Binkytowne

Stop snoring Barak, I'm trying to scream at my nanny.

I don't condone that type of thing, but if someone really needed to me administer some form of torture at some point in time, I would be an expert. I would just let them fall asleep and then be woken up again and again by the toddler who needs no sleep. Easy.

I'm at the point where I don't really sleep, there is no slow descent into nighty-night land.

Do not sleep peacefully. Do not pass go. Collapse immediately into REM state where all kinds of wacky things are going on.

This is the dream world I was living in when the alarm went off today:

Sleeping in the bedroom, Barak Obama is in one twin size bed, my nanny*, sleeping in another twin sized bed, someone else who is famous and recognizable that I can't remember now, but could recall clearly as I bolted awake, sleeping in a twin bed. The husband and I are sleeping in our real bed. (*I don't have a nanny).

The nanny starts talking. My husband says to her "Nanny (she had a name, I can't remember it either anymore) I've told you it's alright to massage my feet but it's not alright to talk at 6 o'clock in the morning."

What did you say? I ask, outraged.

I forgot to tell you, I gave him a massage, says the nanny.

I'm so furious I'm trying to yell, but a very hoarse mangled voice comes out. (doesn't that always happen in dreams? Dammit! I can't even be outraged in my sleep.)

This is my house and this is MY MAN and there will be no massages. Do you understand me? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? Now go back to sleep.

Cut to the basement of the house I grew up in. To the left of the stairs we had a big carpet that was a play area. I haven't thought about that since we moved out twenty years ago. I'm on the telephone, still pissed, telling my best friend on the phone that my husband had his feet massaged. My mother appears, I hang up on my best friend and start complaining to my mother. She defends my husband.      

I wake up.

Outstanding Questions:

I routinely have dreams where I scream at my mother, this time, it's her I'm confiding in and I'm mad at my husband. I was mad at him over the weekend for kicking a mini-basketball and hitting me in the face, but it was an accident and didn't have anything to do with massages.

What was Obama doing sleeping in my room?

What's with the basement of my childhood house?

If I had a nanny why wasn't I asleep?

*Side note: We made the switch to a toddler bed this weekend, thinking since little man was already not sleeping and wanting to sleep on the floor when he awakens at night, we might as well make the transition now and deal with it. It's going very, very badly.

Stop snoring Barak, I'm trying to scream at my nanny.

I don't condone that type of thing, but if someone really needed to me administer some form of torture at some point in time, I would be an expert. I would just let them fall asleep and then be woken up again and again by the toddler who needs no sleep. Easy.

I'm at the point where I don't really sleep, there is no slow descent into nighty-night land.

Do not sleep peacefully. Do not pass go. Collapse immediately into REM state where all kinds of wacky things are going on.

This is the dream world I was living in when the alarm went off today:

Sleeping in the bedroom, Barak Obama is in one twin size bed, my nanny*, sleeping in another twin sized bed, someone else who is famous and recognizable that I can't remember now, but could recall clearly as I bolted awake, sleeping in a twin bed. The husband and I are sleeping in our real bed. (*I don't have a nanny).

The nanny starts talking. My husband says to her "Nanny (she had a name, I can't remember it either anymore) I've told you it's alright to massage my feet but it's not alright to talk at 6 o'clock in the morning."

What did you say? I ask, outraged.

I forgot to tell you, I gave him a massage, says the nanny.

I'm so furious I'm trying to yell, but a very hoarse mangled voice comes out. (doesn't that always happen in dreams? Dammit! I can't even be outraged in my sleep.)

This is my house and this is MY MAN and there will be no massages. Do you understand me? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? Now go back to sleep.

Cut to the basement of the house I grew up in. To the left of the stairs we had a big carpet that was a play area. I haven't thought about that since we moved out twenty years ago. I'm on the telephone, still pissed, telling my best friend on the phone that my husband had his feet massaged. My mother appears, I hang up on my best friend and start complaining to my mother. She defends my husband.      

I wake up.

Outstanding Questions:

I routinely have dreams where I scream at my mother, this time, it's her I'm confiding in and I'm mad at my husband. I was mad at him over the weekend for kicking a mini-basketball and hitting me in the face, but it was an accident and didn't have anything to do with massages.

What was Obama doing sleeping in my room?

What's with the basement of my childhood house?

If I had a nanny why wasn't I asleep?

*Side note: We made the switch to a toddler bed this weekend, thinking since little man was already not sleeping and wanting to sleep on the floor when he awakens at night, we might as well make the transition now and deal with it. It's going very, very badly.

SPACE CASE

I'm seriously sleep deprived. Little man has been waking between 2-3 AM each night. Demanding things: WATER. LAY TOGETHER. BLANKET. NO BLANKET. BLAAAANKEEET. I know blah blah, you've heard it all before but I just can't figure this out. He was awake from 3-5:30. Just awake. On the floor with a pillow and a blanket. I can't fall asleep for fear that he will wander around in the darkness of his room and find the one thing that's buried in the back of the closet that I don't know is back there which could cause him serious harm. Because that's the way you think in the middle of the night after being up all night for four nights. And not napping, but getting up with bags under your bloodshot eyes and going to work. Where you have to go the bathroom. A bathroom that you share with a random hundred or so women from the company that you know by face but not by name.

Sometimes one of my favorite parts of the day is spacing out. I will often go to the bathroom, take care of things and then sit for a minute. Sometimes I hold my head in my hands. Sometimes I stare blankly at nothing. Sometimes I pick my cuticles. Other times I ponder what patterns the salt stains on my boots appear to be. Basically, I'm fucking off but really, I don't think that's asking for too much, to be able to fuck off for three to five minutes twice a day. Some people take cigarette breaks. I take space breaks.

Today as I entered the two stall bathroom in my corner of the office there was a woman I recognize washing out a dish in the sink. I proceeded into stall one, making obligatory eye contact and a half smile as I passed her. Maybe I was in super space out mode but I didn't hear anyone in stall two. See survival in an office bathroom dictates that you be aware of people around you at all times. Had I been alert I would have realized sink lady hadn't left, but I was too busy, zoning.

After my relaxing space out episode I walked out to see sink lady leaning against the wall waiting for a stall. Surprised to see her I said- Oh, sorry. Huh? Sorry? Did I just say that out loud? Because in my spaced out head I was thinking, damn, she had to go to the bathroom and I was just sitting there and she must know that because there was no sound. But to say sorry, well that just doesn't make any sense. I hoped maybe she didn't register my stupidity, but out of I'm sure sheer politeness, if not awkwardness she said that's ok.

My brain being mush I blurted out I guess I spaced out in there. Jesus. She doesn't care what I did in there. Get out of the bathroom now! Silence. Good. She thinks I'm talking to someone else, or crazy, which is a better option than socially awkward in my book. Then came, well, it IS Friday.

I'm going to have to avoid that bathroom for awhile.

   

 

Friday Foto

SPACE CASE

I'm seriously sleep deprived. Little man has been waking between 2-3 AM each night. Demanding things: WATER. LAY TOGETHER. BLANKET. NO BLANKET. BLAAAANKEEET. I know blah blah, you've heard it all before but I just can't figure this out. He was awake from 3-5:30. Just awake. On the floor with a pillow and a blanket. I can't fall asleep for fear that he will wander around in the darkness of his room and find the one thing that's buried in the back of the closet that I don't know is back there which could cause him serious harm. Because that's the way you think in the middle of the night after being up all night for four nights. And not napping, but getting up with bags under your bloodshot eyes and going to work. Where you have to go the bathroom. A bathroom that you share with a random hundred or so women from the company that you know by face but not by name.

Sometimes one of my favorite parts of the day is spacing out. I will often go to the bathroom, take care of things and then sit for a minute. Sometimes I hold my head in my hands. Sometimes I stare blankly at nothing. Sometimes I pick my cuticles. Other times I ponder what patterns the salt stains on my boots appear to be. Basically, I'm fucking off but really, I don't think that's asking for too much, to be able to fuck off for three to five minutes twice a day. Some people take cigarette breaks. I take space breaks.

Today as I entered the two stall bathroom in my corner of the office there was a woman I recognize washing out a dish in the sink. I proceeded into stall one, making obligatory eye contact and a half smile as I passed her. Maybe I was in super space out mode but I didn't hear anyone in stall two. See survival in an office bathroom dictates that you be aware of people around you at all times. Had I been alert I would have realized sink lady hadn't left, but I was too busy, zoning.

After my relaxing space out episode I walked out to see sink lady leaning against the wall waiting for a stall. Surprised to see her I said- Oh, sorry. Huh? Sorry? Did I just say that out loud? Because in my spaced out head I was thinking, damn, she had to go to the bathroom and I was just sitting there and she must know that because there was no sound. But to say sorry, well that just doesn't make any sense. I hoped maybe she didn't register my stupidity, but out of I'm sure sheer politeness, if not awkwardness she said that's ok.

My brain being mush I blurted out I guess I spaced out in there. Jesus. She doesn't care what I did in there. Get out of the bathroom now! Silence. Good. She thinks I'm talking to someone else, or crazy, which is a better option than socially awkward in my book. Then came, well, it IS Friday.

I'm going to have to avoid that bathroom for awhile.

   

 

Friday Foto

Fat Tuesday

I started to write an open letter, a funny one, to all the people in the world trying to sabotage my 24 hour old diet. The one I stayed on just one day and technically cheated on because I ate cake after dinner. After my very sensible dinner, which followed a day of fruit and vegetable eating sensible breakfasts and lunches and did not include any candy at work, which I can't remember the last time I even attempted to do that. Still, it was cake. I wrote about how good it was and you don't just let the best chocolate cake you've ever had sit around and get crusty. That would be disrespectful. I was pointing fingers at the woman who brought in punchkis today and the vendor who sent us cookies. Ha ha. Funny.

You see Friday I realized my jelly wasn't where it was supposed to be and yes, I just washed those particular jeans and yes, I probably was retaining some water, but I know that I know it's more than that. But I don't want to write about it.

I don't have a weight problem, I have a sweet tooth and a lack of discipline-ten pound problem. My BMI is where it is supposed to be. My midsection doesn't look the same as it used to, but I am not overweight. My health, my back, my joints, my ability to play with my kid, they are all just fine. I just want to be thinner. Because I just want to. There I've said it.

But writing about it, talking about it, seems disrespectful to people who really do have to battle high blood pressure or diabetes or an ailment related to the number on the scale. Aside from that, I'm a parent now. People are worth more than the size in the tag on their jeans. Oh sure, I tsk-tsk and shake my head at the models literally starving themselves to death but at the same time I long for slender hips that will slide into the size four skirt I have stashed in my bottom dresser drawer. The one I know I will never ever fit in again, but the one I can't bear to throw away.

If I could squeeze into it then what? Will my life be different? Will it be back to the way it was when I could wear it? No. Is that what I really want? Not really. Sometimes. Just for a day. What am I trying to prove?  I don't know. I sneak sideways glances at moms who are skinnier than me and wonder how they do it. I see tiny twenty-somethings around the office and think, I could still look like that if I hadn't had a baby, trying to rationalize it, when no one is asking me to.

Some mornings I stand in the mirror and cover my hips with my hands. I pretend the image in the mirror is what it was and I think wow. Then I think so what? I didn't have hips once, but I didn't have a lot of other things either. So I have hips. Big fucking deal. I shouldn't care. I do.

I wonder why when I'm so incredibly lucky, when my life is so large, that all I can wish for is smaller hips.

Quelle horreur, mon amis.

Fat Tuesday

I started to write an open letter, a funny one, to all the people in the world trying to sabotage my 24 hour old diet. The one I stayed on just one day and technically cheated on because I ate cake after dinner. After my very sensible dinner, which followed a day of fruit and vegetable eating sensible breakfasts and lunches and did not include any candy at work, which I can't remember the last time I even attempted to do that. Still, it was cake. I wrote about how good it was and you don't just let the best chocolate cake you've ever had sit around and get crusty. That would be disrespectful. I was pointing fingers at the woman who brought in punchkis today and the vendor who sent us cookies. Ha ha. Funny.

You see Friday I realized my jelly wasn't where it was supposed to be and yes, I just washed those particular jeans and yes, I probably was retaining some water, but I know that I know it's more than that. But I don't want to write about it.

I don't have a weight problem, I have a sweet tooth and a lack of discipline-ten pound problem. My BMI is where it is supposed to be. My midsection doesn't look the same as it used to, but I am not overweight. My health, my back, my joints, my ability to play with my kid, they are all just fine. I just want to be thinner. Because I just want to. There I've said it.

But writing about it, talking about it, seems disrespectful to people who really do have to battle high blood pressure or diabetes or an ailment related to the number on the scale. Aside from that, I'm a parent now. People are worth more than the size in the tag on their jeans. Oh sure, I tsk-tsk and shake my head at the models literally starving themselves to death but at the same time I long for slender hips that will slide into the size four skirt I have stashed in my bottom dresser drawer. The one I know I will never ever fit in again, but the one I can't bear to throw away.

If I could squeeze into it then what? Will my life be different? Will it be back to the way it was when I could wear it? No. Is that what I really want? Not really. Sometimes. Just for a day. What am I trying to prove?  I don't know. I sneak sideways glances at moms who are skinnier than me and wonder how they do it. I see tiny twenty-somethings around the office and think, I could still look like that if I hadn't had a baby, trying to rationalize it, when no one is asking me to.

Some mornings I stand in the mirror and cover my hips with my hands. I pretend the image in the mirror is what it was and I think wow. Then I think so what? I didn't have hips once, but I didn't have a lot of other things either. So I have hips. Big fucking deal. I shouldn't care. I do.

I wonder why when I'm so incredibly lucky, when my life is so large, that all I can wish for is smaller hips.

Quelle horreur, mon amis.

Stuff it Bobby McFarrin

In gearing up for our two year old check up at Dr. McDon't-worry's office. At each well visit I've had a list of things that I need to be addressed. He addresses them, barely able to conceal his pity and tries not to roll his eyes. At the 18 month appointment I brought up the issue of eating, or more precisely not eating, because I was afraid the little man was going to be saddled with some kind of swallowing disorder. Because he doesn't eat anything. Dr. McDon't-worry told me it's normal. Wait six more months. He's growing at an appropriate rate, he's relatively healthy (especially for a day care child) and this means he's absolutely fine you crazy overly anxious neurotic first time mother. Here's your sticker, now move along.

I swear I will sit on that doctor until he gives me some information I can use instead of dismissing everything I say as 'normal'. In order to make him pay attention, today I started to make a list of what little man will eat so I can hand it to him and wait for his reaction:

Fruit & Dairy: He'll eat all of it, no problems. Any fruit, yogurt, ice cream, milk, cheese. We're good.

Grain: Bread, oatmeal, pancakes, waffles, crackers, sometimes pasta.

Veggies: Pea soup, broccoli if I chop it small enough to be hidden and carrot juice, no real peas or carrots or veggies of any kind.

Protein: Eggs, peanut butter, black beans, turkey (only if sliced thin enough to practically see through it).    

That's it. That's what he will eat, if he eats at all. He will not think broccoli tree's are cute and want to dip them in some ranch dressing. He knows a green leafy vegetable when he sees it and he's not falling for that old trick. Please. Chicken is out of the question. Even the yummy breaded and deep fried kind. Not having it. Beef. That will cause a major commotion just by suggesting he think about maybe trying it, you know, when he's forty. Sauce is off limits. Any kind. Period.

The only reason I have not parked myself outside of a specialist's office (yet) is because I was and still am just like this, but worse. I grew up on a diet that consisted of highly processed macaroni and cheese, buttered noodles and hot dogs, wonder bread slathered in butter and anything covered in American cheese well into my teen years. So I know he's not going to starve of malnutrition eating what he's currently agreed to put away. A lunch consisting of milk, peanut butter on whole wheat and a banana is way better than grape kool-aid poured into a coffee cup (so I could pretend I was drinking coffee), a piece of white bread slathered with pizza quick sauce and topped with a piece of cheese-food.

I still have my issues and there are still more things that I won't eat just because I don't want to (mayonnaise, olives, shrimp, ribs) than things I will. I can't explain it. There are things I just don't want to put in my mouth. I can't bring myself to do it. That's why I will not resort to Dr. McDon't-worry's suggestion of withholding food until he eats what I want him to. First of all, I think it's mean and more controlling than practical. Second of all, who has to get up with him when he wakes up at 2AM hungry because he refused to eat that slab of meatloaf? Oh, right. That would be me. Brilliant plan Einstein. Now he's hungry and sleep deprived. Good times.

There has got to be a better way. Not only does he not appreciate my culinary skills (ha) but he won't even try and that's what worries me. If he would dive head first into a plate of tuna salad and exclaim that it was disgusting, then fine by me. At least he'd tried. But he won't try. Not even if I beg and cajole and promise the ultimate in favorite bribe candy- M&Ms. (Which he calls mnmnmnmneems, which oh my god, is so riddiculously cute.)

Last night I lied and told him the microscopic bit of meatloaf bite on my fork was a cracker and if he would just try it, I'd break out the candy bag. After three or four pleas he tried it. He opened his mouth wide and leaned in but rejected it when the first hint of spaghetti sauce touched his lips.

I am worried and I am not happy.

Stuff it Bobby McFarrin

In gearing up for our two year old check up at Dr. McDon't-worry's office. At each well visit I've had a list of things that I need to be addressed. He addresses them, barely able to conceal his pity and tries not to roll his eyes. At the 18 month appointment I brought up the issue of eating, or more precisely not eating, because I was afraid the little man was going to be saddled with some kind of swallowing disorder. Because he doesn't eat anything. Dr. McDon't-worry told me it's normal. Wait six more months. He's growing at an appropriate rate, he's relatively healthy (especially for a day care child) and this means he's absolutely fine you crazy overly anxious neurotic first time mother. Here's your sticker, now move along.

I swear I will sit on that doctor until he gives me some information I can use instead of dismissing everything I say as 'normal'. In order to make him pay attention, today I started to make a list of what little man will eat so I can hand it to him and wait for his reaction:

Fruit & Dairy: He'll eat all of it, no problems. Any fruit, yogurt, ice cream, milk, cheese. We're good.

Grain: Bread, oatmeal, pancakes, waffles, crackers, sometimes pasta.

Veggies: Pea soup, broccoli if I chop it small enough to be hidden and carrot juice, no real peas or carrots or veggies of any kind.

Protein: Eggs, peanut butter, black beans, turkey (only if sliced thin enough to practically see through it).    

That's it. That's what he will eat, if he eats at all. He will not think broccoli tree's are cute and want to dip them in some ranch dressing. He knows a green leafy vegetable when he sees it and he's not falling for that old trick. Please. Chicken is out of the question. Even the yummy breaded and deep fried kind. Not having it. Beef. That will cause a major commotion just by suggesting he think about maybe trying it, you know, when he's forty. Sauce is off limits. Any kind. Period.

The only reason I have not parked myself outside of a specialist's office (yet) is because I was and still am just like this, but worse. I grew up on a diet that consisted of highly processed macaroni and cheese, buttered noodles and hot dogs, wonder bread slathered in butter and anything covered in American cheese well into my teen years. So I know he's not going to starve of malnutrition eating what he's currently agreed to put away. A lunch consisting of milk, peanut butter on whole wheat and a banana is way better than grape kool-aid poured into a coffee cup (so I could pretend I was drinking coffee), a piece of white bread slathered with pizza quick sauce and topped with a piece of cheese-food.

I still have my issues and there are still more things that I won't eat just because I don't want to (mayonnaise, olives, shrimp, ribs) than things I will. I can't explain it. There are things I just don't want to put in my mouth. I can't bring myself to do it. That's why I will not resort to Dr. McDon't-worry's suggestion of withholding food until he eats what I want him to. First of all, I think it's mean and more controlling than practical. Second of all, who has to get up with him when he wakes up at 2AM hungry because he refused to eat that slab of meatloaf? Oh, right. That would be me. Brilliant plan Einstein. Now he's hungry and sleep deprived. Good times.

There has got to be a better way. Not only does he not appreciate my culinary skills (ha) but he won't even try and that's what worries me. If he would dive head first into a plate of tuna salad and exclaim that it was disgusting, then fine by me. At least he'd tried. But he won't try. Not even if I beg and cajole and promise the ultimate in favorite bribe candy- M&Ms. (Which he calls mnmnmnmneems, which oh my god, is so riddiculously cute.)

Last night I lied and told him the microscopic bit of meatloaf bite on my fork was a cracker and if he would just try it, I'd break out the candy bag. After three or four pleas he tried it. He opened his mouth wide and leaned in but rejected it when the first hint of spaghetti sauce touched his lips.

I am worried and I am not happy.