So, we're leaving for our first big vacation on Saturday, and I feel so scatter-brained I genuinely can't focus on anything past making mental wishlists while window-shopping on the internet.
We've taken Ruby on small trips here and there, never any more than 3 days. But now we're going for a week, aka a length of time where we can't afford to not bring her jumperoo. Our packing list looks something like this:
-Clothes for Ruby
-Formula for Ruby
-Food for Ruby
-Dishes for Ruby
-Bottles for Ruby
-Shampoo for Ruby
-Towels for Ruby
-Sunscreen for Ruby
-Lotion for Ruby
-Laundry detergent for Ruby
-Case of water for Ruby's bottles
-Toys for Ruby
-Jumperoo for Ruby
-Stroller for Ruby
-Playpen for Ruby
-Pack 'n Play for Ruby
- Sheets for playpen for Ruby
-Sheets for Pack 'n Play for Ruby
-Diapers, wipes, Desitin (for Ruby ... maybe Wayne, too)
-Clothes for Katie
-Clothes for Wayne
-Hairdryer
-Beer
I have to laugh when I think about how ridiculous our car is going to look. Packed completely to the gills, and only one, maybe two bags will be packed with adult items. Thinking of how we are going to fit all of this stuff into our car is causing tiny explosions in my cerebral cortex.
Oh, and addition to the insane amount of laundry and packing and making my list and checking it twice that I'll be doing, we have to get our wedding invitations out before we leave :D
Is this really considered a vacation? Is it going to be fun for us to haul a ton of stuff down to the beach, plus a baby, only to have to bring it all back up an hour later? When I stop to think about it, it would almost be easier to just stay home for a week and not have to pack anything, and do laundry at my leisure.
I'm still looking forward to not being at work, and getting to see bunches and bunches of my extended family.
They can help with the hauling, after all.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
On Feminism
I recently stumbled across this delightful blog called the Seventeen Magazine Project, written by a whip-smart high school senior. The premise is this: she uses the most recent issue of Seventeen as her life guide. She follows the fashion advice, hair and makeup tips, diets, and cuts out any pictures of Seventeen-approved hotties and hangs them up on her wall.
I absolutely love this blog, but here's the thing. I came across this post, and it got me thinkin' about good ol' feminism. In that particular post, our teenaged revolutionary talks about the implied "tribal trend" in Seventeen, and is offended by it.
Look, I am very sensitive to equality for all (unless I'm giving birth, but I still want to punch everyone in the face equally), and I think that this "tribal trend" being racist is a stretch. Unless it's got swastikas all over it, I think being offended by a print on some fabric is pretty ridiculous. If clothes are in a tribal style, then why not call them tribal? I hardly find the garments as visually offensive as I do a tribal tattoo on a douchebag, so what's the big deal?
I've noticed recently that more and more women prefer not to call themselves feminists, and I believe ideas like the above are a good indication why this is happening. Feminism has become a term that, in the most stereotypical sense, indicates a tendency to get offended about anything and everything and how dare you comment on my ovaries, damnit! Feminists are seen as being hypersensitive man-hatin' non-breeders.
Sure, there are feminists who fit that description, and that's ok. I thought an episode of Six Feet Under summed it up best when Ruth stated "being a feminist means being happy with who you are."
So ladies, don't be afraid to call yourself a feminist. We should all be able to live the lives that we want to without judgement, especially from each other.
I absolutely love this blog, but here's the thing. I came across this post, and it got me thinkin' about good ol' feminism. In that particular post, our teenaged revolutionary talks about the implied "tribal trend" in Seventeen, and is offended by it.
Look, I am very sensitive to equality for all (unless I'm giving birth, but I still want to punch everyone in the face equally), and I think that this "tribal trend" being racist is a stretch. Unless it's got swastikas all over it, I think being offended by a print on some fabric is pretty ridiculous. If clothes are in a tribal style, then why not call them tribal? I hardly find the garments as visually offensive as I do a tribal tattoo on a douchebag, so what's the big deal?
I've noticed recently that more and more women prefer not to call themselves feminists, and I believe ideas like the above are a good indication why this is happening. Feminism has become a term that, in the most stereotypical sense, indicates a tendency to get offended about anything and everything and how dare you comment on my ovaries, damnit! Feminists are seen as being hypersensitive man-hatin' non-breeders.
Sure, there are feminists who fit that description, and that's ok. I thought an episode of Six Feet Under summed it up best when Ruth stated "being a feminist means being happy with who you are."
So ladies, don't be afraid to call yourself a feminist. We should all be able to live the lives that we want to without judgement, especially from each other.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Who needs birth control?
You really shouldn't listen to people who tell you that pregnancy is fun. It isn't. Or at least, mine wasn't. I think I was being punished for all of the times I've taken the Lord's name in vain ... which I still continue to do, so lesson totally not learned.
I'm writing this for posterity's sake so if, in a year or so when Ruby is getting to be a big girl, I don't get all nostalgic and want a baby right then. So, without further ado, here are
THE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME WHEN I WAS PREGNANT:
-Morning Sickness! That term is a lie - what I had was All The Time Sickness. I got a brutal stomach bug around 14 weeks, and then I really didn't get sick anymore, save for a few times when I took too long brushing my teeth.
-Cruel cravings! All I wanted for the first trimester was strawberry yogurt. But every time I ate it - I threw up! Yes, even at work! Moments of grace, I tell ya.
-Back pain! This started before I was even showing. I think something was pressing on a nerve, but nothing I did made the pain go away. When I finally went in for a prenatal massage, my back wasn't hurting that day. Because the world is unfair sometimes.
-Gingivitis! What else can I say?
-Spidey Senses! I could smell a cigarette from about half a block away. Also, my heightened sense of smell made me sick every time I ate grilled cheese. One time, I smelled a dog fart from the other side of a house. If you had stinky feet, I knew about it.
-Stretch marks! They itch!
-Crusty nose! This hasn't gone away yet. My nose is really dry on the inside all the time, and it's really pretty disgusting.
And finally, my feet and ankles. Just show this to your kids in lieu of giving them The Talk:
Buh-bam!
I'm writing this for posterity's sake so if, in a year or so when Ruby is getting to be a big girl, I don't get all nostalgic and want a baby right then. So, without further ado, here are
THE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME WHEN I WAS PREGNANT:
-Morning Sickness! That term is a lie - what I had was All The Time Sickness. I got a brutal stomach bug around 14 weeks, and then I really didn't get sick anymore, save for a few times when I took too long brushing my teeth.
-Cruel cravings! All I wanted for the first trimester was strawberry yogurt. But every time I ate it - I threw up! Yes, even at work! Moments of grace, I tell ya.
-Back pain! This started before I was even showing. I think something was pressing on a nerve, but nothing I did made the pain go away. When I finally went in for a prenatal massage, my back wasn't hurting that day. Because the world is unfair sometimes.
-Gingivitis! What else can I say?
-Spidey Senses! I could smell a cigarette from about half a block away. Also, my heightened sense of smell made me sick every time I ate grilled cheese. One time, I smelled a dog fart from the other side of a house. If you had stinky feet, I knew about it.
-Stretch marks! They itch!
-Crusty nose! This hasn't gone away yet. My nose is really dry on the inside all the time, and it's really pretty disgusting.
And finally, my feet and ankles. Just show this to your kids in lieu of giving them The Talk:
Buh-bam!This isn't the greatest picture. I know it is hard to believe that I wouldn't allow people to document such an atrocity. Also, please don't think I dress like a granny because of the gown I'm wearing. I went as the Virgin Mary for Halloween, and this was taken during our office Halloween party.
Also, can I just say that my doctors were not concerned about my feet at all? Isn't that bothersome?
So, there you have it. MNAM's handy guide to pregnancy prevention and/or waiting just a little while longer. Or, you know. Forever.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
That's not a nightmare in my closet, it's a serial killer.
Parents are supposed to be fearless protectors. We're supposed to be able to reassure our little ones that there aren't goblins under the bed, and that giant seamonsters aren't going to come out of the toilet and swallow their butts.
I thought that being a parent would somehow erase all of my crazy-ass irrational fears, but it's actually made them even worse. I live on the third floor in a condominium building that is secured. I am afraid of scary people scaling up the balconies ... and ... standing on my balcony? I don't really know what they would do once they got there. I feel like the door is pretty strong, and therefore brick-resistant. Maybe they would bang around? Shuffle awkwardly? Perhaps they'd just take my down Christmas lights.
We also have two flimsy trees in front of the bedroom windows. I don't know how someone would manage to climb them, but I am still terrified of someone doing it and stealing Ruby. Or me. Maybe Wayne. They can have my cats.
We had a pretty severe thunderstorm a few weeks ago, and while everyone in the house slept soundly, I shifted restlessly, convinced that Jason was going to come out of my closet and chainsaw me to death. I searched around my room for an item within arms reach that could double as a weapon, and panicked when all I came up with was a stuffed animal that I could throw as a diversion.
I worry about neighbors in my building completely losing their shit and setting the entire building on fire.
I am also afraid of the dark.
Before I put Ruby to bed at night, I check each door and lock obsessively, typically more than once. If the closet door in her room is open, I freak out and peer inside hesitantly, waiting for an axe to slice my face open.
Once Ruby is old enough to be afraid of monsters and Sloth from the Goonies (I had nightmares about him until I was 14), I'll be consoling her and also arming each of us with baseball bats.
I mean, there's strength in numbers, right?
I thought that being a parent would somehow erase all of my crazy-ass irrational fears, but it's actually made them even worse. I live on the third floor in a condominium building that is secured. I am afraid of scary people scaling up the balconies ... and ... standing on my balcony? I don't really know what they would do once they got there. I feel like the door is pretty strong, and therefore brick-resistant. Maybe they would bang around? Shuffle awkwardly? Perhaps they'd just take my down Christmas lights.
We also have two flimsy trees in front of the bedroom windows. I don't know how someone would manage to climb them, but I am still terrified of someone doing it and stealing Ruby. Or me. Maybe Wayne. They can have my cats.
We had a pretty severe thunderstorm a few weeks ago, and while everyone in the house slept soundly, I shifted restlessly, convinced that Jason was going to come out of my closet and chainsaw me to death. I searched around my room for an item within arms reach that could double as a weapon, and panicked when all I came up with was a stuffed animal that I could throw as a diversion.
I worry about neighbors in my building completely losing their shit and setting the entire building on fire.
I am also afraid of the dark.
Before I put Ruby to bed at night, I check each door and lock obsessively, typically more than once. If the closet door in her room is open, I freak out and peer inside hesitantly, waiting for an axe to slice my face open.
Once Ruby is old enough to be afraid of monsters and Sloth from the Goonies (I had nightmares about him until I was 14), I'll be consoling her and also arming each of us with baseball bats.
I mean, there's strength in numbers, right?
Monday, June 7, 2010
Men are not from Mars, they come from caves
Life Situations:
A woman comes home from the grocery store. She puts the refrigerated items in the refrigerator, the frozen items in the freezer, the dry items in the cabinet, and the toilet paper in the closet.
A man comes home from the grocery store. He leaves the refrigerated items in the bag, tosses them in the refrigerator, uses the frozen items to play some kind of weird Jenga in the freezer, leaves the dry items out on the counter, and gingerly places the toilet paper just outside the closet door. He then watches Most Extreme Elimantion Challenge for the next 6 hours.
The fact of the matter is, most dudes' priorities fall somewhere outside of order, cleanliness, and general common sense.
This weekend our lovely town had its annual festival. Without fail, this festival is always held on a weekend that carries a threat of apocalypse-level storms. Most of the time, we manage to escape unscathed, but that didn't happen this year.
I was sitting under a tree with my mom, sister, and the hubs-to-be. Mom was holding Ruby when all of the sudden there was a huge gust of wind. Our chairs and the stroller blew over, and it started pouring rain. Mom handed Ruby to me, grabbed one of Ruby's blankets, held it over her head, and made a beeline for the nearest bar. Wayne set his beer down in the cupholder of Ruby's stroller. My sister helped me get Ruby into the stroller. She sprinted off towards the same bar Mom scampered into. I started pushing the stroller. Wayne's beer spilled a little bit. Wayne removed his beer from the cupholder, and was also holding mine. I struggled to push the stroller down a curb. Wayne was about 5 steps ahead of me, trying to figure out how to cover the beers with both hands occupied. I navigated through throngs of irrationally panicked people, and ran into Wayne outside of the bar. He had realized he couldn't bring the beers he worked so hard to rescue inside. I went in while Wayne stood in the pouring rain, chugging both beers.
When we got to upstairs, my dad was sitting at the bar staring at the Live Doppler app on his iPhone. He was completely dry and enjoying a vodka soda.
"Oh," he said, "did it start raining?"
A woman comes home from the grocery store. She puts the refrigerated items in the refrigerator, the frozen items in the freezer, the dry items in the cabinet, and the toilet paper in the closet.
A man comes home from the grocery store. He leaves the refrigerated items in the bag, tosses them in the refrigerator, uses the frozen items to play some kind of weird Jenga in the freezer, leaves the dry items out on the counter, and gingerly places the toilet paper just outside the closet door. He then watches Most Extreme Elimantion Challenge for the next 6 hours.
The fact of the matter is, most dudes' priorities fall somewhere outside of order, cleanliness, and general common sense.
This weekend our lovely town had its annual festival. Without fail, this festival is always held on a weekend that carries a threat of apocalypse-level storms. Most of the time, we manage to escape unscathed, but that didn't happen this year.
I was sitting under a tree with my mom, sister, and the hubs-to-be. Mom was holding Ruby when all of the sudden there was a huge gust of wind. Our chairs and the stroller blew over, and it started pouring rain. Mom handed Ruby to me, grabbed one of Ruby's blankets, held it over her head, and made a beeline for the nearest bar. Wayne set his beer down in the cupholder of Ruby's stroller. My sister helped me get Ruby into the stroller. She sprinted off towards the same bar Mom scampered into. I started pushing the stroller. Wayne's beer spilled a little bit. Wayne removed his beer from the cupholder, and was also holding mine. I struggled to push the stroller down a curb. Wayne was about 5 steps ahead of me, trying to figure out how to cover the beers with both hands occupied. I navigated through throngs of irrationally panicked people, and ran into Wayne outside of the bar. He had realized he couldn't bring the beers he worked so hard to rescue inside. I went in while Wayne stood in the pouring rain, chugging both beers.
When we got to upstairs, my dad was sitting at the bar staring at the Live Doppler app on his iPhone. He was completely dry and enjoying a vodka soda.
"Oh," he said, "did it start raining?"
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