Writing this letter of intent (seemingly endlessly) has set me on the track of thought of all the things I've wanted to be over the years. When I was younger I had such tunnel vision about my future. There was only one possible version, and I thought if I clung to it as hard as I could then it would become a reality. While this is probably true, I overestimated my own tenacity. I think this is a generational issue, though. Most people I know are just now becoming what they think they should be, after a myriad of majors and minors, jobs and volunteer positions. So, here is a list of the things I was supposed to be. Consider it to be a sort of non-traditional resume.
Orthopedic Surgeon
Why: My dad was in a motorcycle accident before I was born, and as a result suffered permanent disability. Simply put, I wanted to fix him.
What: I read Grey's Anatomy when I was in grade three, and announced proudly to everyone who would listen that I was going to be a doctor
Why not: I took a week of grade 13 level calculus and then dropped it. Calculus was a prerequisite for the science program, and I decided if calculus was needed to become a doctor, I probably shouldn't be one. Calculus makes no sense to me.
Model
Why: I was six feet and a hundred and fifty pounds in grade nine. You do the math.
What: I did some photoshoots, learned the runway, trucking myself from my country home to Toronto most weekends.
Why not: In the end, I didn't really care about it as voraciously as was needed. Some of those girls lived and breathed fashion, whereas I did not. Upon quitting the job, I had my lip pierced.
Professor
Why: I was picked out by one of my professors as being 'special' and more apt than some at sociological dissemination.
What: I worked way too hard as a research assistant, burned myself out, and then dropped out of a master's degree six months from completion.
Why not: Became disenchanted with ivory-tower intellectualism, as well as the poverty of academia. Being too poor to buy groceries just so you can argue about Foucault's version of the panopticon is SO not worth it.
Lawyer
Why: It was always a backup plan of mine, even back in the 'I'm gonna be a doctor' days. Whilst not as reputable as being a doctor, it was a profession and therefore good enough.
What: Took courses and interest in constitutional freedoms. Made loud noises in bars about rights and original intent. Worked in a law firm as a lawyer's underling.
Why not: Crappy LSAT scores, which may or may not be a result of complete disinterest in law school on my part.
When I was a kid, I went to a summer camp where we would stay on one of those recreation pioneer villages and 'work' as the children actors. This was legal because it was technically camp, and we were paying to be there. Anyway, for one of the activities, they had us sit down and talk about time and how time changes things. Deep stuff for camp, really. No wonder it was my favourite summercamp experience. They asked us what we pictured ourselves doing in fifteen years, and then we would make a presentation on it. I must have been nine or ten at the time. I gave my presentation about starting med school and living on my own. This is my most certain memory of my picture of my future. Needless to say, my future turned out much differently than that childish perception of what adulthood would be like. Still, I hope she (I) would be proud of me. I've realised since then that it's so much more important to be happy with yourself and what you're doing than to have a job that other people think is important. That's all you're supposed to be. Content.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
On Kindness
I was supposed to go to the symphony tonight. I say 'supposed to' because I am no longer going. I mean, I'd like to go, but with a clogged duct and a baby with a clogged nose, I've decided not to. It was a plan I'd made with my mother-in-law to go to this wednesday series, which I did once and have now cancelled twice. I am a bad symphony partner. I believe it will probably be many years before I can hold tickets in my hand and say with certainty that I will be attending. There are too many variables. And unlike the usual variables, these variables trump everything else. Baby trumps everything. Husband who I only get to see a few hours a day trumps everything except baby.
That said, I probably should have gone. I am spending so much time alone with the baby that I am practically surprised when people talk to me in plain english.
"Are we going to the store today Ender?"
"Blamabababa-ma."
"We don't have time to go to the library"
"oooh-mabagaboo"
While this is representative of a conversation, it's not representative of our activities. Mostly we sit around on the carpet and play with blocks. I've called Babyhawk about my carrier, which still has not arrived after 11 business days of waiting. When speaking to their customer service representative, I recieved the same crappy customer service I've come to expect from most American companies. Bored, unfriendly and unhelpful. I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt and say that she probably worked in some horrible office building, wearing sensible shoes and a modest-lengthed skirt, staring at the clock, counting the minutes 'till she could get home to her babies, but I can't. Her kid was in the background. She was working at home, and still couldn't even muster up any form of friendliness.
I'm not quite sure why friendliness is cultural. It makes people happy to be smiled at, to be talked to positively. And yet there are countries that are well-known for their friendliness, or lack thereof. Friendliness is even interpreted differently, it would seem, as I find Montreal to be one of the more friendly cities, and my mother feels constantly the butt of some kind of joke she didn't hear when she visits.
It still begs the question though, which ancestor was it that decided that friendliness was something that was important to instill in his children? And who was it that decided that his common man required no courtesy?
We're very close to finishing our school applications, and then I'll have a weight lifted off my mind. My mom is coming to watch the baby for Mike and I on Valentines Day. She's taking him out of the house, which means we will be alone together in our home for the first time in 9 months. I need this so badly. There's something about parenting that just makes your relationship so public. Privacy is highly underrated, and a lack of it makes us snap at eachother and not appreciate one another as we should.
Anywho...I'm now going to drink two very measured glasses of the fancy organic wine we bought the would-be babysitter, and encourage Ender to crawl. A night to remember indeed!
That said, I probably should have gone. I am spending so much time alone with the baby that I am practically surprised when people talk to me in plain english.
"Are we going to the store today Ender?"
"Blamabababa-ma."
"We don't have time to go to the library"
"oooh-mabagaboo"
While this is representative of a conversation, it's not representative of our activities. Mostly we sit around on the carpet and play with blocks. I've called Babyhawk about my carrier, which still has not arrived after 11 business days of waiting. When speaking to their customer service representative, I recieved the same crappy customer service I've come to expect from most American companies. Bored, unfriendly and unhelpful. I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt and say that she probably worked in some horrible office building, wearing sensible shoes and a modest-lengthed skirt, staring at the clock, counting the minutes 'till she could get home to her babies, but I can't. Her kid was in the background. She was working at home, and still couldn't even muster up any form of friendliness.
I'm not quite sure why friendliness is cultural. It makes people happy to be smiled at, to be talked to positively. And yet there are countries that are well-known for their friendliness, or lack thereof. Friendliness is even interpreted differently, it would seem, as I find Montreal to be one of the more friendly cities, and my mother feels constantly the butt of some kind of joke she didn't hear when she visits.
It still begs the question though, which ancestor was it that decided that friendliness was something that was important to instill in his children? And who was it that decided that his common man required no courtesy?
We're very close to finishing our school applications, and then I'll have a weight lifted off my mind. My mom is coming to watch the baby for Mike and I on Valentines Day. She's taking him out of the house, which means we will be alone together in our home for the first time in 9 months. I need this so badly. There's something about parenting that just makes your relationship so public. Privacy is highly underrated, and a lack of it makes us snap at eachother and not appreciate one another as we should.
Anywho...I'm now going to drink two very measured glasses of the fancy organic wine we bought the would-be babysitter, and encourage Ender to crawl. A night to remember indeed!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Letters of intent
Well there's been a bit of a lag in my posts over the weekend, but I think that's probably characteristic. Somehow having my husband around to help out around the house makes my days busier, not calmer. I've also been dealing with Ender's cold, my cold, and a bout of mastitis. For all of you who don't know what mastitis is, I'll spare you the gory details. I treated it with hot rosemary poultices and an overdose of echinacea, and I'm on the mend. From what I understand, it's normal for mastitis to strike when you're doing too much, and that probably is the case. As my son becomes more independent and able to play on his own for minutes at a time (oh the sweet luxury) I am spending less and less time on my butt and most time on my feet. Today I'm trying my damndest to relax, but both Mike and I are trying to get our transcripts in order for school applications, and because we do not have a printer nor fax machine, it's proving difficult. We briefly had a printer, gifted to us from my in-laws electronic graveyard, but after battling with it for several days, we decided it was definitely broken.
On the menu today: Sole Chowder and homemade bread. I've never made chowder before, so this will be an interesting experiment. The bread is made with leftover fat from a pork roast I made last week. Very depression-era style baking. I can only imagine animal fat would make bread even better.
I'm also kind of creatively tapped out. I'm trying to write my letter of intent for a costume studies program (so many letters of intent this year!) and I'm coming up completely empty. I guess it's hardest to write about the things you're passionate about. That is, without sounding creepy. The letter in my mind is playing out like this:
No that's not okay, Nicole, you weirdo. So the letter writing continues, fruitlessly.
I guess that's all for now. I'm not feeling well so forgive me if I'm not as loquacious as usual.
On the menu today: Sole Chowder and homemade bread. I've never made chowder before, so this will be an interesting experiment. The bread is made with leftover fat from a pork roast I made last week. Very depression-era style baking. I can only imagine animal fat would make bread even better.
I'm also kind of creatively tapped out. I'm trying to write my letter of intent for a costume studies program (so many letters of intent this year!) and I'm coming up completely empty. I guess it's hardest to write about the things you're passionate about. That is, without sounding creepy. The letter in my mind is playing out like this:
Hello, there. I think everything you guys do is awesome. I used to work across from your classrooms and stare forlorn through the window. Even if you don't let me in, I'd like to just stand around for a little while and touch things. Is that ok?
No that's not okay, Nicole, you weirdo. So the letter writing continues, fruitlessly.
I guess that's all for now. I'm not feeling well so forgive me if I'm not as loquacious as usual.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Raw Milk
Today Mike and Ender and I had a proper English tea, with homemade scones, double devon cream and jam. Devon cream is a pasteurized approximation of clotted cream, which I had in York when I went to England and is the greatest thing ever. I would describe it as one step down from butter (milkfat wise) and one step up from whipped cream. You spread it on the sweet, biscuity scone and top it with some rasberry jam and it has this creamy delightful flavour. The Devon cream, which I purchased from Global Cheese in Kensington market, was very good. Not quite as good as the stuff I had in Europe though. Which got me thinking. None of the dairy products that I've had in Canada have quite compared to those that I've had in Europe. From the butter on my toast to the cream in my coffee, European milk just tastes better. And that's because a lot of it isn't pasteurized. Not pasteurized? You say. Well then it must be unhealthy! Indeed, 'raw milk' as it's called, is not good for those with compromised immune systems, or children, but it would seem people have been happily consuming it in many parts of the world for hundreds of years. And the reason that it's not recommended is based on the possibility that the milk is bad, not a certainty. As some raw milk advocates say, it's more work to keep cows healthy enough for healthy unpasteurized milk.
I also had unpasteurized milk when I was staying with the Twelve Tribes (lovely people, and I'll say more about them in a later post) during my masters thesis research on new religious movements. They had bought a cow to provide milk to the whole community. They made their own yogurt out of it, as well as drank it with mate and it was wonderful. They weren't allowed to serve it in their shop, however, due to Canadian milk law.
For more information on the raw milk debacle of late here in Canada, click here.
So I would like to make my own, proper clotted cream with it's delicate palatability, and for that it would seem I need to buy a share in a cow. Let it be so. Updates on this quest to follow.
According to the babyhawk website, my baby carrier is about to ship! Soon I'll be trucking around the city again with my baby like a free woman. I'm starting to get really cabin feverish. While this has been the easiest winter in recent memory, I still am antsy for the warm weather to return. And me, without a full time job, it's just extra sweet. I've already promised my little man that we will spend most of our time in the park, sun on our faces, grass between our toes. He'll be walking then (!) and I'll probably get rid of this doughy winter flesh simply by running after him.
I've been implementing a few steps in improving Ender's sleep, or rather, his transition into sleep. After reading a few books on the subject, even cosleeping advocates seem to agree that a bedtime routine is reassuring and healthy for children. Sometimes their days can be so chaotic and different that a little bit of familiarty really helps them wind down. I still remember coming home from a birthday party when I was 8 and being jerked out of sleep every five minutes due to half sleep hallucinations that I was still involved in a water pistol fight. So now our routine involves sitting in some warm water in the sink for about five minutes, getting toweled off and put in pj's and a fresh diaper, reading a story, and then nursing to sleep. So far it has been working fabulously, and Ender seems to think it's peachy keen. He's teething at the moment, so anything that keeps him calm and confident that the world isn't ending is a good thing.
Well, I guess that's all my friends. Nicoliosis out.
I also had unpasteurized milk when I was staying with the Twelve Tribes (lovely people, and I'll say more about them in a later post) during my masters thesis research on new religious movements. They had bought a cow to provide milk to the whole community. They made their own yogurt out of it, as well as drank it with mate and it was wonderful. They weren't allowed to serve it in their shop, however, due to Canadian milk law.
For more information on the raw milk debacle of late here in Canada, click here.
So I would like to make my own, proper clotted cream with it's delicate palatability, and for that it would seem I need to buy a share in a cow. Let it be so. Updates on this quest to follow.
According to the babyhawk website, my baby carrier is about to ship! Soon I'll be trucking around the city again with my baby like a free woman. I'm starting to get really cabin feverish. While this has been the easiest winter in recent memory, I still am antsy for the warm weather to return. And me, without a full time job, it's just extra sweet. I've already promised my little man that we will spend most of our time in the park, sun on our faces, grass between our toes. He'll be walking then (!) and I'll probably get rid of this doughy winter flesh simply by running after him.
I've been implementing a few steps in improving Ender's sleep, or rather, his transition into sleep. After reading a few books on the subject, even cosleeping advocates seem to agree that a bedtime routine is reassuring and healthy for children. Sometimes their days can be so chaotic and different that a little bit of familiarty really helps them wind down. I still remember coming home from a birthday party when I was 8 and being jerked out of sleep every five minutes due to half sleep hallucinations that I was still involved in a water pistol fight. So now our routine involves sitting in some warm water in the sink for about five minutes, getting toweled off and put in pj's and a fresh diaper, reading a story, and then nursing to sleep. So far it has been working fabulously, and Ender seems to think it's peachy keen. He's teething at the moment, so anything that keeps him calm and confident that the world isn't ending is a good thing.
Well, I guess that's all my friends. Nicoliosis out.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
On Making Peace with Being a Homemaker in the 21st Century
When I pictured myself in a job in the future, after an array of less than glamorous professions, I said I wanted to work in an office. I've always liked the feel of offices, the scent of toner, the bland sounds of printers and phones buzzing in the distance. And after coming home every night smelling of a deep fryer, officey jobs became a shining post-graduation aspiration for me. What more could one ask for than a quiet, clean job?
I've now had three office jobs, and I now realise that the fantasy I had was not at all founded in reality. Office work is a net of bitchy power dynamics, a ruthless maintenance of the status quo. Not only did I not fit in, I was miserable. While before I had one boss, I now had five with different spheres of influence. And due to my lack of postgraduate education, and a certain part of male anatomy, I was perpetually The Secretary.
The Secretary is sometimes called an assistant, or an executive assistant, or an administrative assistant. This is to distract you from the fact that you are a secretary, just like the secretaries that went before you that got slapped on the ass as they wiggled out of the boardroom in pencil skirts. Except, instead of getting slapped on the ass, you are given performance evaluations which serve no other purpose than to remind you that you are low on the power scale, and very replaceable. The Secretary's job is to go down with the ship. If your boss makes a mistake, it was your fault that you didn't catch it. It is also The Secretary's job to have no opinion. Even if you side with your boss, you will be quickly reminded that you have no education or place to be making statements on such matters.
Finally, it is The Secretary's duty to always be in a good mood. You may weather your boss's bad mood, but never, ever may you portray that you have actual emotions. This, they tell you, should be kept at home. And as I perused the cubicles, with children's drawings posted next to every happy corporate drone's little nameplate, I felt as alien as could be. I also felt damn under appreciated, and had a serious superiority complex. And so, I am no longer The Secretary, and never again shall I be.
This is all to preface the fact that I was not prepared to be a homemaker. I had a picture in my mind of what it would be. That I would take care of the house and the child, and Mike would go to work and do his thing, and then when he came home I'd have dinner ready and we'd all recant the details of my day.
Wrong.
First of all, I have no details to my day that I see as worth recanting. Secondly, I rarely have time to stop what I'm doing for dinner. Yes, I make dinner. But I usually spend dinner trying to feed spinach to a very reluctant baby boy, bitching about the dishes. It would seem that I am still human, you see. As much as I don't look like the homemakers that went before me, with my fire engine red hair and piercing scars, I also do not act like one. I can not cheerfully go about my housework, deal with a fussy baby, and watch my husband read the newspaper. No way, no how. I'm a homemaker, not a doormat.
There is also no way that I can get all of this housework done on my own. I am constantly reminded of this, and somehow it makes me feel severely inferior. For the first time I am my own boss, and I can't get it all done. I can't pass the buck and say it's due to the fact that I'm a woman, or that I'm overqualified. I'm just tired, overwhelmed, and I need help. I need an army of caregivers, for this to be as easy as I pictured it would be.
But unlike being The Secretary, being a homemaker is rewarding. I love being able to be at home with my baby boy, even if it means that there are no more nights out at the bar, or ordering takeout. There is no more shopping trips when I'm in a bad mood, only sticky kisses from my number one fan.
So while it's not what I expected it to be, it's a lot better than everything else.
An aside: My damn mother has been sending my blog address to parenting magazines, getting my hopes up that one day I could be published. After allowing myself a moment to blissfully fantasize about what that would entail (mostly fuzzy bunny slippers and martinis), I am reminded of why I never send my work anywhere: Disappointment. I am terrified of rejection. But still, she's got a point. This is the best portfolio of work that I've ever compiled. And I can certainly rant on (and on, and on) about being a mom. Maybe I should start sending off my blog address myself...
Nah.
I've now had three office jobs, and I now realise that the fantasy I had was not at all founded in reality. Office work is a net of bitchy power dynamics, a ruthless maintenance of the status quo. Not only did I not fit in, I was miserable. While before I had one boss, I now had five with different spheres of influence. And due to my lack of postgraduate education, and a certain part of male anatomy, I was perpetually The Secretary.
The Secretary is sometimes called an assistant, or an executive assistant, or an administrative assistant. This is to distract you from the fact that you are a secretary, just like the secretaries that went before you that got slapped on the ass as they wiggled out of the boardroom in pencil skirts. Except, instead of getting slapped on the ass, you are given performance evaluations which serve no other purpose than to remind you that you are low on the power scale, and very replaceable. The Secretary's job is to go down with the ship. If your boss makes a mistake, it was your fault that you didn't catch it. It is also The Secretary's job to have no opinion. Even if you side with your boss, you will be quickly reminded that you have no education or place to be making statements on such matters.
Finally, it is The Secretary's duty to always be in a good mood. You may weather your boss's bad mood, but never, ever may you portray that you have actual emotions. This, they tell you, should be kept at home. And as I perused the cubicles, with children's drawings posted next to every happy corporate drone's little nameplate, I felt as alien as could be. I also felt damn under appreciated, and had a serious superiority complex. And so, I am no longer The Secretary, and never again shall I be.
This is all to preface the fact that I was not prepared to be a homemaker. I had a picture in my mind of what it would be. That I would take care of the house and the child, and Mike would go to work and do his thing, and then when he came home I'd have dinner ready and we'd all recant the details of my day.
Wrong.
First of all, I have no details to my day that I see as worth recanting. Secondly, I rarely have time to stop what I'm doing for dinner. Yes, I make dinner. But I usually spend dinner trying to feed spinach to a very reluctant baby boy, bitching about the dishes. It would seem that I am still human, you see. As much as I don't look like the homemakers that went before me, with my fire engine red hair and piercing scars, I also do not act like one. I can not cheerfully go about my housework, deal with a fussy baby, and watch my husband read the newspaper. No way, no how. I'm a homemaker, not a doormat.
There is also no way that I can get all of this housework done on my own. I am constantly reminded of this, and somehow it makes me feel severely inferior. For the first time I am my own boss, and I can't get it all done. I can't pass the buck and say it's due to the fact that I'm a woman, or that I'm overqualified. I'm just tired, overwhelmed, and I need help. I need an army of caregivers, for this to be as easy as I pictured it would be.
But unlike being The Secretary, being a homemaker is rewarding. I love being able to be at home with my baby boy, even if it means that there are no more nights out at the bar, or ordering takeout. There is no more shopping trips when I'm in a bad mood, only sticky kisses from my number one fan.
So while it's not what I expected it to be, it's a lot better than everything else.
An aside: My damn mother has been sending my blog address to parenting magazines, getting my hopes up that one day I could be published. After allowing myself a moment to blissfully fantasize about what that would entail (mostly fuzzy bunny slippers and martinis), I am reminded of why I never send my work anywhere: Disappointment. I am terrified of rejection. But still, she's got a point. This is the best portfolio of work that I've ever compiled. And I can certainly rant on (and on, and on) about being a mom. Maybe I should start sending off my blog address myself...
Nah.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tired of Breastfeeding
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I did it. Glad enough that I think doctors should be more clear about its benefits, just for coping with a crying baby. You can't overfeed a breastfeeding baby, your breasts just make the right amount for your child. So, if he's fussing, pop him on the boob. If he just plopped himself on his face, pop him on the boob. Sure, I was chained to a nursing cushion these last nine months, but our house was as quiet as a church on a Tuesday. I also know that we've had no tummy upsets, only three colds, and one fat, happy baby. The results speak for themselves. Breastfeeding for at least the first two weeks should practically be mandatory.
However, I'm starting to get really sick of it. Google 'tired of breastfeeding' and you'll get:
A. a woman's diatribe about how she breastfed her children until they were 5(!) years old, and that women get sick of bfing around this point because we were told we needed to do it for a year. She also claims we would get sick of being pregnant for nine months if we were told we only needed to do it for six. Fair enough Debbi, but not very helpful for the nursing mom who would rather claw her breasts off than do it for another 4 years.
B. a bunch of medical info on how breastfeeding can make you tired, due to not only caloric expenditure but nutritional expenditure. I guess that's pretty obvious, but while I've been trying to make up for calories I wasn't really thinking about vitamins. I have been feeling crappy lately (aside from this current cold I have) and I wonder if that's why. Anyway, not really related, and not very helpful either.
And finally, C. Forum posts about similarly tired women, who are starting to lose the faith in the thing that they have loved for so long, but are starting to get damn sick of. Most of these women are then barraged with comments (a lot of them from lactation consultants) saying they should 'stay the course' and take it one week at a time. Basically being told that this is the only real option.
Ugh.
I know the health benefits. I know the emotional benefits. I just want my body back.
I suppose it's superficial. I guess I'm supposed to martyr myself at this point. It's either breastmilk making up 75% of his diet or formula, and I just could NOT do that. Never. Ever. But I find myself daydreaming about weaning. Trying to get him to have just one more sip of juice, one more spoonful of food. I want to lose these breastfeeding pounds the way I know how. Caloric reduction. I want to go out for a day and not have to pump (I hate pumping with a passion) and worry whether he'll take the bottle. I want my boobs to go from DDs back to Bs.
I think the feeling may be mutual, too. I notice my little man (who sleeps in bed with me) hardly nurses at all at night now, preferring to be 'spooned' by me instead of being latched on all night long. He also has been wrestling through every feeding, which is likely the reason why I'm so tired of this whole thing.
In conclusion, my mantra shall now be: three more months, only three more months....
However, I'm starting to get really sick of it. Google 'tired of breastfeeding' and you'll get:
A. a woman's diatribe about how she breastfed her children until they were 5(!) years old, and that women get sick of bfing around this point because we were told we needed to do it for a year. She also claims we would get sick of being pregnant for nine months if we were told we only needed to do it for six. Fair enough Debbi, but not very helpful for the nursing mom who would rather claw her breasts off than do it for another 4 years.
B. a bunch of medical info on how breastfeeding can make you tired, due to not only caloric expenditure but nutritional expenditure. I guess that's pretty obvious, but while I've been trying to make up for calories I wasn't really thinking about vitamins. I have been feeling crappy lately (aside from this current cold I have) and I wonder if that's why. Anyway, not really related, and not very helpful either.
And finally, C. Forum posts about similarly tired women, who are starting to lose the faith in the thing that they have loved for so long, but are starting to get damn sick of. Most of these women are then barraged with comments (a lot of them from lactation consultants) saying they should 'stay the course' and take it one week at a time. Basically being told that this is the only real option.
Ugh.
I know the health benefits. I know the emotional benefits. I just want my body back.
I suppose it's superficial. I guess I'm supposed to martyr myself at this point. It's either breastmilk making up 75% of his diet or formula, and I just could NOT do that. Never. Ever. But I find myself daydreaming about weaning. Trying to get him to have just one more sip of juice, one more spoonful of food. I want to lose these breastfeeding pounds the way I know how. Caloric reduction. I want to go out for a day and not have to pump (I hate pumping with a passion) and worry whether he'll take the bottle. I want my boobs to go from DDs back to Bs.
I think the feeling may be mutual, too. I notice my little man (who sleeps in bed with me) hardly nurses at all at night now, preferring to be 'spooned' by me instead of being latched on all night long. He also has been wrestling through every feeding, which is likely the reason why I'm so tired of this whole thing.
In conclusion, my mantra shall now be: three more months, only three more months....
Monday, February 1, 2010
An Ode to my Stand Up Mixer
1.
Avocado green,
and bought in '76
you improve my life
in ways promised
by Parade magazine.
2.
I can't afford you,
10 speeds of mixing genius
from slow stir to rapid whisk
raising egg whites to cloud castles
a miracle of physics
force, equal and opposite reaction.
3.
Hook, whisk, and paddle,
recieved in '99
when I, 17 and foolish
made pastries instead of homework.
Avocado green,
and bought in '76
you improve my life
in ways promised
by Parade magazine.
2.
I can't afford you,
10 speeds of mixing genius
from slow stir to rapid whisk
raising egg whites to cloud castles
a miracle of physics
force, equal and opposite reaction.
3.
Hook, whisk, and paddle,
recieved in '99
when I, 17 and foolish
made pastries instead of homework.
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