I'm cleaning closets like a madwoman.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The New Mile High Club
Well, I did it.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
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