A Mid Week Picture Update

Whee hee apparently we have internet! It makes me feel a wee bit better about being in Hawaii and not being able to do much of anything due to Squidge-alea! (That's her Hawaiian name. I am Crystalani! And then of course, there's Maui Mario.)

I can't wait to write more about my cousin's beautiful wedding--think Hawaiian dancers, a fire dancer, leis all around, fantastic food and cocktails, and a great party!--I thought I'd post a couple of pictures. They are from the surprise shower I threw for my cousin, the sunset cruise the night before the wedding, the wedding ceremony itself at the beautiful Maui Prince Hotel (the ceremony was in the morning, the party at night), and other general pictures of Scarlett being adorable.

Vignettes of Peevery and Joy

I miss my blog. I don't know why I just can't find time to get to it. Okay, well maybe I do know why. Last week, I was frantically finishing up summer school, then frantically writing a conference paper, then frantically heading to Denver to attend the conference, then heading home, and now frantic again--we are leaving tomorrow for Hawaii, and NOTHING is done! No packing, none of the other tasks I need to accomplish. Should i be blogging? No. But, I've been away a long time, and will likely be away a while longer after this.

I have so much I could write about. So this will be a series of mini-moments:

* I survived my first (36-hour) absence from the bug! I admit to sniveling my pathetic way through the airport after saying goodbye, but once on my way I managed to enjoy my inordinate freedom quite extensively despite only having to pump like EVERY TWO HOURS, because for some unexplainable reason being away made my production factory kick into overdrive.

* Or perhaps it was the alcohol? I may have committed a petite conference no-no by getting quite buzzed (off of two glasses of wine!) after a very, very impolite and unprofessional person was rude after my presentation. Very occasionally people can be snide and nasty at conferences, but I was not expecting it at this time. People reassured me that my presentation was fine (retrospectively, it could have been better I know) and that she was in the wrong, but it still cast a pall on my experience, compelling me to drown my sorrows in house red, seek reassurance from everyone in our crew that I had done okay, and then proceed to babble shamelessly at strangers in the buffet line. It probably would have been in my best interests to be a tad more disciplined, yes. At least, when we continued to imbibe well into the night, we did it down on 16th street rather than at the conference hotel where the staid, responsible compositionists would not be mentally filing my name and face in the "Do Not Hire" file.

* At least the eatin' was good. I am telling you: Grand Hyatt, downtown Denver. Best conference food I have EVER had, hands down.

* And I got some really great ideas from some of the presentations I observed. Yippee! It's good to get pumped up with motivation and ideas for new projects!

* Speaking of pumping--That airline security guards should be total wankers and fixate on the most inappropriate and non-terrorist objects must be written in the job application. When I went to Seattle in May, I got crap for having a spoon in my purse (maybe I could cut out someone's heart with it?) and this time, I got it for...wait for it...you guessed it...MY BREAST PUMP. A snippet of the exchange:

Him (stopping the conveyor belt to peer at his little x-rays): You have a bottle in your bag.
Me: An EMPTY bottle.
Him: You have a small, plastic, bottle in your bag.
Me: Yes. There is nothing in it. There isn't even a lid on it.
Him: It's an empty plastic bottle? (in a tone implying suspicion of WMD)
Me: It's. My. PUMP. Because I'm. BREASTFEEDING.
Him: I'm going to need to take a look.
Me: Go ahead. Take it out. Fondle it. Embarrass yourself. Let me know when you're done.

Granted, breast pumping isn't exactly a thrill. But I am pretty sure that it would not be an effective terrorist threat. ("Everyone stay in your seats why we fly this plane into the National Bowling Stadium! Fuck with us and you WILL get pumped!")

* And while I'm talking about terror, I'm a little concerned Mario and I might be in for it with a little bully. Yesterday some good friends were in town when I got home last night, including a couple who had a baby about 12 weeks after we did, cute little Landyn with the most kissable, pinchable cheeks. And what did Scarlett do when we plopped them down together? Immediately, and multiple times, grab Landyn's plug out of her mouth and stick it in her own, leaving her to cry sadly. Sigh...we are really in for it!

Wish us luck in Hawaii. After twelve hundred tasks and errands today, we have to drive to the Bay Area tomorrow to catch our flight. Um, yeah...wish us LOTS of luck!

Trouble at the Pump

Whew, sorry for the long hiatus from the Bloggosphere! Our internet router has been broken and then we were out of town. We could get little snippets of my sister's connection next door, but it was tenuous at best and not conducive to good quality internet time. Finally Mario went and bought another router today at Best Buy and we are back in the game!

It's probably good that I've taken a break, because I think maybe Scarlett has been reading my blog, and has seen some of the negative comments I've posted about breastfeeding. No wait...that would imply that she actually CARED what I think! Either way, she's up to something, and that something is rejecting the breast. Since last Thursday, she's been a total turd when I've tried to feed her. She'll eat for a minute or so and then start arching and whining and trying to look in the other direction. Feedings that used to be 15 to 20 minutes are now no more than four if I'm lucky. At first, I thought it might just be gas, or some other kind of pain, or a brief phase. But it's getting close to a week now and things don't seem to be improving. I can only guess that this is because a) now that she's having formula and baby food she's decided these new tastes are superior to mom's milk, b) she's such a busybody she hates been made to lie down facing me, away from the action, or c) she's just plain contentious and she's sensed that even though I only originally committed to six months of this, I had recently decided it was too soon to stop.

I have heard of babies doing this...just up and deciding they are done with breastfeeding. Apparently my sister did it when she was eight months (my mom was pissed at her because it was right before summer and she was hoping to have big boobies for bikini season!) and one of Mario's cousin's babies that we saw this weekend was over it at six months. I called the doctor yesterday and they said there is really nothing I can do except start offering her a bottle when she won't eat. I knew that would be the end of it, so I was reluctant to accept that suggestion, but I finally did it tonight, because of course keeping her healthy and happy is the most important thing. The little twit arched and whined on the boob but then sucked two ounces of formula down, sweet as pie, and afterwards scarfed half a jar of butternut squash.

Granted, this is probably the control freak in me being bummed because I'm not the one making the choice here. But I have to admit, I'm a little sad. Unless something changes pretty quick here, this is going to be the end of the road for the Milk Cow. For all my talk about looking forward to weaning her, I had finally come around in the last couple of months to understanding what some women rave about when they talk about breastfeeding. It was sweet to feel that bond with her, to have her want me and only me when she's hungry or needs comfort. Even though it's a huge tie-down, it's also been time when I have been forced to take breaks from my hectic life and just sit down to enjoy her, to soak myself in her infanthood, to marvel at the baby-soft feeling of her scalp and wiggle her little toes and stroke the soft skin of her arms and legs and rub her little back while she looked up at me, sucking away so earnestly.

Sigh.

Curses, Foiled Again!

Rrrgh. Don't you hate it when you are finally getting into a solid exercise routine and something just comes along to knock you out of it? I have been quite the good girl for the last two weeks, wogging almost every morning (or doing a nice long walk on my days off) and all was going along swimmingly (strollingly?). Scarlett becomes the most lovely, mellow, contemplative baby in the stroller, and most days I've even been able to milk this rare mood--I've found if I shower as soon as we get back to the house, I can usually get 5-10 minutes scream-free! I've been gradually increasing my distance and the length of time I spend out, and have been feeling great. Runners Go Bragh!

Then (da da da dum) enter...the STUBBED TOE.

A stubbed toe is one of those frustrating ailments that garners you absolutely zero sympathy while being ridiculously painful. I got mine this morning by venturing recklessly through dangerous terrain I should have known to avoid...aka, my backyard, which as you saw from my previous post has become a war, I mean construction zone. (In good news, the veranda is looking AWESOME thanks to Two Daring Dads who weren't afraid to sweat and swallow sawdust on Father's Day--my dad and my husband. Pics soon!) There I was, carrying the Squidge out for a look-see at the progress, when BOOM went my toe into a piece of wood which had, I'm quite sure, not been there before. (My normal recourse in these situations, howling at my husband, was tragically not an option as this is one of his few Howl-free Holidays). It hurt at the time, but not really enough to slow me down. Over the course of the day, however, this injury has shown its true colors, which are black, blue, and puffy (okay, I know puffy is not a color, but it should be, don't you think?). Now, I am hobbling about like a gouty old lady.

Fudge. I have a sneaking suspicion this is going to mess with my morning exercise routine for awhile. Wish me luck that my dumb toe returns to normal proportions before I remember the joys of being a slug.

Okay, enough trying to eek out some meager rations of sympathy (it's not working anyway, is it?). I really should be lesson planning...tomorrow morning is coming much sooner than I'd like, and I'm not even slightly prepared. Sometime this week I will blog about the joys of teaching summer school to college fresh, fresh, FRESH-men--we're talking graduated high school Saturday, started my class Monday kind of fresh! Ah, how I love having impressionable young minds at my disposal. Kidding, kidding! Hope everyone's weekend was great.

Do the Veranda Pokey, and You Turn Yourself Around

Here are Squidge and I in the aftermath of the construction war which took place at my house this weekend, which involved three/two men, enough tools to sink a ship (or perhaps keep one from sinking), a stack of wood, and a veranda which just refused to get built! My mom and I watched Saturday and Sunday slowly slip away as "the boys" (Mario and my dad, and Brandon on Saturday) fillibustered over plans until a project that was SUPPOSED to take one weekend ended in, well, the state seen in the picture above. We started singing "The Veranda Pokey," which went a little something like this:

You put the lag screws in, you pull the lag screws out,
You put the lag screws in, and then you throw 'em on the ground,
You drive off to Home Depot and you buy yourself some more,
And THAT's what it's all about!

Now I have to deal with THIS mess until next weekend!

Wogging, With Baggage

Ooooh. Life with my new Expedition jogging stroller (yes, not as cool as the Bob, but then in all fairness, I really don't deserve a Bob at this out-of-shape juncture in my life) is...well...rather achy. Good Girl Crystal (while slacking off on eating healthy, ssshhh!) has been out on wogs (jogs with some walking involved) almost every morning this week, and is feeling that burn! The one morning I stayed in was only because it was cold and windy and yucky, and I didn't think it was fair to subject Scarlett to the atmospheric cruelties of my quest for firmer flab.

And flabby I am. As I was telling a friend of mine recently, in my heart I am a distance runner. In my legs and back and lungs, however, I am a post-baby rocking-chair potato, and it's pretty hard to convince those delinquent parts that my heart has the right idea. But I am trying. I have discovered that my neighborhood, which I normally spend a large amount of time complaining about (one must cross the railroad tracks, pass a trailer park, and venture through a neighborhood of manufactured homes to reach my subdivision, and in most of the houses around me dwell at least twelve people with sixteen cars between them, at least one of which "bumps" home sometime after 10pm each night, and hardly anyone takes care of their lawns), actually has a lot of quiet streets with wide shoulders, perfect for wogging. And Squidge is being QUITE cooperative...so far, she just hangs onto the stroller sides all sweetly and quietly absorbs the world until she nods off! I keep waiting for THAT worm to turn, because generally my pretty little devil is just not quite that angelic.

I believe, if I listen to my heart (and ignore my lazy butt, which would really like to stay in bed longer in the mornings) that I can regain my former distance-running ability. Okay, maybe not, although it is still my dearest goal in life to run a marathon someday while I am still reasonably young. The one thing that is gone, however--at least for now--is the fabulous feeling of freedom one gets by strapping on a pair of shoes, hooking one's key to one's sports bra, and heading out the door. No tire patching kits or tubes, no carabiners or special shoes, no paddles and life vests needed. Some call running boring, but for me there have been years of my life where I did my clearest thinking running miles and miles, me and the road and maybe a good hip hop mix. Now, however, it's me, the road, the hip hop mix, the stroller, the Squidge, the flowered blanky, the crazy peacock, the pull-toy monkey, the sucky, the cell phone...

The great thing about the jogging stroller is that packing this crap along is virtually painless, with all its handy little pockets. In fact, the only baggage that's giving me pain is that which resides on my chest. Pain of the "Bewbies," as my friend Jenna calls them, is apparently a fact of post-pregnancy running, and something I've never had to deal with before, given my girls' historic predilection for the "more than a mouthful" camp. And, let's be honest, breastfeeding may have endowed me a LEETLE more, but my B cups (B- and B+, depending on the side) are still by no means traffic stoppers. Yet that doesn't stop them from aching like a mofo after the most innocent little wog. Owwwwwwwww!

The IDEAL jogging stroller, I'm thinking, would have some sort of boobage support extending from the handle...I can see it now! It's going to make me millions...no? Okay, fine. Back to the drawing board. In the meantime, no one hug me too hard!

Precious Gifts

From Mario:
A jogging stroller
Running clothes (hmm, wonder what he wants me to do!)
Cute Mary Jane Crocs
The greatest card ever (see post below)
An attempt at birthday lovin'

From my sister and Scott:
Pyrex dishes (much needed)
Promise of dinner and a movie, complete with baby-sitter (VERY much needed!)

From my mom and dad:
Half an iphone (email on the run, here I come!)
RX Crocs (I gotta admit it, I love me some Crocs)
Delicious Oregon berry conserves and jam (I'm looking forward to breakfast!)
A fantastic fresh seafood dinner

From my daughter:
Very, very, very early birthday wishes (beginning at 2:30 am, and continuing until well into the morning)
A nap that ended rather sooner than expected (use your imagination, but here's a hint: it corresponds to why the birthday lovin' was only an "attempt")
A gentle reminder that small portions are best (she kindly fussed and cried throughout dinner, preventing me from overindulging in above-mentioned seafood)
Plenty of drooly, barfy kisses, and big gummy baby grins!

Ahhh...nothing like a birthday, surrounded by those who love you best!