oneofhismoms is full of milk.
oneofhismoms is sore around the nipp1e region.
oneofhismoms is wishing she could have skipped all the post-partum body yucks.
oneofhismoms is empty of milk.
oneofhismoms is pumping.
oneofhismoms is pumping again.
oneofhismoms is thinkin that making milk is both very cool and a little spooky.
oneofhismoms is tired of washing bottles.
oneofhismoms is too busy washing bottles to blog anymore.
oneofhismoms is realizing that her back hurts a lot less now that she doesn’t have to carry the baby around all day.
oneofhismoms is missing carrying the baby around all day.
oneofhismoms is hearing a voice in her head.
oneofhismoms is all “HEY! STOP UPDATING STATUS IN MY HEAD!”
oneofhismoms is SHUT UUUPP.
oneofhismoms is banging her head against the table.
oneofhismoms is holding a bat up to the computer?
oneofhismoms is…. oneofhismoms? Hello?
You have places to go. People to eat.
Your brother, when he was your age, would be fine plopped down on a blanket with a toy to chew on. Not you. Oh no. You have no desire to stay still. You roll around the entire room. You try to eat the cat. The cat loves it. We have to separate the two of you regularly.
You hate to be tied down. You hate all of your snowsuits. You hate socks. You hate the car. You have the get-up-and-go of a toddler. Yet you cannot toddle. You try to squirm off of our laps. Yet you cannot stand. You just learned to sit up around your 6 month birthday, which falls on the same date as your neighbor, Hymen’s real birthday, which means you will both have cake on your half-birthdays for as long as we live near each other.
You still love to watch your brother. Now you try to eat him. Now you sometimes pull his hair. He just laughs. (After he screams.) Sometimes, your brother makes you crack up into screeches of hysteria so cute, Mommy and Mama try not to explode.
You keep Mommy so busy she barely has time to blog. Like right now. Are you waking up? Will Mommy have time to write about how you love your grrrrls at daycare –yes, you are the only boy in the baby room — a man among women. How you totally dig watching all the butterflies and hearts and swirly things they have hanging from the ceiling there?
No, no she will not.
Gotta go, Love,
Who knew there’d be so much interest in my wheels?
It is a Xootr. I love it. It is better than a Razor because the board is nice and wide, so you can actually stand with both feet next to each other on the board and steer by leaning ever-so-slightly to one side. It is also a fair bit pricier than a Razor, I think. It has a hand break, and I’m pretty sure the Razor does not. But way cheaper than a car. It folds down small enough to fit in my closet at school. It does not fold as small as the Razor. The music teacher, the man I shamelessly copied in his scooterdom, actually scoots to school with his seven-year-old daughter standing in front of him. Though it says to only ride with one person in the directions, I plan to have the same foolhardy reckless commute with my son when he (hopefully, don’t get me started) commutes to my school with me.
I don’t know if it is good on hills, because I’ve only ridden it back and forth to school. I should try it around the park circle!
It has shaved down my commute. It now takes me 2 less minutes to get to school. That may seem insubstantial, but when one’s commute is only 7 minutes long, 2 minutes is huge. Also consider the average teacher prep period of 45 minutes. That day I had to run home and back, I had those four minutes of my prep. A teacher worth her salt can get oodles done alone in her classroom in four minutes. I think it is actually faster if there is a tail wind and slower against the wind.
I should remember to always wear gloves if scooting in 20 degree weather. This morning my hands were almost frozen into handlebar semi-fists.
What else? No, I don’t get tired. I get pumped. It is fun, so by the time I get to school, I have a little rush going on. It is less work than walking. This does make me think I’m missing some important exercise I used to get. But I don’t much care.
I ride on the streets. I don’t know if you’ve seen the sidewalks in Brooklyn, but one would need a 4X4 scooter to manage them without breaking one’s neck. There is only one busy block, but it has a bike path. The rest of the way is smooth sailing on not-much-traffic residential streets.
PS Lyn, WTF? I don’t see any reason why you can’t ride a bike while TTC. Anyone? Anyone? Co? Cali? What say you?
Or: No. It Is Not Quite a Vespa.
Note the Michelain Man winter coat and clashing green backpack for full geek effect.
When I was in college, I wanted to become a professor so I could walk around campus wearing a man’s suit and smoking a pipe. If people were talking about me, they’d say, “You know, the one who always wears a man’s suit and smokes a pipe?”
As a second=grade teacher, I guess I had to find a different outlet for my fake eccentricity. Smoking a pipe probably wouldn’t fly with the principal. On Friday I forgot some important papers at home. The scooter allowed me to rush home, get the papers and get back to school in under 15 minutes. I wasn’t even tired!
I love it because it is fun. Who has a fun commute, I ask you? The only way I could have a more fun commute would be if I had a zip cord that took me to school. Now there’s a thought…
When I first heard about blogs, they were introduced to me as a “diary that other people can read.” This post is a bit of a diary entry.
Something has changed in me. Is it hormonal? Dear God, it’s me, oneofhismoms.
I’ve always been pretty anxious. Especially as an adult.
This week, I went back to work after my maternity leave. Two weeks before this week, I went to South Carolina to visit my out-laws for the holiday. Sometime in there, my whole psyche shifted. I’m not crazy anymore. I mean, not crazy. I wasn’t mad. But I was crazed, a bit. This is difficult to describe. But I’m back at work, I’m not so stressed. When I went to South Carolina, all the cultural differences that usually bugged me did not. By cultural differences, I mostly mean disregard for the environment by driving huge cars and eating off of plastic when you don’t need to, and eating waaaay too much unhealthy (but delicious) food.
It is almost as though I’ve taken a step outside of myself. All the things that overwhelmed me seem smaller, somehow. Things I couldn’t wrap my whole head around don’t seem so insurmountable.
Perhaps it is because I’ve had six months of rest? Perhaps I’m too tired to care? Am I more mature?
Has this happened to any of you?
PS Pix of the geekmobile coming soon. Um, no it is not a Vespa.
I rode my scooter to work!
I’m a big old teacher lady in a green sleeping-bag-looking down coat riding a scooter to work. And I’m not ashamed.
It was fun. And what I need on this, my first week back at work, is some fun, dagnabit.
It is inevitable. When I go on a trip somewhere I’ve already been I spend a lot of time thinking about the last time I was there. The last time we went to my honey’s mom’s house in South Carolina, my blog was three months young. It was July 4 weekend, 2007. I think. I’m pretty sure. I may be confusing two visits.
One memory I kept having was of stumbling upon eggdropblogger‘s blog, while sitting by the pool (because it is the only place we could “borrow” a neighbor’s wifi.) Since then, she’s developed quite a following. She’s also become an IRL friend. I’m really glad I found her.
I remember I was in the middle of a TWW. It was one that didn’t work, obviously. But each one, I realize now, was a step toward the one that did work. And each one made me both stronger and weaker — both more optimistic and more pessimistic. Each one brought me closer to my invisible friends on the internets.
This is a memory that was probably from an earlier trip. We called the sperm bank and they actually had four more vials of our cakiedonor. So much hope. But not enough foresite to actually go to a doctor and step up the odds. Now I know that it took five tries at the doctor. It never would have been with cakiedonorsperm. Which is ok. There is only one Trucker. He is 100% himself and 100% perfect with the genes he has, thank you very much. In hindsite it makes all sperm donor stress seem tiny. I don’t really know how much it matters who piddled in a jar in California. Perhaps when the boys grow up, if one of them finds his donor and the other does not or something like that, it will matter more. For now, I’m extremely happy with both generous men who helped us make our family.
I’m happy it didn’t work when it didn’t work. And I’m elated that it did when it did. It really was the only way to get my son. The one I was supposed to get: my Trucker.