Monthly archive for June 2013

Snack pwease

My view for 8 hours a day

This morning Ellie meticulously picked all of the raisins out of her Raisin Bran and then refused to eat any more. I told her she had to eat the bran part too, you can’t just eat the good parts and leave the rest behind. Then she stole all of the raisins out of MY bowl of Raisin Bran, and I wasn’t feeling too enthusiastic about eating just bran, so I guess I see her point.

Before Ellie came along, I worked for several years in the insurance industry, then for several years from home as a freelance copywriter. Now I stay at home with Ellie and do some writing on a part-time basis. I sometimes think back to my days working in the insurance mines, and I wonder if staying at home with Ellie and trying to balance part-time work on top of that is better or worse. Mostly I think it’s just wildly different, so much so that it’s really hard to compare. I do know, however, that I never had any conversations like this with any of my coworkers. (By way of background, I should tell you that we’ve been working with Ellie on manners, and she’s really good at “thank-you” but often needs to be reminded to say “please”, and the way we do that is by asking, “What do you say?” after she makes her demand, and she has consequently interpreted that to mean that any question starting with “what” needs to be answered with “please”. It makes communicating … complicated.)

Ellie: Snack!

Me: What do you say?

Ellie: Snack pwease!

Me: What do you want for snack?

Ellie: Snack PWEASE.

Me: Yes, okay, hmm. Do you want the rest of your smoothie from this morning?

Ellie: No.

Me: Do you want some yogurt?

Ellie: No.

Me: Cheese?

Ellie: No.

Me: Strawberries?

Ellie: No.

(a moment or two elapses while I try to remember what other food we have in the house)

Ellie: Snaaaaaaaack.

Me: But WHAT do you WANT for snack?

Ellie: Snack PWEASE.

Me: Do you want a granola bar?

Ellie: Yeah! Okay!

And then she only ate two bites of the granola bar, which I finished while sitting morosely on the couch in front of an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine.

Little orange crabs

Doctor prescribed pool-side relaxation

Hello! I have missed you all. You look lovely, by the way. Is that a new shirt? I can’t remember where things were at when we last chatted, but I’m pretty sure I was asking for book recommendations for Cuba. Which no one provided me with, but I will let it slide, because I managed to find plenty to read on my own. Cuba was lovely, with the exception of 48-hours of barfing (since apparently pregnant women are more susceptible to the kinds of food-borne illnesses you can catch while on a tropical vacation). However, the lovely Cuban doctor, who did not seem at all bothered by the pale, greenish Canadian woman weeping in his office, was a little concerned by my blood pressure and wasn’t swayed by my poor attempts to communicate that my blood pressure has been fine thus far this pregnancy, that I understand the risks, and that it was just high at that moment because of stress and misery, and instructed me in a stern voice that it was very important — both for the baby and I — that I relax, so we spent the rest of the week moving between the pool and the beach, and it ended up being quite a rejuvenating vacation. Incidentally, it cost us about as much on a per-dollar basis to see the doctor as it did to make a long-distance phone call home on Mother’s Day, so I suppose that is one point in favour of communism, although I am fairly certain (based on my rudimentary understanding of Spanish) that what the doctor wrote on our form was that I was suffering from an “upset stomach” so I expect we will not be likely to be able to claim it on our out-of-country insurance, or at least not as likely as we would be had he written down what I was actually suffering from (misery and imminent death).

I am feeling kind of tired and grumpy today because I was awake for two hours in the middle of the night because of what is becoming a regular occurrence, our neighbours a few houses down and across the street having some sort of loud gathering in their garage. I am really not sure what to do about this. I have contemplated having a polite conversation with them about the issue, but I have a very strong feeling that the sort of people that would regularly disrupt a quiet street in a quiet town with their partying ways are NOT the same sort of people who would respond to that confrontation with, “Oh, you are RIGHT. How inconsiderate of us! I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. By the way, your hair looks nice.” I spent my awake time last night trying to mentally draft a note to leave anonymously on their door, but the nicest version I could come up with basically said, “You are terrible members of our community and no one wants to hear your stupid music” so perhaps I need to work on a second draft.

And speaking of emotional instability, I went shopping the other day at a Carter’s store because Ellie needs new pajamas, and I was thinking I would buy a little something for the new baby, who it turns out is a boy. (A boy! Mike and I are in discussions about names, because while we had a girl name all picked out, a boy name we can both agree on still eludes us.) As I was browsing around, a country song came over the speaker system in the store, and I can’t remember any of the lyrics of the song or what it was called, but the gist of it was a man was encouraging his wife not to rush things, not to rush their marriage or a pregnancy or the babyhood of their kids, because someday she was desperately going to want that time back. So anyway, my point is last week I cried in a children’s clothing store, dabbing at my tears with a tiny blue sleeper embroidered with little orange crabs. Perhaps I need to go back to the beach.