Sometimes so many bad things happen in a row it starts being kind of funny. And then you get rear ended just days before you finally get to bring your first baby home. Let's just think about the latter part.
I mean, I suppose I've been a mom since I got pregnant. And then more officially at special moments like childbirth, the first diaper change, the first time I got to hold Finley . . . blah blah blah. But I've always felt like I'm not quite a mom until I actually bring my baby home and lose weeks of sleep feeding him in the middle of the night. At the very least I feel like I don't know if I'm going to be even a halfway decent mom until I know I can do this impossibly hard part.
So I'm flipping out a little bit since I have no idea what car I'm bringing Finley home in, and the doctor says that'll be probably Saturday, which I'm hearing as sometime between Saturday and Tuesday. We'll sleep over with him at the hospital tomorrow night, and then pray like mad we all make it through this thing.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Suburbia
I need a book.
It was around 10:00 a.m. when I got the urge to do the dishes. Instead of giving in, I decided to walk to the mailbox. I wasn't shocked by the very suburban rows of trash cans lined up in front of houses (each painted one of four painstakingly bland color combinations). We pay monthly HOA dues to make absolutely sure that (a) the trash is picked up each Tuesday, and (b) nobody paints their house an interesting color.
I was surprised that on my block there were two men at home in the middle of the day and two motorcycles (not lawnmowers) with rumbling motors pulling into separate garages. That the men and the motorcycles should go together is no odd thing—what unemployed man wouldn't have a death wish best fulfilled by a long and bloody skid down the asphalt? Irresponsible vehicle choices aside, I'll hope for the best and assume these people are making mortgage payments by clicking ads online, which I have heard through my television friends to be quite lucrative. And which, I'd imagine, could give someone the same kind of death wish.
And that's the sum of the entertainment happening outside. My stay-at-home motherhood clearly will not be like Rear Window or Desperate Housewives. I've only seen three spiders, so no Arachnophobia here, either. The lawns aren't nice enough for this to be Stepford, and I'm not sure anyone here steps out in their robe and slippers to pick up the paper.
It's after noon and now the trash cans have all been blown onto their backs by the breeze. I tried washing dishes with the window open, but the neighbor's dog wanted a loud cross-fence chat, and I didn't. If I weren't going to leave for the hospital in another hour, I'd bake someone cookies and go introduce myself.
And I know better than to expect some drama from the NICU—it isn't the coma ward after all—unless a set of twins has been separated at birth, or there's a case of mistaken paternity. Or mistaken maternity, which, thanks to IVF, is a thing now, and has provided us with several movie and TV plot twists over the past few years.
You can plainly see that having no book has forced me spend hours honing my mental acuity with BrainAge, which in turn has given me way too much brain power to spend looking out my window for fun.
As a result, I need a book.
It was around 10:00 a.m. when I got the urge to do the dishes. Instead of giving in, I decided to walk to the mailbox. I wasn't shocked by the very suburban rows of trash cans lined up in front of houses (each painted one of four painstakingly bland color combinations). We pay monthly HOA dues to make absolutely sure that (a) the trash is picked up each Tuesday, and (b) nobody paints their house an interesting color.
I was surprised that on my block there were two men at home in the middle of the day and two motorcycles (not lawnmowers) with rumbling motors pulling into separate garages. That the men and the motorcycles should go together is no odd thing—what unemployed man wouldn't have a death wish best fulfilled by a long and bloody skid down the asphalt? Irresponsible vehicle choices aside, I'll hope for the best and assume these people are making mortgage payments by clicking ads online, which I have heard through my television friends to be quite lucrative. And which, I'd imagine, could give someone the same kind of death wish.
And that's the sum of the entertainment happening outside. My stay-at-home motherhood clearly will not be like Rear Window or Desperate Housewives. I've only seen three spiders, so no Arachnophobia here, either. The lawns aren't nice enough for this to be Stepford, and I'm not sure anyone here steps out in their robe and slippers to pick up the paper.
It's after noon and now the trash cans have all been blown onto their backs by the breeze. I tried washing dishes with the window open, but the neighbor's dog wanted a loud cross-fence chat, and I didn't. If I weren't going to leave for the hospital in another hour, I'd bake someone cookies and go introduce myself.
And I know better than to expect some drama from the NICU—it isn't the coma ward after all—unless a set of twins has been separated at birth, or there's a case of mistaken paternity. Or mistaken maternity, which, thanks to IVF, is a thing now, and has provided us with several movie and TV plot twists over the past few years.
You can plainly see that having no book has forced me spend hours honing my mental acuity with BrainAge, which in turn has given me way too much brain power to spend looking out my window for fun.
As a result, I need a book.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)