the switch?)
- made pancakes, ate, and kind of cleaned up.
- fed the boy.
- made the boy a strawberry shake which he promptly threw on the floor.
- mopped the kitchen floor.
- danced with the boy.
- bathed the boy.
- listened to the boy say "fish."
- changed two poopie diapers.
- vacuumed.
- mowed the lawn (after 8 a.m., of course).
- got pooped on by a bird.
- mopped the bathroom floor.
- had two relatively lengthy phone conversations.
- put the boy down for a nap.
- showered.
- got dressed.
- checked my email.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Weeds.
Calla lilies are not weeds.
After an afternoon discovering and picking cala lilies in our backyard, much like Columbus discovered America, I was sat down and told that the cala lilies were not weeds. They don't just happen unexpectedly. But, they were planned, planted and nurtured by my mother's care.
She was a gardener. I was just 10.
On this the day of her birth, I decided to go out and whip our decidedly not-cala lily weeds into shape. Spence was otherwise occupied kicking our stolen red kickball. So I grabbed the tiny gardening implements and hit the "flower" boxes.
A full three minutes into the adventure, a decidedly prickly plant pierced my skin. Yes, I should have been wearing gloves, but I hate feeling confined. It was a bit tingly, but I actively practiced denial and surrendered to the gloves.
Now five minutes into the "gardening," I brushed my forearm against the prickly weed. Another minute passed and the tingly became an annoying burning. Spence dodged out of view and I quickly helicoptered over to him. By the time I returned to the task at hand, my forearms had erupted into puss-filled pillows. I grabbed the boy and went inside.
He kicked and screamed at the thought of leaving the outdoors. I glanced down and actually watched the pillows inflating. I searched for something to take. No luck. A flooding sensation of sedation started to overtake my body. I flopped on the couch and called Dave. No answer.
"Allergic to plant. Swelling," I texted him. He called within moments.
I burst into tears and started slurring my words. He threatened to call 911. He was home within minutes, loaded me into the car and spilled me into the Northeast Clinic despite my active protests peppered with more tears.
An antihistamine under my doctor's watchful eye and I started to feel even more drowsy, but less drugged.
I guess I am less of a gardener.
After an afternoon discovering and picking cala lilies in our backyard, much like Columbus discovered America, I was sat down and told that the cala lilies were not weeds. They don't just happen unexpectedly. But, they were planned, planted and nurtured by my mother's care.
She was a gardener. I was just 10.
On this the day of her birth, I decided to go out and whip our decidedly not-cala lily weeds into shape. Spence was otherwise occupied kicking our stolen red kickball. So I grabbed the tiny gardening implements and hit the "flower" boxes.
A full three minutes into the adventure, a decidedly prickly plant pierced my skin. Yes, I should have been wearing gloves, but I hate feeling confined. It was a bit tingly, but I actively practiced denial and surrendered to the gloves.
Now five minutes into the "gardening," I brushed my forearm against the prickly weed. Another minute passed and the tingly became an annoying burning. Spence dodged out of view and I quickly helicoptered over to him. By the time I returned to the task at hand, my forearms had erupted into puss-filled pillows. I grabbed the boy and went inside.
He kicked and screamed at the thought of leaving the outdoors. I glanced down and actually watched the pillows inflating. I searched for something to take. No luck. A flooding sensation of sedation started to overtake my body. I flopped on the couch and called Dave. No answer.
"Allergic to plant. Swelling," I texted him. He called within moments.
I burst into tears and started slurring my words. He threatened to call 911. He was home within minutes, loaded me into the car and spilled me into the Northeast Clinic despite my active protests peppered with more tears.
An antihistamine under my doctor's watchful eye and I started to feel even more drowsy, but less drugged.
I guess I am less of a gardener.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Coffee Jar.
With all this drama about BPA, I humbly propose The Coffee Jar. Now, it is not my idea...I gleaned it from some other source which has now flown out of my brain. But, it really is perfect for you iced coffee drinkers, which with the weather warming up, you all should be.I do have the pricey SIGG water bottle for the boy and a lovely Thermos contraption that I stole from my father-in-law. And my dear Resident Teachers just gifted me a fancy dancy coffee mug so that I would no longer have to lug a jar around. But for this moment in time, I cannot get enough of The Coffee Jar.
Oh Coffee Jar, how I love thee! Let me list the ways...
1) If you lose it, it was just a jar. No feelings of expensive coffee carriers lost. You can just smile and imagine someone recycled it.
2) It seals completely. It easily tucks into your bag.
3) No BPA.
4) Very large. With this boy in my life, I consume a lot more coffee. With The Coffee Jar, you can pick your size. I choose 24 ounces.
5) It's a conversation starter. You know people will ask you about The Coffee Jar on the bus.
Go ahead, try The Coffee Jar then share your favorite reason for using it.
Time Warp.
I never did go to the Rocky Horror Picture show dressed in lingerie. But, I did do my fair share of pelvic thrusts while singing the "Time Warp" in high school.
"It's just a jump to the left
And then a step to the right
With your hands on your hips
You bring your knees in tight
But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you insane,
Let's do the Time Warp again!"
To be honest, I am not exactly sure what the song is about and less sure what the movie was really about. But, there are objects that I run across that seem to interrupt time and force me into a new timespace.
Like, the green-starred cylinder at the Central Library. Today, I started off here...
and Time Warped back here.
"It's just a jump to the left
And then a step to the right
With your hands on your hips
You bring your knees in tight
But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you insane,
Let's do the Time Warp again!"
To be honest, I am not exactly sure what the song is about and less sure what the movie was really about. But, there are objects that I run across that seem to interrupt time and force me into a new timespace.
Like, the green-starred cylinder at the Central Library. Today, I started off here...
and Time Warped back here.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
7 hours.
The clock is ticking. The boy is sleeping. What is holding me back?
In little more than 7 hours, I will need to not only hand over a finished paper, but also present it. Take questions. Act as if this was a labor of love. As if writing was pleasurable. As if my ideas will really contribute to the betterment of the world.
A performance of a lifetime. On 2.5 hours of sleep.
In little more than 7 hours, I will need to not only hand over a finished paper, but also present it. Take questions. Act as if this was a labor of love. As if writing was pleasurable. As if my ideas will really contribute to the betterment of the world.
A performance of a lifetime. On 2.5 hours of sleep.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Accepted!
The news just came in over the net...
My abstract was accepted! Spain is in the horizon!
Now I have to figure out how to pay for it...
My abstract was accepted! Spain is in the horizon!
Now I have to figure out how to pay for it...
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mothers' Day.
Today, traditionally, has not been a very good day for me. It's been 21 years since I got to celebrate with my mom. 20 years of terrible, no good, very bad Mothers' Days. With the babylove, Mothers' Day has started to look up.
This one started off rough. Modern Love tortured me a bit. I usually shed a few tears when I read it, but today I was a sprinkler system by paragraph 2.
Red eyed and sniffly, I helped my malformed husband get into the car, while carrying our son and all appropriate baggage. Dave sat down on the kitchen floor yesterday to play with Spence and stood up crooked. Literally. He can no longer walk (really) and sort of shuffles along on his tip toes. There was no "Honey, you sleep in. It's Mothers' Day." Not even a routine day, as Dave is vital to the whole operation. Today was a taste of single motherhood with a hunched husband in tow.
We had a lovely brunch with my mother in law before we set out for Urgent Care. It should have been Fathers' Day. Dave loves the special attention of Urgent Care and it could have been a treat. But, it was decidedly not his day. And this was no treat for me. Spence and I got to spend a few hours destroying Barnes and Noble and pooping a lot (Spence, not me) while Dave waited to be seen.
We picked up his narcotics, drove by the house we're coveting, and headed home. My mother in law made another appearance to spend a little QT with the boy while I took a power nap, grocery shopped and make sloppy joes and kale for dinner.
Every day with Spence is unusually great. Even this one.
It doesn't mean that the hole in me that yearns for my mom is filled. It's as big as ever.
This one started off rough. Modern Love tortured me a bit. I usually shed a few tears when I read it, but today I was a sprinkler system by paragraph 2.
Red eyed and sniffly, I helped my malformed husband get into the car, while carrying our son and all appropriate baggage. Dave sat down on the kitchen floor yesterday to play with Spence and stood up crooked. Literally. He can no longer walk (really) and sort of shuffles along on his tip toes. There was no "Honey, you sleep in. It's Mothers' Day." Not even a routine day, as Dave is vital to the whole operation. Today was a taste of single motherhood with a hunched husband in tow.
We had a lovely brunch with my mother in law before we set out for Urgent Care. It should have been Fathers' Day. Dave loves the special attention of Urgent Care and it could have been a treat. But, it was decidedly not his day. And this was no treat for me. Spence and I got to spend a few hours destroying Barnes and Noble and pooping a lot (Spence, not me) while Dave waited to be seen.
We picked up his narcotics, drove by the house we're coveting, and headed home. My mother in law made another appearance to spend a little QT with the boy while I took a power nap, grocery shopped and make sloppy joes and kale for dinner.
Every day with Spence is unusually great. Even this one.
It doesn't mean that the hole in me that yearns for my mom is filled. It's as big as ever.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
From the Borderlands: Navigating Communities in the Induction Phase of Teaching
Not done with the paper. Not even with the outline. But, here's the abstract I just submitted for a conference in Spain. Ole!
Teachers in their induction phase often find themselves navigating from the borders of many different cultures in order to find success in teaching, yet lack a literacy for navigating these communities. Lave and Wenger’s (1991) theory of legitimate peripheral participation (LPP) does not capture the complexity of communities converging on educators in their first year of teaching, as they imagine a singular notion of community. Pushing on LPP with Anzaldua’s borderland consciousnesses, this case study of two teachers in a structured induction program explores how they attempted to build teachers’ literacy in negotiating multiple communities in a bounded school site. The paper analyzes situations where the new teachers used literacy practices to read competing and conflicting communities at the school site: classroom, school, teaching, district and racial communities. These teachers negotiated entry not from a legitimate peripheral position of participation, but from the deeply vulnerable position of Anzaldua’s borderlands. Implications are drawn for constructing opportunities for new teachers to be mentored in gaining fluency in negotiating multiple communities at a school site.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Gloria.
I had been struggling and chewing on a paper I have due soon. I couldn't even articulate what I wanted to say. Researching, reading and then researching some more. But last night as I was headed to bed, I had a little light fall into my life. I figured out what I could say and who could help me say it. Gloria Anzaldua.
I rode lightrail with a purpose this morning. Re-reading sections. Dog-earing others. Starting to figure out how this paper might actually get written. Energized, I sneaked out of work a bit early. I made it to the coffee shop and pulled out my computer to work.
I made it. Gloria didn't. She is somewhere riding a lightrail train to the Mall of America. Hopefully, someone will be able to get inspired by her wisdom. It just won't be me.
I rode lightrail with a purpose this morning. Re-reading sections. Dog-earing others. Starting to figure out how this paper might actually get written. Energized, I sneaked out of work a bit early. I made it to the coffee shop and pulled out my computer to work.
I made it. Gloria didn't. She is somewhere riding a lightrail train to the Mall of America. Hopefully, someone will be able to get inspired by her wisdom. It just won't be me.
Monday, May 5, 2008
No More Drama
After dreaming endlessly about Star Tribune headlines "Kristy Snyder Single-Handedly Denies School of Funding," I woke up early and scurried for the bus. As my lightrail train approached the school, I took note that there was only one car in the parking lot. And it wasn't a Jaguar.
The school was empty, save for the hard working custodial staff. My crafty plan to meet up with the principal at 7:45 to figure out this debacle really didn't pan out. I was there. He was not.
In the end, he was right. No drama. Just a calm phone call that made an exception for our school. Tests will be picked up tomorrow.
The school was empty, save for the hard working custodial staff. My crafty plan to meet up with the principal at 7:45 to figure out this debacle really didn't pan out. I was there. He was not.
In the end, he was right. No drama. Just a calm phone call that made an exception for our school. Tests will be picked up tomorrow.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Dropping the Ball.
There are many reified truths about you that you could tick off without thinking: for instance, I believe in a Sunday morning ritual that involves the New York Times and the same brunch spot....I take strange comfort wandering through the aisles of the local Target. And, if given the choice between calling someone and figuring something out on the internet, I always choose the road of least social contact.
So when it came time to contact the agency that picks up THE STATE TEST and I was confronted with a web address and a phone number, I quickly logged on, entered our information, attempted to change the contact information from the test coordinator out on paternity leave to me, and logged off feeling satisfied. I am not the test coordinator, nor have I been to any informational meetings on how to "do" this test administration, nor am I even an employee of the school district, but nevertheless I found myself responsible for counting, bubbling, organizing and boxing up the test materials for my school.
My stomach has been at odds with this responsibility for the past few weeks. Gurgles of acid whispered worries that I bubbled things in wrong or stacked the piles incorrectly while putting them in the boxes or even that the testing pick-up scheduled for the last day possible for tests to be collected would go awry.
I mustered up my mild social anxiety and called K2Logistics. The words "no record of the school" and "we sent an email to the testing coordinator" and "too late to schedule pick up now" spilled into my ear.
All thoughts of social anxiety evaporated and new fears of Star Tribune exposes about the woman who single-handedly destroyed a school took up new residence in my head. I started calling any and everyone in the district's testing office, the principal, teachers, the secretaries...anyone. But, it was 4 p.m. on a dismal Friday afternoon. No one was answering.
Our fearless principal finally did call me back and attempted to ease me out of my frenzied state with promises that we'd work it out on Monday. "There has to be a way."
I just don't think he gets it.
So when it came time to contact the agency that picks up THE STATE TEST and I was confronted with a web address and a phone number, I quickly logged on, entered our information, attempted to change the contact information from the test coordinator out on paternity leave to me, and logged off feeling satisfied. I am not the test coordinator, nor have I been to any informational meetings on how to "do" this test administration, nor am I even an employee of the school district, but nevertheless I found myself responsible for counting, bubbling, organizing and boxing up the test materials for my school.
My stomach has been at odds with this responsibility for the past few weeks. Gurgles of acid whispered worries that I bubbled things in wrong or stacked the piles incorrectly while putting them in the boxes or even that the testing pick-up scheduled for the last day possible for tests to be collected would go awry.
I mustered up my mild social anxiety and called K2Logistics. The words "no record of the school" and "we sent an email to the testing coordinator" and "too late to schedule pick up now" spilled into my ear.
All thoughts of social anxiety evaporated and new fears of Star Tribune exposes about the woman who single-handedly destroyed a school took up new residence in my head. I started calling any and everyone in the district's testing office, the principal, teachers, the secretaries...anyone. But, it was 4 p.m. on a dismal Friday afternoon. No one was answering.
Our fearless principal finally did call me back and attempted to ease me out of my frenzied state with promises that we'd work it out on Monday. "There has to be a way."
I just don't think he gets it.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Rusty
I am 32 years old and I have an ear infection. It's no excuse for not keeping my blog updated (I was diagnosed yesterday), but I do have a whole laundry list of other excuses.
We went to Mexico. So fun traveling with a babe. Dare I say more fun that traveling without?
We are selling our house. Those of you that have been here will absolutely not recognize it. Not one bit. We have been working like dogs. (Not that dogs that I know ever really work that hard....maybe working like ants?)
I have been working on grants, bogged down with school, Spence has been sick repeatedly, and he's still choosing to get up in the middle of the night (many times) for some tender lovin' care. And I am BEHIND in life. So many emails to return, voice mail messages to listen to and thank you cards to write.
And I got out of the habit of writing. So, now I am trying to work out the rust in my fingers and get crack-a-lackin'.
We went to Mexico. So fun traveling with a babe. Dare I say more fun that traveling without?
We are selling our house. Those of you that have been here will absolutely not recognize it. Not one bit. We have been working like dogs. (Not that dogs that I know ever really work that hard....maybe working like ants?)
I have been working on grants, bogged down with school, Spence has been sick repeatedly, and he's still choosing to get up in the middle of the night (many times) for some tender lovin' care. And I am BEHIND in life. So many emails to return, voice mail messages to listen to and thank you cards to write.
And I got out of the habit of writing. So, now I am trying to work out the rust in my fingers and get crack-a-lackin'.
Friday, March 21, 2008
"Brown Bear, Brown Bear"
I am sure I can probably do this memory...
"Brown bear, Brown bear
What do you see?
I see a red bird looking at me.
Red bird, Red bird,
What do you see?
I see a yellow duck looking at me.
Yellow duck, Yellow duck,
What do you see?"
You get the gist. Every animal is classified by "color" and "being."
Until you get to the White teacher. And then she is just "Teacher." Similarly, the multi-colored children on the following page are just "children." Spence starts to giggle right when the White teacher shows her goofy face and doesn't stop until the children are gone.
Perhaps he gets the joke. Bill Martin and Eric Carle are attempting to socialize little Spence to the impossible. There is no color-blind society. Whites often pretend that the world is colorblind, as if that is possible or even desirable. We point out the people of color as if white is not a color.
So when I get to the bespeckled teacher, I modify.
"White teacher, White teacher,
What do you see?"
"Brown bear, Brown bear
What do you see?
I see a red bird looking at me.
Red bird, Red bird,
What do you see?
I see a yellow duck looking at me.
Yellow duck, Yellow duck,
What do you see?"
You get the gist. Every animal is classified by "color" and "being."
Until you get to the White teacher. And then she is just "Teacher." Similarly, the multi-colored children on the following page are just "children." Spence starts to giggle right when the White teacher shows her goofy face and doesn't stop until the children are gone.
Perhaps he gets the joke. Bill Martin and Eric Carle are attempting to socialize little Spence to the impossible. There is no color-blind society. Whites often pretend that the world is colorblind, as if that is possible or even desirable. We point out the people of color as if white is not a color.
So when I get to the bespeckled teacher, I modify.
"White teacher, White teacher,
What do you see?"
Happy Birthday!
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom!Oh, how much Spencer blooms.
It's been one year since he left the womb.
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom!
(March 15, 2008)
Friday, March 7, 2008
Early to Bed...Part II
Benjamin Franklin had it right all of those years ago. I wonder how he would have weighed in on the ol' 'never wake a sleeping babe' advice.
I thought of Ben when I was chopping spinach into teeny tiny pieces to hide in Spence's scrambled eggs. At 4 a.m. He was kicking his little legs and banging a wooden spoon against the tile floor. Bright eyed, he didn't seem to notice that the sun was still hidden from the sky. For many, many more hours.
After a failed dinner at 10:30 p.m. last night and some fitful hours of sleep, the boy made it clear that 4 a.m was breakfast time. A quick game of paper-rock-scissors with my snoring husband sent me down the precarious stairs to try to wrestle up something to toss down the boy's mouth.
At about 7 a.m., I kicked Dave out of bed and snuggled under our down comforter for at least 45 minutes of uninterrupted sleep.
I thought of Ben when I was chopping spinach into teeny tiny pieces to hide in Spence's scrambled eggs. At 4 a.m. He was kicking his little legs and banging a wooden spoon against the tile floor. Bright eyed, he didn't seem to notice that the sun was still hidden from the sky. For many, many more hours.
After a failed dinner at 10:30 p.m. last night and some fitful hours of sleep, the boy made it clear that 4 a.m was breakfast time. A quick game of paper-rock-scissors with my snoring husband sent me down the precarious stairs to try to wrestle up something to toss down the boy's mouth.
At about 7 a.m., I kicked Dave out of bed and snuggled under our down comforter for at least 45 minutes of uninterrupted sleep.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Steppin' Out
I purposefully left my camera at home. I thought to myself, "Live in the moment. Be there. Not behind the lens."
And I was.
Spence did his tail-wagging super-charged crawl all around the "Habitot," playing close attention to the spinning fish and (always) the window peering at the giant fish hanging from the ceiling. He gave some kisses to the boy in the mirror.
Then we ventured downstairs to the land of the miniature walkers. Kids were darting around in postal uniforms delivering mail. Others were running into the music studio. Spence immediately sensed the "genre" and demanded to rise to two legs. He clung to my hands for dear life as we traversed from the clinic to the world market.
And then we passed the post office box. Spence had one hand on the box and the other wrapped around my fingers. I pried my hand free and backed away. And before he could think, he took two steps towards me.
He walked.
I didn't have my camera, but my sense of absolute awe snapped an indelible image in my mamasoul.
And I was.
Spence did his tail-wagging super-charged crawl all around the "Habitot," playing close attention to the spinning fish and (always) the window peering at the giant fish hanging from the ceiling. He gave some kisses to the boy in the mirror.
Then we ventured downstairs to the land of the miniature walkers. Kids were darting around in postal uniforms delivering mail. Others were running into the music studio. Spence immediately sensed the "genre" and demanded to rise to two legs. He clung to my hands for dear life as we traversed from the clinic to the world market.
And then we passed the post office box. Spence had one hand on the box and the other wrapped around my fingers. I pried my hand free and backed away. And before he could think, he took two steps towards me.
He walked.
I didn't have my camera, but my sense of absolute awe snapped an indelible image in my mamasoul.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Waiting. Like Idiot-Parents.
The boy is sleeping. Soundly. For many hours.
Time to rejoice?
Nope. He crashed at 5 p.m. Without dinner. The boy was having too much fun to take a longer nap today and when the fussing began, his mouth slammed shut. Not a stellar parenting move.
We are screwed.
So now it is 10 p.m. and we are waiting for him to stir. We're sitting on our orange couch wondering why we didn't wake him up hours ago. Stupid parents. Now, he'll undoubtedly demand a 3 a.m. dance party.
All that advice..."Never wake a sleeping babe"...paralyzed us. And now, it is 10:12 p.m. and we've been debating whether to wake him for about 4 hours. No adult conversation. No adult fun. Just debating the "to be or not to be" question of babes that went to bed too early.
Pray he wakes soon. Or not?
Time to rejoice?
Nope. He crashed at 5 p.m. Without dinner. The boy was having too much fun to take a longer nap today and when the fussing began, his mouth slammed shut. Not a stellar parenting move.
We are screwed.
So now it is 10 p.m. and we are waiting for him to stir. We're sitting on our orange couch wondering why we didn't wake him up hours ago. Stupid parents. Now, he'll undoubtedly demand a 3 a.m. dance party.
All that advice..."Never wake a sleeping babe"...paralyzed us. And now, it is 10:12 p.m. and we've been debating whether to wake him for about 4 hours. No adult conversation. No adult fun. Just debating the "to be or not to be" question of babes that went to bed too early.
Pray he wakes soon. Or not?
Monday, March 3, 2008
Next to the Famous
Watch this....
Environmental Degradation in China
Yeah, my sister in law made it. She's 15. What have you done today to change the world?
Environmental Degradation in China
Yeah, my sister in law made it. She's 15. What have you done today to change the world?
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Broccoli in Bed
"Quick, get the broccoli."
These are words I didn't expect to hear at 2 in the morning. Not even from my broccoli-obsessed husband. Yet, here they were hanging in the air, expecting a response of some sort.
I figured I had a few options, as I groggily attended to our fourth night-waking event.
A) Scream hysterically at him. "Broccoli? At 2 in the morning? Are you mad?"
B) Roll over and pretend I didn't hear him or the shrieking babe.
C) Dutifully go produce some broccoli for my husband and child.
I attempted all three...the first two to stave off the trek downstairs. But, it eventually became evident that Dave's request for frozen broccoli at now 2:45 a.m. wasn't going away. It seemed as if he believed that this would lessen Spence's teething pain.
The frozen broccoli materialized somehow and was quickly thrown under the bed, where I think it still lives.
Let it be known that broccoli will not be the Windex of this family--it is not a cure all.
These are words I didn't expect to hear at 2 in the morning. Not even from my broccoli-obsessed husband. Yet, here they were hanging in the air, expecting a response of some sort.
I figured I had a few options, as I groggily attended to our fourth night-waking event.
A) Scream hysterically at him. "Broccoli? At 2 in the morning? Are you mad?"
B) Roll over and pretend I didn't hear him or the shrieking babe.
C) Dutifully go produce some broccoli for my husband and child.
I attempted all three...the first two to stave off the trek downstairs. But, it eventually became evident that Dave's request for frozen broccoli at now 2:45 a.m. wasn't going away. It seemed as if he believed that this would lessen Spence's teething pain.
The frozen broccoli materialized somehow and was quickly thrown under the bed, where I think it still lives.
Let it be known that broccoli will not be the Windex of this family--it is not a cure all.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Are you homeless?
I was reading my incomprehensible text while standing downtown and waiting for bus, knees knocking from the cold.
"Are you homeless?" The question invaded my space.
I looked up. I smiled at the man and shook my head.
"Oh, okay," he said and crossed the street.
I immediately did a body check. What was I wearing? How was I carrying myself?
And then it hit me. He was brilliant. With one question, he completely forced me to challenge my stereotypes and assumptions about homeless people. He interrupted my binary between us and them. I was forced to move beyond.
Now, I am getting up the courage to follow in his footsteps.
Except my question...Are you white?
"Are you homeless?" The question invaded my space.
I looked up. I smiled at the man and shook my head.
"Oh, okay," he said and crossed the street.
I immediately did a body check. What was I wearing? How was I carrying myself?
And then it hit me. He was brilliant. With one question, he completely forced me to challenge my stereotypes and assumptions about homeless people. He interrupted my binary between us and them. I was forced to move beyond.
Now, I am getting up the courage to follow in his footsteps.
Except my question...Are you white?
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Feel a Little Poke Coming Through...
Okay, grab your calculators. Here's a little math problem to get your minds working.
Question:
If two parents have one child with five teeth that are busting through on top (we are too tired to even consider the bottom jaw) and said child wakes up every hour for approximately fifteen minutes, how much sleep is the family getting?
Answer:
I am lucky that I am still able to string together sentences, let alone figure out the math problem.
Please don't post your answers. I am still attempting to live in denial.
Take note of the pearly white crescents poking through. Pray they make a full appearance soon.
Question:
If two parents have one child with five teeth that are busting through on top (we are too tired to even consider the bottom jaw) and said child wakes up every hour for approximately fifteen minutes, how much sleep is the family getting?
Answer:
I am lucky that I am still able to string together sentences, let alone figure out the math problem.
Please don't post your answers. I am still attempting to live in denial.
Take note of the pearly white crescents poking through. Pray they make a full appearance soon.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Hoovering
I turned my back for a minute and the boy's face was sucking on the ground.
Hoovering.
After I detached him from the floor, I spied a mashed craisin that he had been trying to maneuver into his mouth. His eagle eyes, wiggly little crawl, and fierce independence have morphed him into a lean, mean hoovering machine. That smidge of sweet potato tucked into the kitchen corner? He's on it.
You must know that pre-motherhood, I was a bit...how shall I frame it?...dirty. Not Christina Aguilea diiirty. Messy. Slobby. Post-motherhood? Let's just say I have not yet bought into the 1950s war on germs, but I do vacuum most every day.
Spence is just a hoovering pack rat. He squirrels away food in his crevices and hides them for future hoovering expeditions. Today I watched him lean over his booster seat and stick a few peas under his seat for a mid-afternoon snack.
Crafty little hoover.
Hoovering.
After I detached him from the floor, I spied a mashed craisin that he had been trying to maneuver into his mouth. His eagle eyes, wiggly little crawl, and fierce independence have morphed him into a lean, mean hoovering machine. That smidge of sweet potato tucked into the kitchen corner? He's on it.
You must know that pre-motherhood, I was a bit...how shall I frame it?...dirty. Not Christina Aguilea diiirty. Messy. Slobby. Post-motherhood? Let's just say I have not yet bought into the 1950s war on germs, but I do vacuum most every day.
Spence is just a hoovering pack rat. He squirrels away food in his crevices and hides them for future hoovering expeditions. Today I watched him lean over his booster seat and stick a few peas under his seat for a mid-afternoon snack.
Crafty little hoover.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Almost.
Just when we thought we could name the boy "healed," the phone rang.
Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.
By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')
Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?
By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.
Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.
Or rather, Dave instant messaged me. "Boy has a rash. I'll meet you at Allison's." I was at work. The third day out of the last eight that I had actually made it into work. I dutifully shut down my computer and hurried out of the building.
By the time I got there, Dave was rocking the boy and he informed me we had a doctor's appointment in 15 minutes. Spence seemed slightly subdued. (Come on, you love that every word in that sentence started with an 's.')
Team Snyder arrived at the Children's Clinic without actually laying an eye on the rash. Dave checked in and I tried to sneak a peak at the rash. I couldn't really see anything. My anxiety started to bubble up as I feared that we had morphed into over-anxious parents. Was there even a rash?
By the time we entered into the exam room, I was convinced it was fine and more focused on not looking like an idiot in front of our beloved Dr. Goel. I undressed Spence. I flitted between wanting to see bright red splotches to justify our third visit to the doctor and hoping his skin was pasty as ever. Small pink spots were visible...almost like an impressionist's rosebud smudges. Perhaps not enough to warrant a trek to the clinic.
Dr. Goel smiled, wrote a note that allowed us to return to daycare and we were on our way. Spence snoozed all the way home.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Flu Watch: Day 6
Spence is still sick.
(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)
Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.
(I would like to say that accounts for my 18 voicemail messages piling up on my cell phone, but we all know that is not really the case...)
Dave and I wake up every morning full of hope that Spence is on the mend. We chatter back and forth that we think that he's "over the hump" or "turning the corner." We even flirt with the idea that he'll eat some solid food in the afternoon. Which letter of the BRAT diet will we start with? Toast? Bananas? Spence will nurse a little. Then comes the vomit baptism. And we're back to Pedialyte, one minute nursing sessions and repeated calls to the advice nurse, who assures us these stomach bugs can last 7 to 10 days. Our optimism fades completely. We are deflated. It feels like we are failing him.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Vomity
Do you count vomit by the actual times you heave?
Or do you count it by the number of times vomit spills onto your clothes?
If you count per heave, then Spence vomited 8 times before 10 a.m.
If you are a vomity clothes person, then I changed three times (complete with underwear) before 10 a.m.
More...much more followed all throughout the day.
Spence was really, really sick today. Dark circles colored under his eyes. The copious vomit. (It is now 8:09 p.m. and I did change four times today.) But, he started to show his personality in times of trial. And let's just say he takes after me.
He denies that he is sick. He vomits, but no whining, no listlessness. Constant desires to get up and move. Lots of happy screams. Giggles and demands for milk, followed by more vomit. I resorted to feeding the boy Pedialyte by the spoon. He bubbled up with anger as if to say, "Damn woman, go get me some sweet potato fries!"
It's hard finding the humor in a terrible, no good, very bad day.
Or do you count it by the number of times vomit spills onto your clothes?
If you count per heave, then Spence vomited 8 times before 10 a.m.
If you are a vomity clothes person, then I changed three times (complete with underwear) before 10 a.m.
More...much more followed all throughout the day.
Spence was really, really sick today. Dark circles colored under his eyes. The copious vomit. (It is now 8:09 p.m. and I did change four times today.) But, he started to show his personality in times of trial. And let's just say he takes after me.
He denies that he is sick. He vomits, but no whining, no listlessness. Constant desires to get up and move. Lots of happy screams. Giggles and demands for milk, followed by more vomit. I resorted to feeding the boy Pedialyte by the spoon. He bubbled up with anger as if to say, "Damn woman, go get me some sweet potato fries!"
It's hard finding the humor in a terrible, no good, very bad day.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Hairs Cut!
"Are you ready for a bald baby?" I hazily remember my midwife John asking in the final stages of pushing. "Just get the kid out," was all I could muster. A bald baby was not the fruit of my labor.Fast forward 9+ months.
He's gives Shaggy from Scooby Doo a run for the Scooby snacks. So we gathered Spence up on this balmy 32 degree day and took him to get his hair cut. He was a squirmy Spence, so we left a little cockeyed, but de-shagged.
Luckily, a visit to Grandma resulted in his second haircut of the day which straightened up the tilty cut. Somehow, it is still a big shaggy...
Ouija Magic: Babystyle
Tiffany Wong was one of my best friends in high school. She taught me a trick or two in riding the waves of teenage girl in-fighting, like always make a copy of your notes. A paper trail would provide ample evidence of the insanity of your "friends." Not surprisingly, she didn't do so well in the "Beverly Hills 90210"-esque drama of Acalanes High School in the early nineties. Whereas my family piled on the punishments, hers whisked her away to a new life in Maui at her request. Not for a visit. To live there.
Before she abandoned me, Tiffany introduced me to the magic of the Ouija board. She spun many eerie tales of the truth-revealing power of the Ouija....beloved boys who had routinely ignored us suddenly were revealed to be nurturing hidden crushes on us. I know she would never have moved the little truth-telling gadget. It was magical. I really should get one to aid in my day-to-day decision making.
Which leads me to this new truth-telling gadget...your necklace. I love this stuff. Before I tell you how to do it, you must know that I mostly read the Babycenter.com March 2007 birth board as a sociological thing. But, I discovered this little gem and it is all worth my while. Please do this immediately and post your results. It will foretell your offspring.
I made Dave do it too...we are having a boy (Spence)-girl-boy.
Direct from the source (colored text, conversational text and all):
What'd you get?
Before she abandoned me, Tiffany introduced me to the magic of the Ouija board. She spun many eerie tales of the truth-revealing power of the Ouija....beloved boys who had routinely ignored us suddenly were revealed to be nurturing hidden crushes on us. I know she would never have moved the little truth-telling gadget. It was magical. I really should get one to aid in my day-to-day decision making.
Which leads me to this new truth-telling gadget...your necklace. I love this stuff. Before I tell you how to do it, you must know that I mostly read the Babycenter.com March 2007 birth board as a sociological thing. But, I discovered this little gem and it is all worth my while. Please do this immediately and post your results. It will foretell your offspring.
I made Dave do it too...we are having a boy (Spence)-girl-boy.
Direct from the source (colored text, conversational text and all):
So I want to see if this form of sex prediction works for everyone. So far, it is working for me and a few others that have tried it. I haven't heard anyone say it doesn't work. It will tell you, in order, what sex and how many kids you have had/will have, including miscarriages and deaths.
What you need:
A pendant on a chain(heart, cross, etc)
Two hands
What you do:
Hold the chain with your right hand with the pendant hanging down. Hold it very steady over your left palm. It will start to swing in either a circle or back and forth. Between children, it will come to a stop and start moving again on its own. When it stops completely, it's done. It will even predict future children so don't stop even if you think your done having kids, cuz it might predict differently.
Circular motion means girl.
Back and forth means boy.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
French Potage with Pistou
I am a lover of the Vegetarian Times. I made their French Potage with Pistou last night and have not stopped eating it since. It is damn good. And it gets better the next day.
Here's the recipe.
Potage
2 Tbs butter
2 medium leeks (white and pale green parts chopped up to equal about 4 cups)
1/4 c. white wine (I naturally added a bit more)
4 cloves garlic (Again, I am a bit heavy handed with the garlic)
1 large russet potato, peeled and diced (I used the russet, but I am tempted to use a sweet potato next time...)
4 medium carrots, chopped
4 sprigs fresh thyme (I used dried...it's winter and herbs are pricey)
1 bay leaf
4 cups veggie broth
Pistou--this is the topping...optional, but yummy.
1 cup firmly backed basil leaves
1/4 c. toasted walnuts
1 clove garlic
1/4 c. olive oil
1. To make the Portage: Melt butter in large saucepan over medium heat. Add leeks and pinch of salt; cover and cook 5 to 7 minutes, or until leeks are softened, stirring often. Stir in wine and garlic and cook, uncovered, 1 to 2 minutes, or until most liquid has evaporated.
2. Add potato, carrots, thyme, bay leaf, broth and 2 cups of water. Season with salt and pepper; cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer 30 minutes, or until potato and carrots are soft.
3. Remove the thyme sprigs and bay leaf. Puree soup until smooth.
4. To make the Pistou: Place basil, walnuts and garlic in blender. Pulse to combine. Pour in oil, and blend until smooth. Add water if necessary to form smooth paste. Serve dollop on top of Portage.
FYI: This soup was in the section on healing soups...apparently it is typically served in hospitals throughout France. I didn't actually think that was a motivating factor to make this soup, but hey at least you know.
Let me know what you thought...
Here's the recipe.
Potage
2 Tbs butter
2 medium leeks (white and pale green parts chopped up to equal about 4 cups)
1/4 c. white wine (I naturally added a bit more)
4 cloves garlic (Again, I am a bit heavy handed with the garlic)
1 large russet potato, peeled and diced (I used the russet, but I am tempted to use a sweet potato next time...)
4 medium carrots, chopped
4 sprigs fresh thyme (I used dried...it's winter and herbs are pricey)
1 bay leaf
4 cups veggie broth
Pistou--this is the topping...optional, but yummy.
1 cup firmly backed basil leaves
1/4 c. toasted walnuts
1 clove garlic
1/4 c. olive oil
1. To make the Portage: Melt butter in large saucepan over medium heat. Add leeks and pinch of salt; cover and cook 5 to 7 minutes, or until leeks are softened, stirring often. Stir in wine and garlic and cook, uncovered, 1 to 2 minutes, or until most liquid has evaporated.
2. Add potato, carrots, thyme, bay leaf, broth and 2 cups of water. Season with salt and pepper; cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer 30 minutes, or until potato and carrots are soft.
3. Remove the thyme sprigs and bay leaf. Puree soup until smooth.
4. To make the Pistou: Place basil, walnuts and garlic in blender. Pulse to combine. Pour in oil, and blend until smooth. Add water if necessary to form smooth paste. Serve dollop on top of Portage.
FYI: This soup was in the section on healing soups...apparently it is typically served in hospitals throughout France. I didn't actually think that was a motivating factor to make this soup, but hey at least you know.
Let me know what you thought...
Stomach Flu Spence
Scratch that last entry.
It wasn't the rocks. It is the stomach flu.
He's still giggly and now has vomited a few more times on mama and once on dad.
At least every member of Team Snyder has been vomited on so far in 2008.
It wasn't the rocks. It is the stomach flu.
He's still giggly and now has vomited a few more times on mama and once on dad.
At least every member of Team Snyder has been vomited on so far in 2008.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Spewing Spencer
There was a Spencer who swallowed round rocks,
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.
I don't know why he swallowed those rocks.
I guess he'll...
projectile vomit all over his mama.
I should have known that I could not escape 2007 without being vomited on.
In a bizarre and irrational twist, I blame Anastasia. She nudged me to give the boy some raisins. Soft candy rocks. He gobbled them up like his dad does expensive dark chocolate truffles. Suddenly, visions of raisins danced in his head. Whereas before he would have cruised by the random piece of trash on the floor, he now does the raisin roulette with all found objects. This time he lost.
But, the two round rocks that he apparently categorized as "raisin" had not yet been discovered in the rivers of vomit that drenched me, the bed and the floor. (The boy was mostly unscathed.) I just watched in complete terror as my child had morphed in to a vomiting Garbage Pail Kid. I shrieked for Dave.
He came running.
We were not at home, but in a odd hexagon-shaped cabin apparently owned by fundamentalist Christians. Most of the other rooms in this home were normal. The room that our friends stuck us in was distinctly not. There was a large stained glass window of a cross and crown commemorating a guy who died in World War I. This was flanked by a tacky 'painting' of Jesus surrounded by lambs on one side of the window and three different versions of the Bible on the other. Ha, ha. Stick the religiously confused interfaith family in the Christian room for New Years. Watch the hijinx ensue.
So when Dave found us, the rosy light from the Christian soldier gravestone window was illuminating the vomit. I was near tears as Dave assessed the situation. Spencer was now giggling and babbling to his "Dada." Just like his Mama, the post-vomit feeling is usually a serene relief. Dave dragged us into the bathroom.
He found a towel and started to wipe the chunks of vomit off me. I howled at him and told him to stay focused on the (clean) boy. Spence cooed. I grabbed the thermometer and the Vaseline and got a reading. No fever. Spence commenced his favorite pastime...pulling himself up. More snickers from the boy.
He's fine. It has taken me three days to finally catch my breath.
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